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Aft er t h e War
A FTER THE W AR

The Lives and Images of

Major Civil War Figures
After the Shooting Stopped

D AV I D H A RD IN

Ivan R. Dee
chicago 2010
 AFTER THE WAR. Copyright © 2010 by David Hardin. All rights reserved,
including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. For
information, address: Ivan R. Dee, Publisher, 1332 North Halsted Street, Chicago
60642, a member of the Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group. Manufactured in
the United States of America and printed on acid-free paper.

www.ivanrdee.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Hardin, David, 1940–
After the war : the lives and images of major Civil War
figures after the shooting stopped / David Hardin.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-56663-859-3 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Biography.
2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Influence. I. Title.
E467.H285 2010
973.7092'2—dc22
[B] 2010008819
To jona
with love
 Contents

Foreword ix
one. The Daughter of the Confederacy. Winnie Davis 3
two. The Conqueror’s Son. Tom Sherman 22
three. The General’s Last Battle. Ulysses S. Grant 44
four. The Diarist. Mary Boykin Chesnut 71
five. The Crippled Knight. John Bell Hood 92
six. That Devil Forrest. Nathan Bedford Forrest 117
seven. The Mad Woman. Mary Todd Lincoln 142
eight. The Good Hater. Joseph E. Johnston 168
nine. The Legend. Robert E. Lee 192
ten. The Turncoat. George H. Thomas 219
eleven. Libbie’s Husband. Elizabeth and George A. Custer 245
Notes 279
Bibliography 327
Index 333
 Fo r ewo r d

fo r ma ny of the principal figures of the American Civil War, the

years afterward would tend toward the tragic even among the victors:
a bankrupt former president; a mad presidential widow; a famous
general with a family insanity streak. Those defeated would feel like
earthquake survivors, trying to get their bearings in another world
while caught between a beloved past and an incoherent future.
Whether Northerner or Southerner—or, as in the case of Union
General George Thomas, a share of both—their lives were ended
and begun anew by four years of war. Often they had to draw upon
the courage that had got them through the war, but less to conquer
than simply to endure. Inevitably, some would bring along the same
defect that had made their wartime experience so memorable to his-
tory. A few would triumph—again, or finally—but would not live
to see it. Their children would also have roles. The outcomes are a
feast of irony.
My aim in this book is to tell some of these stories of the years
beyond the war. None of them is secret; most, though, may be lit-
tle known. Collectively they also serve up a portrait of cataclysmic
change, of a divided nation that went to the extreme of war, of a
defeated South uncertain of conciliation, of a hungry North turning
west for its next feast. The antebellum period and the Gilded Age
also make their appearances, inviting further knowledge of the fam-
ily tree that has led to present times. If there is a lesson, it is that a

ix
x : a f t e r t he war

democracy, a republic, can indeed be stood on its head from within,

and having been so stood is capable of having it done again.
This book, though, is mostly about people. Even in their wildest
dreams before the war, none could have foreseen themselves after-
ward. None could have anticipated the new world they would enter.
It was as if they would walk through separate doors, one opening
upon radiant sun, the other upon cavernous darkness, and yet their
paths converging in a sort of grey light of fierce humility. Perhaps
only Confederate General Joseph Johnston stayed defiant to the
end—not on behalf of the old rebellion but by respectfully removing
his hat on a wintry day for the passing casket of his foremost Yankee
foe.
For this book, much is owed to the small corps of historians and
biographers who have gone before. Many of their accounts were
written before the internet offered access to archival sources—espe-
cially from newspapers—and these sources (with great care) have
also been consulted. Every effort has been made to give credit where
it’s due, in source notes and a bibliography. Opinions not rendered
by others are rendered by myself.
Among those I particularly thank (and hold blameless) are
Ivan Dee, whose suggestions throughout were invaluable; Rich-
ard McMurry, expert on the Confederacy’s Army of Tennessee, for
offering suggestions regarding the Hood and Johnston chapters;
Teresa Roane of the Museum of the Confederacy and Bonnie Coles
of the Library of Congress for their help in chasing down letters
of Winnie and Varina Davis; the Huntsville and Madison County
(Alabama) Public Library for its complete collection of Confeder-
ate Veteran magazine and Southern Historical Society Papers; and my
childhood buddy Bill Trebing, who fifty years later explored with
me some of the more bygone passages of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s
Critter Company. I also thank various family members as well as the
lost colony of newspaper book editors who over decades have freely
bestowed so many copies of the works cited herein.

d. h.
Huntsville, Alabama
April 2010
Aft er t h e War
 ·1·

T h e D au g h t er o f
t h e C on f eder ac y

G
reatness seldom grants immunity from life’s ordinary sor-
rows. They are a debt suddenly come due.
Confederate President Jefferson Davis, like his enemies
Abraham Lincoln and General William Tecumseh Sherman, lost a
favored son during the Civil War. Each boy had been too young
to participate, but their premature deaths from accident or disease
would be a payment demanded for what their fathers demanded of
everyone else: the sacrifice of a son for an idea, hundreds of thou-
sands of sons.
In these ordinary sorrows the modern observer finds kinship with
the past. So much else of the war is fantastic to our times, whether in
envisioning the evils of slavery or the courage of unquestioning men
marching in resolute ranks head-on into bullet, ball, and grape. The
great, the famous, are otherwise elusive, consigned to their bronze
memorials and cement pedestals. But something like a child’s death
is a unifying sorrow in any age, and just for a moment there is a hush.
Jeff Davis is within reach. The curtain has been briefly raised.
Joseph Davis had just turned five years old on the day he died in
April 1864. He was playing in the executive mansion, the family’s
Richmond, Virginia, home, and fell from a high balcony onto a brick
pavement below. The price of greatness, of power, of responsibil-
ity for a rebellious nation was never more evident as affairs pressed

