VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty - Nine

Consciousness slowly returned to 22 year old Corporal William Archinal, of company “I” of the Ohio Volunteers. He had been lying dead to the world on the slope of the Stockade Redoubt since 10:15 that morning, when the Forlorn Hope had made their sacrificial charge. First returned the smell of the soft Vicksburg loam. Then came the deep ringing, like the cathedral bells of his Childhood in Frankfort am Main. Then came the red pain. His head hurt like hell. After a few long moments he heard a distant whine and chip, clip, chip. 

He wiped the brown earth from his eyes. Unfocused, he saw only the black gnarled pattern of of oak wood. And then he realized he was hearing the whine and snap of bullets and shrapnel cutting into the log. And abruptly William remembered where he was. The log. It was inches above his head. He had been in the lead, carrying it across the open ground. The shelling. The noise. The scream of the man behind him. The sudden shift in weight throwing him off balance, stumbling, throwing him forward. The ground suddenly falling away from his feet. The Forlorn Hope. Where the hell was he?

The butt of the fat 8 foot log had settled into the ditch, it's nose jammed into the slope of the Redoubt. William Archinal was lying face down in the dirt, the log inches above his head and the barrage of bullets. William realized the firing was coming from the Union lines. His lines. Friendly fire or unfriendly fire, he would be just as dead if it hit him. William struggled to wedge himself closer to heavy scent of the black oak, the musket slung across his back a burden that seem intent on holding him back. He felt the urgent need to get rid of it. But he dare not raise his head. Turning his face to breath in clean air, he saw blood on his hand.

As William slid his fingers to his forehead, he felt a stab of pain. Pushing through it, he felt the soft edges of a sticky wound. He could only think that when he had been flung across the ditch his head had hit a rock. That explained the head ache. His entire body ached. He could still taste the dirt on his lips. The ringing continued in his ears. But he was alive. And for the time being he was relatively safe. William wiggled himself into the dirt like a turtle hiding himself in the mud. Then he closed his eyes. He forced himself to relax. He forced himself to imagine the grey Fulda river and the silent forests of Hessen. And to wait for night fall.

Passing in and out of consciousness, Corporal William Archinal spent that endless, hot sticky Friday afternoon of 22 May, 1863, flat on his stomach beneath the log which was supposed to been a bridge. Finally, the sun began to soften. The shooting slowed and then stopped. He knew should have waited until it was fully dark, but he felt the urgent need to move. His mouth was dry as dust. And he had to piss. He might have just soiled himself, but he also worried that if he passed out again, he would not wake up until morning. And then he really would be a dead man.

William shimmied out from under the log. He held his breath. Then he flopped onto his back and waited for a response from the enemy. He had to get back to his own lines. He had to get help. He tried to stand but the musket strapped across his back made it hard to bend. So he rolled onto his side and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers. His urine made a soft, almost soundless impact on the soil. The relief was heaven for a moment. Then, buttoning up his trousers, William jammed his heels into the loam, allowing the slope to help him stand. And as he did he heard a voice close behind him. “If your finished pissing on Mississippi, Yank, you better just come on up here. We'll give you something to refill yourself, so you can do it again.”

A half dozen rifles were pointed at him. Another Johnny Reb said coldly, “Don't run, Yank. We'll cut you in half.” Deciding surrender was the better part of valor, William Archinal raised his hands and clambered up the slope, arms reaching out to help him to the top while relieving him of his musket and bayonet. They also removed his cartridge case, and rummaged through his pockets, taking all his ammunition and anything else of value. Then they offered him a canteen of warm water, which he almost emptied. Then they pushed him firmly down a ladder and into the fort.

Once inside, the rebels tied the corporal's hands behind his back. Immediately a strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, and William was abruptly faced by a smiling Confederate Colonel with a trim goatee – the commander of the 31^st Mississippi regiment, 39 year old Colonel William Wallace Witherspoon. Out of habit Archinal came - as best he could – to attention and avoided the Colonel's eyes. Officers were mysterious creatures, even rebel officers, and you could never tell how they were going to react.

As if greeting an old comrade, the jovial enemy colonel asked, “Well, young man, weren’t you fellows all drunk when you started out this morning?” The Reb soldiers smiled shyly and looked at their shoes. William's wearied senses picked up again. As if on parade, he answered firmly, “‘No, Sir.” The rebel colonel insisted, “Well, they gave you some whiskey before you started, didn’t they?” The smiles on the gray clad enlisted men grew broader. The only thing Archinal was certain of was that he was not in on this rebel joke. He chose the truth and the safe response. ‘No Sir,” William said, “that plan is not practiced in our army.'”

