July 14, 1864—As he wrote his after-battle report to Robert E. Lee, Lt. General Jubal Early felt entitled to crow about the month-long campaign that ended the day before—a period in which he had roughed up the Federal army in the Shenandoah Valley, diluted the relentless pressure of Union troops against the Confederate capital in Richmond, and reached closer to Washington than any other rebel commander was able to do throughout the war.
Early the morning before, Early had slipped back into Virginia with his army. But, though his campaign had ended, questions about its purposes and results had only just begun.
Both Early’s contemporaries and later historians have proven ambivalent about his performance. But whatever triumphs he couldn’t win on the battle, he was always ready to claim victory on the written page.
A perpetually dyspeptic mouth, likely to erupt in a colorful torrent of curses at any given moment, when coupled with the large bald expanse on his scalp, accentuated “Ol’ Jube’s” image as the snapping turtle of the Confederate high command.
Early was constantly rolling cigars in his mouth, perhaps to get rid of the bad taste he felt because of widespread distrust of his loyalty and ability. He’d opposed secession all the way till the last minute and had only given his reluctant support when his home state of Virginia supported it.
Early the morning before, Early had slipped back into Virginia with his army. But, though his campaign had ended, questions about its purposes and results had only just begun.
Both Early’s contemporaries and later historians have proven ambivalent about his performance. But whatever triumphs he couldn’t win on the battle, he was always ready to claim victory on the written page.
A perpetually dyspeptic mouth, likely to erupt in a colorful torrent of curses at any given moment, when coupled with the large bald expanse on his scalp, accentuated “Ol’ Jube’s” image as the snapping turtle of the Confederate high command.
Early was constantly rolling cigars in his mouth, perhaps to get rid of the bad taste he felt because of widespread distrust of his loyalty and ability. He’d opposed secession all the way till the last minute and had only given his reluctant support when his home state of Virginia supported it.
Even service in the thickest fighting of the war—at Antietam, Gettysburg and the Wilderness—failed to overcome a reputation for being as fractious with fellow officers as with the Yankee enemy. Some in the army still blamed him for inaction on the first day of Gettysburg that contributed to the catastrophic Southern loss.
Now, Robert E. Lee—with his daring instincts coming to the fore again—proposed to give Early the same kind of opportunities he had once provided his trusted subordinate, the late Stonewall Jackson. Early’s mission: relieve Federal pressure off the critical railroad junction of Lynchburg, dash up the Shenandoah Valley, invade Maryland—and, if he judged the path open to him, attack the biggest prize of all: the Northern capital in Washington.
The first part of the plan worked like a dream, as Early pummeled Union General David Hunter at Lynchburg, then drove north into Maryland. By early July, he was heading toward Monocacy Junction, in the heart of what Abraham Lincoln’s War Department called its “Middle Department”—a theater of the war (Maryland, Delaware, and the eastern shore of Virginia) deemed uneventful enough so that a disgraced general could be safely consigned to it.
The only thing General Lew Wallace hated more than his assignment to this post was the lack of resources at his disposal to combat a force of Early’s size. Union Army Chief of State Henry Halleck had tried to pin the blame for the carnage at the Battle of Shiloh on Ulysses S. Grant, who in turn made Wallace his scapegoat. Now the former lawyer-politician found himself facing 30,000 Confederates around the Potomac.
Wallace got on a train that took him to Monocacy Junction in Maryland—positioned almost exactly between Baltimore and Washington—and over two days scraped together a makeshift force. In a four-hour battle beginning at noon, Wallace got the worst of it, with 1,880 casualties to only approximately 700 for the Confederates. But he had bought valuable time for the Union.
On July 11, Early was giving serious thought to an attack on Washington, which lay before him, virtually undefended—until he caught sight of the troops of Union General Horace Wright, who’d been ordered to DC on the double.
Early was dubious about his prospects: he no longer had the element of surprise, and, as he explained it in a postwar reminiscence published two decades later, his troops—who had been traveling 12-20 miles per day in the sultry summer weather—were succumbing to the heat. Under the circumstances, any plans for an attack on Washington were put in abeyance, along with any ideas about liberating Confederate prisoners at Point Lookout.
Early decided on a demonstration of force against Fort Stevens. Little did he know that on the Union side, a lanky fellow with a beard and a large dark stovepipe hat was observing the proceedings, serving as an easy target for Confederate sharpshooters. The salty Confederate would have chuckled at the advice given by a young Union officer –later Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.—to Abraham Lincoln—“Get down, you damn fool!”
The South generally hailed Early’s raid, while the North was divided about how much good it did Lee and Jefferson Davis.
Within a few months, most of the Confederacy turned dramatically against Early. The failures of lackluster generals David Hunter and Franz Sigel in the Shenandoah Valley convinced Grant that he needed to eliminate it as a corridor for Confederate movements, as well as to deprive the Confederate government of its “breadbasket.” This time, he sent one of his most trusted subordinates, Philip Sheridan, against Early.