3
4 : a fte r the war

upon the father regardless of this most personal blow. At last, to a

request for more troops, Davis lamented, “I must have this day with
my little child.” He fled toward privacy and did not show himself.
The South Carolina diarist Mary Chesnut would complete this
picture of unseen but evident grief. A friend of Davis’s wife Varina,
Mrs. Chesnut had a knack for often being in the wrong place at the
right time. Upon the news of the child’s death she had rushed to the
house with Varina’s hysterical sister Margaret (Maggie) Howell:
“As I sat in the drawing room, I could hear the tramp of Mr.
Davis’s step as he walked up and down the room above—not another
sound. The whole house was as silent as death. . . .
“Poor little Joe, the good child of the family, so gentle and affec-
tionate, he used to run in and say his prayers at his father’s knee.
Now he was laid out somewhere above us—crushed. . . .
“Before I left the house I saw him lying there, white and beautiful
as an angel—covered with flowers.
“Catherine, his nurse, lying flat on the floor by his side, weeping
and wailing as only an Irish woman can.
“As I walked home . . . I stopped to tell the Prestons. There I met
Wade Hampton, who walked home with me. Even then! He told
me again the story of his row with General Lee. I could see or hear
nothing but little Joe and the brokenhearted mother and father. And
Mr. Davis’s step still sounded in my ear as he walked that floor the
livelong night.”
Jefferson and Varina Davis had six children, four of them boys.
None of the boys outlived his parents, and of the two girls only the
oldest, another Margaret, married and had children of her own. The
second daughter and sixth child, named Varina Anne, was born in
June 1864, less than two months after the death of Joe and less than
a year before the war’s end.
Joe, according to his mother, “was Mr. Davis’s hope and greatest
joy in life.” In later years, however, Davis would turn to his youngest
girl who served him in place of a son. Varina Anne was first “Piecake”
to the family, then came to be called “Winnie.” It was a nickname
Davis had first bestowed upon his wife. The daughter was to explain
that it derived from “an Indian name meaning bright, or sunny.”
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 5

Jefferson Davis was a reluctant president. Given the choice, he

would have much preferred to relive his frontier and Mexican War
days and lead an army with his dear friend Albert Sidney Johnston.
Nonetheless, and with his usual austere manner, he accepted the
political cross laid upon him by his fellow members of the Cotton
Kingdom. Davis would cling to the Cause of constitutional secession
as tenaciously as he would stand by his friends and his mistakes—
they often being the same. A postwar prison cell didn’t modify his
views in the slightest. Posterity would paint him as a stiff-necked
man of forbidding presence, and even about his grief there was a
grim if pacing stoicism. Yet there were things about Jeff Davis that
might still surprise.
By early 1877, at age sixty-nine, Davis was staying in a cottage on
the grounds of a Gulf Coast estate. This was Beauvoir, whose white,
veranda-wrapped house near Biloxi overlooked the placid Missis-
sippi Sound. There, as guest of the widowed Sarah Dorsey, Davis
worked on his massive defense, The Rise and Fall of the Confederate
Government. Mrs. Dorsey, herself a writer under the pen name Filia,
served as Davis’s amanuensis. This would seem to be a most conve-
nient and even perfect arrangement except that wife Varina was in
Europe when the informal partnership was decided. Varina, to say
the least, was upset when newspaper stories reached her about her
husband’s helper.
Varina’s attitude wasn’t wholly without cause. A few years earlier,
in 1871, the Louisville (Kentucky) Commercial had gleefully reported
the efforts of a railroad conductor to dislodge Davis from the lower
berth of a train’s sleeping car during a run to Huntsville, Alabama.
The berth was also occupied by an unidentified female. The story
gained wider circulation in the New York Times and other papers.
While publicly the lady remained nameless, gossip in Memphis,
Tennessee—where the two were seen together and had boarded—
alleged her to be Virginia Clay. Her still-alive husband, Clement
Clay, was a former senator from Alabama who had shared Davis’s jail
at Fortress Monroe, Virginia. Varina and the children had been in
Baltimore at the time, but she could hardly have missed the story.
6 : a fte r the war