The colonel leaned in close to William's face and spoke in a whisper. “Didn’t you know it was certain death?” he asked. The whiskey wafting off the Colonel's breath drove the Yankee to lean back slightly. It was the whiskey that spurred William to his impudent response. “Well, I don't know”, he said, as if talking to just another soldier. “I am still living.”

That set the Colonel back on his heels for a moment. Under the officer's stern gaze William regretted his words. This officer might have him shot right now. The men surrounding him had been killing Yankees all day. One more was unlikely to bother them. And while looking for a clue as to his fate in the Colonel's eyes, William realized they were perfectly clear. The man might smell of whiskey, but his eyes were sharp and judgmental After a pause, the Colonel bitterly replied, “Yes. You are living. But I can assure you that very few of your comrades are.” The colonel then ordered two of the soldiers to take William to jail, and then dismissed them all with a turn on his heel, and stalked away to deal with that ever problems an officer dealt with.

To his surprise, William was offended by the order. He had never been in jail before. And he felt treating a soldier like a criminal was a sign of disrespect. His guards did their best to get a rise out of him as they marched him up hill, past a cemetery and into the town. But Williams ignored them. By the number of partially repaired damaged buildings it was obvious the town had been shelled for some time. There were few civilians, black and white, on the darkening streets. They all carried bags and satchels. It was unclear where each was going, but they seemed to be in a hurry.

In the ravines between the terraced streets, Williams saw more civilians, women and children mostly, reading or talking, sitting on chairs and chaises around dining tables, children playing or napping at their feet, as if each tableau had been lifted from one of the fine homes standing unprotected atop the ridges. Every time the dull thud of a mortar bellowed from one of the gun boats in the river, the civilians would scurry back into the caves, or make themselves as small as possible against the buildings on the east side of the streets. William had a momentary pang of sympathy for young women he saw. Their faces and hands were soiled, the hems of their dresses tattered. He tried to image them at a gay ball, twirling to a minute. But then he pushed that out of his mind and concentrated on the terraced street grid, thinking that in some way it might be of use should he later escape.

They reached the highest ridge and began to steeply descend, street by street, toward the river. Then 3 blocks short of the muddy banks they approached an official looking structure surrounded by a 10 foot high wall. The sign arched over the narrow door read “Warren County Jail” (above).  Across a small interior courtyard rose a 2 story brick building with a slate roof. Inside  William was searched again and his head wound was noted before he was escorted out the back door, into the darkening court yard of a second smaller building. Here several tents had been pitched. In one William was able to find a rectangle of dirt and a blanket to cover himself. At last he was able lay down to rest.

Just as he was dropping off to sleep came another dull thud of distant naval mortars. His experience woke him back up, as this one was coming close. A few seconds later came the thundering crash as the 450 pound black powder shell landed nearby, from the sound of it in the street. William found the familiarity of the sound comforting. But as the methodical bombardment continued, a Rebel civilian in a cell in the main building began to beg for the gunners to please stop. And William thought kindly toward the poor fellow until one mortar round sheered across the slate roof of one of the the buildings with a clang, followed by another earth shaking crash. At that the frightened rebel became hysterical, sobbing in his supplications that Grant should burn the Gomorrah of Vicksburg and all the rebels in it right off the face of the earth. After that William wished the damn fool would just shut the hell up and let him sleep.

During the long hot afternoon, while Corporal William Achinal was passed out on slope of the Stockade Redoubt, the entire Federal army threw its strength against the Vicksburg defenses. Their efforts were summed up by Major General William Tecumseh Sherman. After watching a 4:00 p.m. assault intended to draw rebels away from General McClernand's attacks, “Cump” told Major General Frederick Steele, “This is murder. Order those troops back.”

This day cost Grant's army 502 men killed, 2,550 men wounded and 147 men missing. At least half of those casualties were suffered during the afternoon attacks, which were inspired by Major General Alexander McClernand's false reports of progress. At only 1 point, the Texas Lunette, were the defenders forced to call upon reserves to drive the Yankees back. Said Colonel Ashbel Smith of the 2^nd Texas Infantry, Yankees bodies “lay so thick that one might have walked (200 yards along the Baldwin Ferry road) without touching the ground.”

About 9:00 a.m., Saturday, 23 May, 1863, a Confederate officer arrived at the Warren County Jail to record Corporal Archinal's parole. Later that morning he and other Yankees captured in the assault, were rowed across the Mississippi River to Union lines. He was now prohibited from participating in any military operations until a rebel of equal or greater rank was captured and paroled. The two men, who would never meet,  could then be exchanged, and “Go back to killing each other.”