In three consecutive battles in the fall, Sheridan gave Early a drubbing. Public opinion turned sharply from Jubalation to violently angry. Thanking the general for his service, Lee still felt obliged to relieve him of command.
Worried that the North would treat harshly with him for burning Chambersburg, Penn., during a raid, Early scrambled to Canada after Appomattox. With lots of free time on his hands and the necessity of making ends meet, he was the first major military figure to come out with his memoirs. For the remaining three decades of his life, he found it fruitful to make people forget about his mistakes by making others—notably James Longstreet—look worse in comparison.
General Lew Wallace used his pen, too, but posterity has been kinder to him than to Early. Monocacy allowed him to achieve a measure of vindication with Grant. In the postwar period, he would serve on tribunals that would judge the Andersonville and Lincoln conspiracy defenders. A decade later, bored by his stint as territorial governor of New Mexico, he came to write in his spare time the classic best-seller Ben-Hur.
Now, Robert E. Lee—with his daring instincts coming to the fore again—proposed to give Early the same kind of opportunities he had once provided his trusted subordinate, the late Stonewall Jackson. Early’s mission: relieve Federal pressure off the critical railroad junction of Lynchburg, dash up the Shenandoah Valley, invade Maryland—and, if he judged the path open to him, attack the biggest prize of all: the Northern capital in Washington.
The first part of the plan worked like a dream, as Early pummeled Union General David Hunter at Lynchburg, then drove north into Maryland. By early July, he was heading toward Monocacy Junction, in the heart of what Abraham Lincoln’s War Department called its “Middle Department”—a theater of the war (Maryland, Delaware, and the eastern shore of Virginia) deemed uneventful enough so that a disgraced general could be safely consigned to it.
The only thing General Lew Wallace hated more than his assignment to this post was the lack of resources at his disposal to combat a force of Early’s size. Union Army Chief of State Henry Halleck had tried to pin the blame for the carnage at the Battle of Shiloh on Ulysses S. Grant, who in turn made Wallace his scapegoat. Now the former lawyer-politician found himself facing 30,000 Confederates around the Potomac.
Wallace got on a train that took him to Monocacy Junction in Maryland—positioned almost exactly between Baltimore and Washington—and over two days scraped together a makeshift force. In a four-hour battle beginning at noon, Wallace got the worst of it, with 1,880 casualties to only approximately 700 for the Confederates. But he had bought valuable time for the Union.
On July 11, Early was giving serious thought to an attack on Washington, which lay before him, virtually undefended—until he caught sight of the troops of Union General Horace Wright, who’d been ordered to DC on the double.
Early was dubious about his prospects: he no longer had the element of surprise, and, as he explained it in a postwar reminiscence published two decades later, his troops—who had been traveling 12-20 miles per day in the sultry summer weather—were succumbing to the heat. Under the circumstances, any plans for an attack on Washington were put in abeyance, along with any ideas about liberating Confederate prisoners at Point Lookout.
Early decided on a demonstration of force against Fort Stevens. Little did he know that on the Union side, a lanky fellow with a beard and a large dark stovepipe hat was observing the proceedings, serving as an easy target for Confederate sharpshooters. The salty Confederate would have chuckled at the advice given by a young Union officer –later Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.—to Abraham Lincoln—“Get down, you damn fool!”
The South generally hailed Early’s raid, while the North was divided about how much good it did Lee and Jefferson Davis.
Within a few months, most of the Confederacy turned dramatically against Early. The failures of lackluster generals David Hunter and Franz Sigel in the Shenandoah Valley convinced Grant that he needed to eliminate it as a corridor for Confederate movements, as well as to deprive the Confederate government of its “breadbasket.” This time, he sent one of his most trusted subordinates, Philip Sheridan, against Early.
In three consecutive battles in the fall, Sheridan gave Early a drubbing. Public opinion turned sharply from Jubalation to violently angry. Thanking the general for his service, Lee still felt obliged to relieve him of command.
Worried that the North would treat harshly with him for burning Chambersburg, Penn., during a raid, Early scrambled to Canada after Appomattox. With lots of free time on his hands and the necessity of making ends meet, he was the first major military figure to come out with his memoirs. For the remaining three decades of his life, he found it fruitful to make people forget about his mistakes by making others—notably James Longstreet—look worse in comparison.
General Lew Wallace used his pen, too, but posterity has been kinder to him than to Early. Monocacy allowed him to achieve a measure of vindication with Grant. In the postwar period, he would serve on tribunals that would judge the Andersonville and Lincoln conspiracy defenders. A decade later, bored by his stint as territorial governor of New Mexico, he came to write in his spare time the classic best-seller Ben-Hur.
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