Thus when Varina returned from Europe she chose not to live
at Beauvoir but with her married daughter, Margaret Davis Hayes,
in Memphis. Only in the following year did Varina relent to join her
husband several hundred miles away.
In early 1879, Mrs. Dorsey sold Beauvoir to Davis for future pay-
ments totaling $5,500. She had kept secret that she was dying of
cancer and had moved to nearby New Orleans, where she soon suc-
cumbed. The widow left her property, including Beauvoir, to Davis.
This came despite the wishes of Dorsey family members who sued
the ex-president, but unsuccessfully.
The Jefferson Davis who commanded not only the widow’s loy-
alty but much of the postwar South’s had, during the war, faced the
burdens of a quarrelsome Confederacy, a relentless North, and an
unsympathetic world. In the years following, the troubles had not
let up. His bitterest enemies during the war had included generals
in grey such as Joseph Johnston and P. G. T. Beauregard, and the
rancor endured ever after. The deaths of children and the on-again,
off-again sparring with Varina were blows that struck at the heart.
Like so many of the planter class, Davis had been left broke and
in debt by the war. The cumbersome Rise and Fall failed to be a finan-
cial success. Prison had aggravated his personal constitution, which
had seldom been healthy: fevers and an eye disease were longtime
companions. He had worked at his writings though partly blind.
The gift of Beauvoir was a godsend for Davis. Imagining him
walking along the beach just beyond and tossing sticks into the surf
for his dogs to fetch humanizes the historical portrait. One animal, a
part-Russian bulldog named Traveler, was a vicious brute trained as a
bodyguard, and he and Davis were greatly attached. By one account,
Traveler was originally acquired as a pup by Mrs. Dorsey and her
husband while in Europe, and had saved her life from an attacker
during a trip to the Middle East. The dog was similarly protective
of Davis. On their beach walks Traveler would trot between Davis
and the surf, tugging at his clothing if he strayed too close to a wave.
Beauvoir’s overnight guests had to pass muster with Traveler too,
and his patrols on the encircling veranda made it possible to keep
windows and doors unlocked.
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 7

For all his ferocity, Traveler was gentle with children—as was his
owner. But like his owner, he also had his enemies. Traveler seems
to have been poisoned.
There is also this portrait of pre-Varina Beauvoir as painted by
Davis in 1877 in a letter to “My darling Baby” (Winnie), who had
been enrolled in a school in Germany:
“The grounds are extensive and shaded by live oaks, magnolias,
cedars, etc., etc. The sea is immediately in front, and an extensive
orange orchard is near. Beyond that is one of those clear brooks,
common to the pine woods, its banks lined with a tangled wood of
sweet bay, wild olive, and vines.
“Then comes a vineyard, then a railroad, and then stretching
far far away a forest of stately long-leaved pine. By night I hear the
murmur of the sea rolling on the beach, by day a short walk brings
one to where the winds sigh through the pines, a sad yet soothing
sound. . . .”
“Sad yet soothing”—the Old South lingering and calling to its
fallen leader, in mutual mourning but still proud. Could death be
anything but near?

o f co ur se, plenty of people were still about who would not allow
the antebellum South to expire under any circumstance. Although the
Confederacy had been smashed, the South would endure. It might
not rise again in the same form, but at least it could preserve certain
attributes of the prewar society—in memory, if nothing else—as if
they were precious heirlooms. That the South would become impos-
sibly idealized would simply serve to immortalize it.
Just enough honor, beauty, hospitality, and gallantry had existed
among Southerners before the war—whether recollected by dia-
ries and maiden aunts or lavished upon the chivalric characters of
Southern-admired novels—that these qualities now, in reflection, were
more than generously distributed among the people as a whole.
In the shame of defeat and the squalor of Reconstruction, South-
erners were again eager to fasten on to these cavalier notions. Mark
8 : a fte r the war

Twain in his Life on the Mississippi might jeer at the influence of Sir
Walter Scott and his “Middle-Age sham civilization” for culturally
misleading Southerners before the war. No matter. It was still how
the South was often seen and remembered. It would later take Wil-
liam Faulkner and his Snopses and Sutpens and the revived Ku Klux
Klan to begin altering that image. Until then, Southern doubters of
the legend were as likely to put themselves at social risk for decades
after the war, just as they would have for decades before.
Now, upon this rather makeshift stage with its musty-smelling
costumes strode Winnie Davis. Glorified for her birthright, she was
a symbol of old-guard expectations, not just for her own generation
but of those to come, perhaps in countless series. God, in fact, might
yet ordain a flawless bloodline were she to marry a Virginian heir of
Robert E. Lee, or a reasonable (and wealthier) facsimile. Certainly
it would have to be someone loyal to Jeff Davis. That left out even
the farthest cousins of Joe Johnston or Beauregard or their fellow
comrade-in-arms James Longstreet, now a turncoat Republican.
The Old South, the old dream, the Confederacy, states’ rights,
headlong courage, white male dominance, female virtue—the whole
package, with the possible exception of the code duello—would be
thrust as a bride’s bouquet into young and slightly trembling hands
for eternal preservation. Sometimes Southerners seemed to be in
love with death.
Winnie had been a long time away, having spent seven years of
her life in Europe. Most were at a boarding school in Karlsruhe.
When fifteen she seemed a typical teenager, spoiled and full of her-
self. She wrote to her mother about her German school: “The new
girls are all very fond of me but I am not so fond of them as I ought
to be because I can not agree with their way of thinking. They are
so high-church that they make objections to praying in an uncon-
cecrated church and an awful fuss about things that are natural, for
instance standing at prayers and sitting to sing.”
When Winnie finally arrived at her new home on the Missis-
sippi coast, it was 1881 and she was seventeen. Davis had been in his
mid-fifties when she was born and so by this time must have appeared
even more like a grandfather. Winnie, a precocious child, had been
 THIS SPACE LEFT BLANK INTENTIONALLY.