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EFFECTING CLEVER HANS

"I can always tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that, my art is not above the ordinary."

Mark Twain

I retain a few doubts about Hans. I agree that he was clever, but how clever was he, really? Hans willingly cooperated with the man who proved he was as dumb as a horse. That was not very smart. And if Hans could actually preform basic math, why don't we see more horses working in banks? Sure, Hans might have been an equine genius, even capable of reading human minds, but what are the odds the only genius human- mind-reading horse would be bought by a retired gym teacher who just happened to be anxious to prove that horses could memorize the multiplication tables? Perhaps I should rein myself in here, and start at the beginning.

"Horses do think. Not very deeply, perhaps, but enough to get you into a lot of trouble."

Patricia Jacobson and Marcia Hayes - "A Horse Around the House"

Right out of the gate, Hans just looked smart (above). He was handsome, sleek, athletic and big, almost a thousand pounds and five and a half feet high at the shoulders. His breed had been founded by Count Orlov who crossed Russian mares with Arabian stallions, to produce spirited trotters. And then Count Rostophin threw in three oriental stallions to breed gentle, empathetic riding horses. So popular was the breed that by 1866 nearly half of all horses on Russian stud farms were Orlovs. And by the end of the 19^th century, they were even being sold in Europe.

"Small children are convinced that ponies deserve to see the inside of the house."

Maya Patel

The popularity of the Orlov is explained by the web site, InfoHorse.com (http://www.infohorse.com/ShowAd.asp?id=3693) ; “Possessed of amazing intelligence, they learn quickly and remember easily with few repetitions. There is often an uncanny understanding of what is wanted and needed of them....They can become extremely sensitive to the moods and emotions of their riders/owners, even reflecting them in self-carriage. Under saddle this makes for a partner of such willingness and awareness that traditional (dressage) exercises become poetry.”

"Horses are uncomfortable in the middle and dangerous at both ends."

Ian Fleming - Sunday Times of London, October 9, 1966

Which brings us to Wilhelm von Osten (above), a retired, grouchy, grumpy Berlin prep school mathematics teacher who believed that animal intelligence was sorely underrated. Beginning in the 1880's he attempted to teach simple math to a cat. The feline did not care scratch for his efforts, so von Osten switched his subject to a bear. The Ursula proved a bear market for von Osten's educational techniques. So in 1888 he bought a pony, whom he named Hans. Von Osten was giddy when, after a few weeks effort, he wrote the number three on a blackboard and Hans tapped his right hoof three times. It seemed clear, to him at least, that he had harnessed the genius in the young stallion.

"It's always been and always will be the same in the world: The horse does the work and the coachman is tipped"

Old proverb

Von Osten now had the bit between his teeth. He asked Hans for the sum of three plus two, and the black beauty tapped his hoof five times. Eventually Hans was even figuring square roots and working with fractions. Hans even read a calendar, answering “, "If the eighth day of the month comes on a Tuesday, what is the date of the following Friday?” - something I would have trouble with. But there was more. Asked to identify a member of the crowd , Hans was able to tap out a name, using a complicated code chart, even though no one had told the horse the human's name. But after years of giving such public demonstrations before enthusiastic crowds, von Osten grew frustrated by official indifference. So, in the summer of 1902, he advertised for sale his “beautiful, gentle 7 year old stallion”, in a military newspaper. In fact Hans was not seven, and he was not really for sale, but the ad did mention, “He distinguishes ten colors, reads, knows the four arithmetic operations, etc.” That elicited the sought after response from cavalry officers, who stampeded to von Osten's house. They came prepared to mock but left impressed. Because of this growing support by such a respected segment of German society, within two years even the Minister for Education was singing Han's (and of course, von Osten's) praises.

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him participate in synchronized diving.”

Cuthbert Soup - “Another Whole 'Nother Story”

The mockery poured upon the Minister for those statements finally achieved Von Osten's goal. A panel of 13 “experts” was herded together; a veterinarian, a circus manager, a Cavalry officer, the Director of the Berlin Zoo, some school teachers and the psychologist Carl Stumpf, The panel ran Hans through his paces, and when faced with Han's 89.9% accuracy, came to the unanimous conclusion there were no tricks involved. That declaration even made the New York Times chuckle (“Berlin’s Wonderful Horse. He Can Do Almost Everything but Talk.”) The German government was now facing a night-mare of public humiliation. So before declaring himself mentally un-stable, Stumpf decided to go one step further. He asked his assistant, Oskar Pfungst, to put Hans through his paces.

I'd rather have a goddamn horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake.