Varina Anne “Winnie” Davis’s famous father replied that “death would be pref-
erable” before he would consent to her marrying the Yankee grandson of an
abolitionist. Although Jefferson Davis eventually changed his mind, the South
that had christened Winnie “Daughter of the Confederacy” never did. This
photograph was taken in 1888, when she was in love with Alfred Wilkinson.
(Courtesy of the Museum of the Confederacy, Richmond, Virginia)
10 : af t e r t he war

schooled in the graces of her class—a class whittled considerably by

war. She was acknowledged as competent in art, music, and literary
composition. She also brought home a German accent, which she
could never entirely shake.
It may be assumed that her appearance at this time approximated
that recalled at her death, as possessing an olive complexion, “large,
intellectual, bright eyes,” and a tall body with small hands and feet—
“the latter being particularly noticeable by the gracefully arched
insteps, all characterizing her as a type of the Southern woman.”
In photographs she fortunately more favors her mother, though the
grey eyes seem to have her father’s resoluteness. In a later image,
however, the impression is of a certain sadness, perhaps resignation.
There would be reason for this.
But it could wait. Winnie was Davis’s delight, and he was, to her,
“My darling Father.” Father and daughter would take long walks
along the beach. Once she asked him what he would do if he could
live his life over. The old West Pointer replied, “I would be a cavalry
officer, and break squares.”
They played backgammon and euchre at night, using buttons for
gold. The gentleness came out in Davis. That most inflexible of men
would unbend. Once he cautioned Winnie not to step on a bug: “Is
there not room in the world, little daughter, for you and that harm-
less insect, too?” He had a room adjacent to his study converted into
an art studio for her. She in turn would play Chopin and other of his
favorites upon Beauvoir’s piano.
Visitors to Beauvoir came from all over: friends and strangers,
Northern as well as Southern war veterans, pesky journalists, pro-
fessors, clerics—even Oscar Wilde. Hospitality must have taken
a Traveler-like bite out of the family purse. Nonetheless Winnie
helped with the throng, charming and gracious, an ideal woman for
the South of the coming century. Winnie had a social life in New
Orleans too, and was among the adored debs at Mardi Gras.
The daughter also accompanied Davis on his journeys. In 1886
she went with him on an arduous railroad trip to Alabama and Geor-
gia to dedicate monuments and otherwise celebrate the Lost Cause
with old Rebels. As one story goes, Davis was taken ill on his train
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 11

just before the unveiling of a monument in Georgia. General John

B. Gordon, a quick-thinking man, pushed Winnie to the back plat-
form of the coach as a stand-in. It was there he introduced her as
the “Daughter of the Confederacy.” The veterans whooped, and the
name stuck for life. An admiring postcard would be created with her
profile within a heroine’s wreath—above her head her name, below
the wreath in script the magic Daughter of the Confederacy.
In a way, Winnie was a rather odd selection for the South.
Varina’s biographer Joan Cashin has noted that Winnie in “many
respects . . . was scarcely an American. . . . In Karlsruhe she kept a
scrapbook with numerous mementoes from such figures as Bismarck
and Moltke, and a few images from her native country, including a
Confederate flag. She was fluent in German and French, and her
accent when she spoke English was mittel-European. Sometimes
Winnie had to look up words such as gingham in the dictionary, and
she made mistakes in usage, as if she were trying to translate German
noun constructions into English.”
It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that she had barely partici-
pated in the Confederacy’s brief life, or that she had spent a good
part of her existence outside its member states. She was Jeff Davis’s
child, the man who in the absence of the dead Lee most represented
the Old South, the old dream, the old reassurance of states’ right-
ness and the true reason for rebellion and war. The essence would be
passed along with the torch.
If Winnie had any misgivings about this image, she seems not to
have raised them publicly. Her often-ailing father also needed her
help and companionship, which she readily gave. When illness cur-
tailed his engagements, she filled in.
Her mother appears to have had for Winnie bigger dreams of
family connections. Varina herself was later to play the role of Widow
of the Confederacy, defending the truth of her husband’s (and the
South’s) sacrifice. Still, there seems little appreciation by either par-
ent at this time (much less by Winnie) for how such expectation and
duty could also be an unremitting shackle, a sort of emotional slav-
ery. Winnie had celebrity, Southern Victorian style, but celebrity’s
pitfalls could be as soul-depleting then as they are today.
12 : af t e r t he war

In any case, obedient and loving daughter that she was, Winnie
could scarcely renounce the connection or decline her service. Davis
himself, rapidly nearing and then catching up with eighty years,
counted heavily on her capable presence. She accompanied him on
his trip to Montgomery, Alabama, and Atlanta without Varina. She
laughingly pinned Confederate emblems on the lapels of Yankee
reporters, and intervened (like the late guard dog) between the frail
Davis and the grasping sea of hands that reached out to touch him.
In his public remarks Davis never urged another Fort Sumter.
But his continued defense of states’ rights, his particular reading of
the Constitution, and his touchy comparison of the late rebellion to
that of the glorified colonial revolution against the British were not
the sorts of things Northerners wanted to hear.
Eleven years after the war Congress had voted a blanket amnesty
to all the old Confederates except the die-hard Davis. Although he
was often urged to seek a pardon, which would allow him to run for
office, he refused. Other Southerners feared he might change his
mind on his deathbed—an admission of error applicable to every
Rebel. They needn’t have worried. Davis remained true, and Con-
gress did not restore his citizenship until 1978, almost ninety years
after his death.
On the other hand, Davis openly advocated reconciliation. His
last speech, made before a group of young men in Mississippi City
in 1888, is notably eloquent:
“. . . The faces I see before me are those of young men; had I not
known this I would not have appeared before you. Men in whose
hands the destinies of our Southland lie, for love of her I break my
silence, to speak to you a few words of respectful admonition. The
past is dead; let it bury its dead, its hopes and its aspirations; before
you lies a future—a future full of golden promise; a future of expand-
ing national glory, before which all the world shall stand amazed.
Let me beseech you to lay aside all rancor, all bitter sectional feeling,
and to make your places in the ranks of those who will bring about a
consummation devoutly to be wished—a reunited country.”
If Davis would have the South move on and reconcile with the
North, he was soon to be put most sorely and personally to the test.
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 13

in 1 8 7 8, the same year Davis was trying to lure Varina to Beau-

voir, a distant relative, Kate Davis, married the journalism dynamo
Joseph Pulitzer. In 1883, Pulitzer bought the New York World from
Jay Gould. A few years later Winnie was a guest of Kate and her
husband. While in New York, a trip to visit family friends in upstate
Syracuse put Winnie at a party. Apparently some of the Yankee locals
were rude to the Daughter of the Confederacy. A young man present
rose in defense of the Southern cause—and, incidentally, Winnie.
He was Alfred (Fred) Wilkinson, Jr., a Syracuse patent attorney
then in his late twenties and grandson of Samuel May, a prominent
abolitionist. He was also unattached. Winnie was in her early twen-
ties and daughter of the man who had tried his best to break up the
United States of America. It was love at first sight. Winnie, how-
ever, kept it from her parents back at Beauvoir. She and Wilkinson
traded letters and met again during another of Winnie’s visits to the
Pulitzers.
At home, Winnie was also filling in at various veterans’ gather-
ings and memorials for Davis, who had suffered a heart ailment in
1887. By now Winnie had been exposed to a sufficient number of
unreconstructed Rebels to realize the delicacy of her situation. Kiss-
ing and making up was no more than metaphor when applied to the
Confederacy’s daughter. For a long time Winnie kept her secret, but
the dilemma took its toll. Her health began to flag. Her father was
baffled and distressed by the change. It is highly probable that con-
cerns for his health also affected her’s.
One day Wilkinson showed up at Beauvoir to ask Davis for Win-
nie’s hand. It is said that when informed by Varina of Wilkinson’s
purpose, Davis replied, “Death would be preferable.” He would
never consent. Winnie, “white as death,” declared she could never
love another but would obey.
Then Davis began to find the young lawyer interesting. Wilkin-
son, it seems, was also a states’ rights man. Davis invited him to
stay longer. He even took him to a pier bathhouse one night where,
14 : af t e r t he war

under the light of flares, they watched the Gulf flounders—a guest’s
rare privilege. Wilkinson also went to work on Varina. Although his
father, a banker, had lost most of the family fortune in a scandal,
Wilkinson assured her he could make a home for Winnie. The son
had bought the Wilkinson Syracuse mansion at auction, and family
females lived within.
Consent, however, was still withheld. Davis not only had a daugh-
ter to please; he had the South.
Certainly better than Winnie, Jeff Davis knew the venom that was
out there. He probably figured that many who had supported him
against Joe Johnston and the like would never forgive this ultimate
surrender—this yielding of sacred flesh—to Northern money chang-
ers with abolitionist blood ties. It would be worse even than accept-
ing a federal pardon. Doors would be slammed shut—though more
to his wife and daughter than to himself with such poor health.
On the other hand, there was Winnie’s health. The miasma-like
influence of thwarted romance might grow beyond repair. Davis also
knew a little about young love and its loss. When he was Wilkinson’s
age, he had married Sarah Knox Taylor over the objections of her
father, the future president Zachary Taylor. The bride had died of
malaria three months later.
The flame for “Knoxie” had never quite gone out, and besides:
perhaps a marriage of North and South might not be such a bad
thing, particularly after his fine speeches. . . . Jeff Davis, the old ram-
rod horse soldier, had taken heat many times before. Finally, he gave
his consent.
It was to be among his last executive decisions.
Accounts vary on when and how the news of Winnie’s engage-
ment got out. One says a radiant Winnie blabbed it to a neighbor.
More likely, it wasn’t generally known until announced in the news-
papers in April 1890, four months after Davis’s death.
The previous October, Winnie, probably due to stress, had gone
to Europe with the Pulitzers for her health. In November 1889,
Davis’s own precarious health grew worse. Winnie, informed by let-
ter from her mother that he had been sick but was better, was guilt-
stricken. On December 5, 1889, she wrote to her father from Paris,
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 15