J.D. Salinger - “The Catcher in the Rye”

Pfungst designed experiments for Dr. Stumpf, and he now laid down four restrictions to begin a series of tests for Hans, to be conducted in the courtyard of the Psychological Institute of the University of Berlin. First Pfungst cut von Osten right out the herd. Then he put blinders on Hans, so he could only see the human asking the question. And then he varied whether the questioner knew the answer or not. The key turned out to this last bit. When the human was ignorant of the correct answer, Han's winning percentage dropped to just 6%. So Hans was only as smart as the human asking the question. That lead to testing the questioner. By closely watching the humans and not the horse, Pfungst found they were subtly and unconsciously tensing their muscles as Han's approached the correct answer, and showed a similar relaxation immediately afterward. Pfungst's theory was that Hans was watching for the same muscle clues he expected when a human was riding on his back. In his December 1904 report – "Clever Hans (the horse of Mr. von Osten) A Contribution To Experimental Animal And Human Psychology" - Plungst revealed, he could now “call forth at will all the various reactions of the horse by making the proper kind of voluntary movements, without asking the relevant question.” .

"Horse sense is the thing a horse has, which keeps it from betting on people."

W.C. Fields

But for me, von Osten's mane arguments were finally reduced to horse d'oeuvres when Pfungst used von Osten's techniques to train his own dog, Nora, to duplicate all of Hans' feats. Of course, having hitched his reputation to his halter-ego Hans, Von Osten bridled at the suggestion he was not a genius horse – Hans, that is. So he bolted for the exit - von Osten did, that is. He told a newspaper “one can hardly see in these experiments more than a kind of scholarly jest....” He retreated to his families' estate in Prussia. And there the bitter old man died, on July 3, 1909. He was buried at the Church of Zion (Zionskirchhof) back in Berlin

"If the world was truly a rational place, men would ride sidesaddle."

Rita Mae Brown

Hans, still as clever as ever, was adopted by Karl Krall, a wealthy jeweler in the west German town of Elberfeld. Krall was determined to prove Hans a genius, and the stallion continued to spend hours each day, now with two stall mates,  standing through interminable instruction and testing sessions. The horse genius was last heard of in 1916 when he was drafted, and probably died pulling wagons in World War One. Meanwhile, the "Clever Hans (in German “Kluge Hans”) Effect", still plagues researchers by producing false positive results by search, drug and bomb sniffing dogs, dolphins and primates used in language research and even human sufferers of autism. And I suspect it also occurs in contestants on American Idol.

"There are only two emotions that belong in the saddle; one is a sense of humor and the other is patience."

John Lyons

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VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty - Eight

At 10:00 a.m. the primary assault against the largest of the 14 rebel forts – The Great Redoubt - was spearheaded by John Dunlap Stevenson's 3^rd Brigade, of Major General Logan's division, was lead by the 7^th Missouri “Shamrock” Infantry regiment, under Captain Robert Buchanan. In the first rush up the Jackson Road, rebel fire killed and wounded so many men that 100 yards from the ditch, the regiment was effectively cut in two and forced to ground.

Urged on by Captain Buchanan, the 7^th continued to advance on their hands and knees until they reached the comparative safety of the ditch. Once there it was discovered their 17 foot scaling ladders having been lowered into the 8 foot deep trench – invisible from the distance - no longer reached the crest of the redoubt.  Still the 7^th Missouri stayed where they were for an hour, while six color bearers, one after another, were shot trying to keep their flag flying on the slope. After suffering 272 causalities, Captain Buchanan was given permission to withdraw.

The initial reports from all three corps commanders - Sherman, McPherson and 3 miles to the south McClernand  (above) – were identical: troops advancing, heavily engaged. Grant had learned to trust the accuracy of Sherman's and McPherson's reports. But as recently as the Battle of Champion Hill, McClernand had misled Grant.  On 16 May, the Illinois political general had been ordered to launch his assault against the rebel left flank at 10:00 a.m. Instead, despite repeated urging from Grant, the XIII Corps did not advanced until hours later. What ever the reason for the delay, Grant had learned not to believe McClernand's situation reports.

The sole justification for the assaults of 10:00 a.m. Thursday, 22 May, 1863, had been that the defeat at Champion's Hill and the debacle of the Big Black River crossing,  might have so shaken Pemberton's army, that another quick shock might cause it to shatter. That idea had to be tried. An hour later the argument had been rebuked.  Grant decided that Vicksburg would not be carried in a classic Napoleonic sweeping charge, with flags flying forward and bayonets fixed.  Instead Grant was ready to shift to a methodical siege. But his troublesome child, Major General John Alexander McClernand was essentially trying to manipulate Grant into expending the lives of his soldiers.

At 10:30 a.m., McClernand reported, “I am hotly engaged, If McPherson were to attack it would make a diversion”, Grant rode rode down the line far enough to visually confirm that McClernand's troops were actually attacking. But after observing the smoke and gunfire, he sent a message advising McClernand to draw upon his own corps before asking for reinforcements from others. Then Grant returned to Sherman's Corps.

Just before noon, McClernand issued another situation report, but this one phrased so as to put additional pressure on Grant. Ever the politician, McClernand's missive read, “We have possession of 2 forts and the stars and stripes are flying over them. A vigorous push should be made all along the line.”

The two forts McClernand was referring to were the The Railroad Redoubt and to the north, the smaller half moon shaped Texas Lunette.  Both were open to their rear, and from trench lines Confederates were pouring fire into the interior of both forts, preventing any Yankees from entering them. Union flags had been planted on their forward slopes, and a hand full of brave men had perched at the lip of those fortifications. But federal troops did not possess either fort. Once again McClernand was misleading Grant. And Grant sensed it.

Looking for support of his skepticism, Grant (above) handed the note to Sherman. After reading it, the red head mused that McClernand wouldn't make up “a thing like that.” Then Sherman offered to make an additional attack on the Stockade Redoubt. Grant recognized the sacrifice Sherman was asking his soldiers to make, and reluctantly granted McClernand's request. It would take time to move Sherman's reserves into position, and it would take even more time for McPherson's men to change their direction of attack to support McClernand against the Texas Lunette. Against his better judgment Grant ordered all 3 of his corps to launch another assault at 2:00 p.m.

For this second assault against the Stockade Redoubt, Sherman sent the 2^nd Brigade of McArthur's division under the soft spoken 29 year old railroad engineer, Brigadier General Thomas Edwin Greenefield Ransom (above) . His father had been a hero of the Mexican War, killed at Chapultepec when Thomas was just 14.  Quite spoken in private,   in combat E.G. Ransom was,"rash”, and had already been shot 3 times in this war, most recently a head wound at Shiloh. McClernand had seen him there, "...reeling in the saddle, and streaming with blood....” while preforming “prodigies of valor." Sherman was more prosaic, calling Ransom, “...one of the best officers in the service; been shot to pieces, but it doesn’t hurt him.”

This attack was spearheaded by the 300 men of the 72^nd Illinois, aka 'The First Chicago Board of Trade Regiment,' led by the popular , fiercely antislavery 42 year old Lieutenant Colonel Joseph C. Wright. At the stroke of 2:00 p.m, according to the second in command Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Stockton, “the word came to ‘go!' Up we started and rushed ahead with a yell, and were greeted with a most murderous volley”.

As man after man fell in crumpled bloodied forms, the 72nd swept forward, into and up from the ditch, to within 15 feet of the crest of the rebel redoubt. The regimental colors were planted on the slope, “but we could not go forward,” said Stockton, “the fire was too severe, men could not live; we laid down and only the wounded fell back, while shot and shell from the right and left and our own batteries in the rear, whose shell fell short, did terrific work. Men fell ‘like leaves in wintry weather.’”

Colonel Wright was urging his men on when a piece of lead tore into the elbow of his sword arm, shattering the bones. He fell, and the heart went out of the 72^nd.  Colonel Stockton assumed command. By  2:20 p.m.,   the regiment had suffered 20 dead, 71 wounded and 5 missing – one quarter of their strength. Along with the 72^nd, the assault had included the 11^th Illinois – 3 killed, 30 wounded and 9 missing – the 95^th Illinois – 18 killed, 83 wounded and 8 missing - the 14^th Wisconsin – 14 killed, 79 wounded and 4 missing, and the 17^th Wisconsin - 2 killed, 12 wounded and 6 missing. Ramsom's brigade had suffered 360 causalities, almost 60 men killed outright, in just 20 minutes of combat.

Lieutenant Colonel Wright would be carried to the rear, and treated by doctors, who quickly amputated his right arm to prevent blood infection. Recovering from the shock within 2 days, Wright regained his spirits and reminded a reporter he could still command. “I have one arm left,” he said, “with which I can guide my horse. The carrying of a sword is only for effect, anyhow.” Two weeks later he left Mississippi by boat and then by train for home. But once back in Chicago the stump of his arm became infected, until he was beset by delusional fevers. With his wife and 2 children at his bedside, Joseph C. Wright died on the morning of 6 July, 1863. One more causality in the war required to defeat slavery.

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