“My dearest, I know now that you were suffering all the time, and
I cannot get reconciled to the idea of my having, no matter how
unwittingly, left you while you were ill. . . .”
She concluded: “Dearest darling Father, when as now, I want
to tell you how much I love you I grow bewildered; what words to
choose which are able to express to you the devoted love and tender-
ness of which my heart is and always will be full for you, my dar-
ling Father. My pen is the mutest thing about me unfortunately and
when I am away from you I can only think, and think, and love you
for your goodness and tenderness, with which you covered me as
with a cloak, all through my little childhood, screening my faults and
answering my unreasonable questions with always an honest reply,
the rarest thing given to a child in the world. And so, I will end by
saying as I began ‘My darling Father.’ Good-night.” She signed it
“Your Winnanne.”
The letter was too late to reach Davis an ocean away. He died on
December 6.

perh ap s had Davis hung on for a while longer, a marriage would

have gone forward out of the man’s sheer stubbornness. His con-
sent had been that rarity of rarities: Jefferson Davis had changed his
mind.
But there was no getting around the reaction when the engage-
ment became known in the South. Condemnatory and threatening
letters arrived at Beauvoir from veterans and strangers. Disapproval
poured in from friends as well, including General Jubal Early, the
self-appointed Watchdog of the Confederacy.
Varina wrote Early at least twice trying to smooth things over—
that the groom-to-be was only a child during the war, was a states’
rights Democrat and able to support Winnie. Early’s replies don’t
survive, but Varina’s letters suggest he apparently complained of
being deceived, and he especially didn’t like Wilkinson’s abolitionist
roots. In the collective view, Winnie belonged to the South. Giving
16 : af t e r t he war

her up to a Yankee was more despoilment of the past and worse than
betrayal. It was . . . without honor!
In his last year Davis, with Varina’s help, had completed A Short
History of the Confederate States and begun dictating his memoirs. After
his death, Varina took on the latter project. She had literary abilities
and was up to the task. Jefferson Davis, Ex-President of the Confederate
States of America: A Memoir by His Wife ran to two volumes. Scold
and supporter, Varina had faithfully ridden fortune’s roller coaster
with her husband. She had also made clear that it wasn’t always will-
ingly. A year before the war she had commented presciently, “The
South will secede if Lincoln is made president. They will make Mr.
Davis president of the Southern side. And the whole thing is bound
to be a failure.”
As first lady, Varina could be brutally unpolitical. With war clouds
looming, a woman of her own age once worried what she would do if
made a widow. Varina’s reply was merciless: “If ——— is the best you
could do when you were fresh and young, what better chance could
you hope for, old?” In the truest sense a survivor, Varina was more
than a match for her daughter, and in her own way quite as remark-
able as her husband.
Winnie, meanwhile, had also emerged as a writer. She had been
drawn to the Irish rebel Robert Emmet, whose execution in 1803
had brought a swift end to a romance that was later the subject of
poems by Thomas Moore and a story by Washington Irving. Win-
nie’s biographic monograph, “An Irish Knight of the 19th Century,”
was privately published during the time she and Wilkinson were
exchanging letters.
It is to wonder whether she saw any of herself and her young
man in Emmet’s futile love and tragic outcome, or whether it simply
appealed to a sentimental Victorian heart. The title alone suggests
Sir Walter was still not cold in his grave. Although his was an ante-
bellum influence and technically before Winnie’s time, time itself
was strangely at odds throughout her life. Jefferson Davis could urge
young men to forsake yesterday and look to tomorrow, but the Old
South and the wartime past were all around his daughter too. Win-
nie was their prisoner.
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 17

In his will Davis left Beauvoir to Winnie, and she and her mother
stayed there while Varina finished her memoirs. In the process
Varina was attracted to New York, where Pulitzer’s World offered her
$1,200 a year for articles. In 1891 both women moved to the big city.
In New York, Varina wrote various newspaper and magazine pieces.
Winnie tried journalism too but also would write two romantic
novels. She was described as having “a clear style, a sprightly manner
that was almost witty, and a remarkable flow of story telling power.”
She published under the name Varina Anne Jefferson Davis, while
her mother—should there be no mistaking—had her own name
changed to Varina Jefferson-Davis. Winnie’s letters suggest an odd
set of friends. Two from 1892 are filled with futile advice to the Mar-
quis de Ruvigny, warning him against his own lost cause to restore
the Stuarts to the British throne.
In the meantime, what of love and Fred Wilkinson?
For a while, matters seemed to calm down. In October 1890,
however, reports came from New Orleans that the engagement with
Winnie was no more. Wilkinson confirmed them to the Northern
press. “Miss Davis’s health,” he explained, “has been poor for some
time, and it was for the purpose of gaining strength that she went
abroad. She returned in only a slightly improved condition, and but
a few weeks ago she expressed the wish of both herself and her esti-
mable mother that the engagement cease.”
The press took the story a bit further. Shortly before the break-
off, inquiries were made by a “prominent gentleman of Mississippi
concerning Mr. Wilkinson’s financial and social standing, his ability
as a young attorney, and his prospects. That was soon after the burn-
ing of the old Wilkinson mansion in July. . . .” The inquiries tellingly
included the family banking scandal and whether properties were
transferred to dodge creditors. A recent conjecture even suggests
that the mansion might have been torched by one of Winnie’s unre-
constructed admirers. Varina, though, was likely the greatest influ-
ence, or, as a newspaper put it: “. . . Miss Winnie having severed the
engagement out of deference to her mother’s wishes.”
Varina had a lot of practice protecting Winnie, and a lot of rea-
sons. One of them was the quiet disgrace of Margaret Howell, who
18 : af t e r t he war

bore the son of an unnamed father a year after the war. A romantic
girl such as Winnie might grow up even more vulnerable than a wild
one like Maggie, vulnerable not just to sex but to genteel poverty. So
Varina’s daughter was saved—yet for whom? Winnie, morally pure,
never fully recovered her physical health. And having given her heart
to Fred, she was to be no man’s wife.
So was it health, or money, or was it yet the Old South’s oppro-
brium that finally decided the matter? Southerners who counted
showed little sign of reconciliation to the marriage. They looked
to the great man’s daughter as they had looked to the great man at
the outset of the Confederacy, to shoulder the burden for the rest
of them. They had struck Davis at his weakest spot: his formidable
sense of duty. In a way, the same (if more ethereal) demand had been
made of Winnie, the Daughter of the Confederacy.
Winnie’s health, at any rate, seems not to have been an objection
of Wilkinson, who also would stay unmarried. Who had been check-
ing him out in Syracuse? Was it at Varina’s instigation, or indepen-
dently done—a “prominent gentleman of Mississippi” laying out the
injurious evidence that Varina could not deny? This time the South
had won. Maybe that was the reason New York City looked so good
to two exhausted ladies.
Winnie Davis died in 1898 of “malarial gastritis” at the Rhode
Island hotel where she and her mother were staying for the sum-
mer. The illness was brought about in another service to the South
she had left. She had filled in for Varina at a veterans’ gathering in
Atlanta and returned sick to Rhode Island after riding in an open
carriage in the rain. Winnie was only thirty-four. She had an enor-
mous funeral—the blot of the engagement forgiven if not forgot-
ten—and was buried next to her father in the Confederacy’s last
capital of Richmond, Virginia.
Her mother lived to be eighty and died of pneumonia in New
York in 1906. Varina too was given a big sendoff (Teddy Roosevelt
sent flowers). After Winnie’s death, Varina had sold Beauvoir to the
State of Mississippi to be used as an old soldiers’ home and shrine
to her husband. In 2005 the property and all within caught the full
brunt of Hurricane Katrina.
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 19

it was within the realm of chance that Winnie Davis might have
had a happier life had she become the wife of Alfred Wilkinson,
Jr. Somehow he might have reestablished the family fortune; good
health might have magically returned; the South might yet have
looked away. That none of this occurred presumes a tragedy.
And yet everything seems destined to have happened exactly
as it did. Unless Jefferson Davis had left his daughter in Europe,
which he could not have afforded to do even had he considered it,
Winnie’s participation in the salvaging of the Lost Cause was inevi-
table. There was never to be any “Son of the Confederacy” to divert
attention, assuming that the mantle could be placed only upon the
shoulders of its lone president’s heirs. The parents’ sole male child
who lived to adulthood, Jeff Jr., wasn’t especially promising (he had
been expelled from Virginia Military Institute) and in 1878 had died
in Memphis at age twenty-one of yellow fever.
But even were there male candidates, the preservation in public
memory of the Old South and the war to save it became more the
New Cause of the females left behind. They certainly outnumbered
the veterans who had returned with diseased lungs, mangled limbs,
and battlefield nightmares. The women, of course, had overseen the
loss of fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, and sweethearts. They had
suffered in their own way every bit as much as the family soldier, and
had lost every bit as much, if not more. The Negro was now free in
their midst; the chance for marriage and escape was diminished; and
a secure white society, as it had been, was blown apart every bit as
much as the armies at Shiloh and Gettysburg.
If the fallen Confederates were to be regarded as sacred—and
they were—then so was the Cause for which they fought, for which
the Southern male and female fought. And if the Cause were stain-
less and noble, what better representative than a virginal female,
preferably young and perceptibly fertile? She thus would stand in for
the future, the ultimate response to the North that the Southerner
could not really be conquered.
20 : af t e r t he war

Tiny Rebels would be spawned, not only to replace the dead but
to preserve certain forms—good manners, for instance—that would
segregate the South from Yankee vulgarity.
Within several years of Jefferson Davis’s death, women of the
South who were left to tend the graves and raise the monuments
would organize as the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Win-
nie was not stripped of her singular title, by any means, and some
UDC chapters would name themselves after her. Aspirants to the
title following her death were smote down by General Gordon, who
responded “Emphatically, no” to any suggestion that Winnie was
replaceable. In 1899 a monument depicting a fallen angel—called
the “Angel of Grief”—was unveiled at Winnie’s grave site as part of
the ceremonies having to do with the UDC’s annual convention.
An ode by Dr. Henry Mazyck Clarkson was read to the convention
in honor of the monument’s dedication, which in part proclaimed:
Distinguished daughter of a race renowned, / In the full flush of fault-
less womanhood, / Before the world’s admiring eyes she stood / A very queen,
with every virtue crowned.
Mark Twain would have chortled, but it reflected the temper of
the times in the new South—old times there not forgotten.
The United Daughters persist, but notice of Winnie gradually
faded. The enigmatic Jefferson Davis and the vivacious Varina were
more important and interesting to biographers and other manipula-
tors of the past. A century after the angel monument’s unveiling,
Winnie artifacts exhibited at a New Orleans museum were being
advertised as having belonged to the “Lost Princess of the South.”
Like those who chose the opposite side from friends and fam-
ily before the war, Winnie Davis was not the only person afterward
to contend with scorn and abuse for a North-South attachment. It
was just that, in her case, disapproval was something on the order
of a public referendum. It is to wonder why few if any Southern
suitors—as far as is known—did not seriously present themselves
at some point. The arrangement would have allowed a secondary
celebrity (Son-in-Law of the Confederacy?), and Winnie was by no
means unattractive. She had been Queen of Comus at Mardi Gras.
She had, among other charms, “gracefully arched insteps.”
 The Daughter of the Confederacy : 21

Still, the Davises had no fortune, and Varina as a mother-in-law

might prove vexing. A Southern gallant of prominent family likely
to win Varina’s approval doubtless would prefer a role other than
junior partner, and the Wilkinson affair was destabilizing. Gallantry
does have its limits. In any event, the move to New York seemed to
eliminate such scenarios.
After Wilkinson, Winnie in fact might have written off any fur-
ther lover, North or South. Nor, with Davis dead, would she sully
his name or that of the South. The dutiful daughter would scarcely
have chosen someone he would not have approved of, and keeping
watch on her every move were the ancient Rebels back home and
their womenfolk. Indeed, she had sworn she could love no other but
Wilkinson.
To the watchers, Winnie’s disappointments may have symboli-
cally honed her perfection as Daughter of the Confederacy. Her
father might have talked of the future, but for a good many South-
erners it was always the lost past that was uppermost. The future
could never have its mythic grandeur. By this time only an eccentric
Jacobite might have met their approval as a groom.
Winnie Davis could avoid in the North what must have become
a sort of claustrophobia, even at Beauvoir with its long-leaved pines
and murmurs of the sea. But she could not escape the South’s sorrow,
the pervasive melancholy. Jeff Davis’s ghost was always nearby, star-
ing out from every mirror, and so was the legacy of untold thousands
of other dead.
How sad, for it meant she could not truly live, though she might
mix with gaudy Northern society or throw herself into her work.
Her time was not really of her own. It was that of someone else, who
had belonged to a glorified but vanished state and civilization.
Winnie Davis, bright, attractive, with a bit of a German accent,
joining her father on the sands before Beauvoir, would be among the
casualties of a war she had only incomprehensibly witnessed.
 ·2 ·

T h e C on q uer o r ’ s
S on

F
or William Tecumseh Sherman, the lowest point in the Civil
War would come in Kentucky during the conflict’s first year.
There Sherman was sent as a new brigadier to the assistance
of Robert Anderson, the hero of Fort Sumter. Anderson and his men
had crossed into the state after its neutrality was first violated by
Confederate forces. The Confederates were attempting to forestall
a Union march on the Mississippi River town of Columbus, and thus
brought Kentucky into the war. Some sense of the confusion and
consternation—if not outright panic—then present in the state was
recollected years later by Sherman in his memoirs.
Step into Sherman’s world at that perilous time in September
1861:
“The city [Louisville] was full of all sorts of rumors. The Leg-
islature, moved by considerations of a purely political nature, had
taken the step, whatever it was, that amounted to an adherence to
the Union, instead of joining the already-seceded States. This was
universally known to be a signal for action. For it we were utterly
unprepared, whereas the rebels were fully prepared. General Albert
Sidney Johnston immediately crossed into Kentucky, and advanced
as far as Bowling Green, which he began to fortify, and thence dis-
patched General [Simon Bolivar] Buckner with a division forward
toward Louisville; General [Felix] Zollicoffer, in like manner, entered

22
 The Conqueror’s Son : 23

the State and advanced as far as Somerset. On the day I reached Lou-
isville the excitement ran high. It was known that Columbus, Ken-
tucky, had been occupied, September 7th,* by a strong rebel force,
under Generals [Gideon] Pillow and [Leonidas] Polk, and that Gen-
eral [Ulysses] Grant had moved from Cairo [Illinois] and occupied
Paducah in force on the 6th. Many of the rebel families expected
Buckner to reach Louisville at any moment. That night, General
Anderson sent for me, and I found with him Mr. [James] Guthrie,
president of the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, who had in his
hands a dispatch to the effect that the bridge across Rolling Fork
of Salt Creek, less than thirty miles out, had been burned, and that
Buckner’s force, en route for Louisville, had been detained beyond
Green River by a train thrown from the track. We learned afterward
that a man named Bird had displaced a rail on purpose to throw the
train off the track, and thereby give us time.”
Matters, however, grew worse. Within weeks Anderson, say-
ing he could no longer “stand the mental torture,” resigned to be
replaced by a reluctant Sherman. To Sherman, there would never be
enough time in Kentucky: the army was too green, too few, too ill-
equipped. Johnston, “who was a real general,” could have united his
forces and “walked into Louisville” had he so tried.
Sherman’s doubts and worries began to snowball. During a
meeting in Louisville with the short-term Secretary of War Simon
Cameron, Sherman—who had a troop allotment of about 18,000—
declared that he needed 60,000 troops for defense and 200,000 to
march on Johnston. Cameron was aghast. “Great God! Where are
they to come from?” he exclaimed to Sherman, throwing up his
hands.
Soon a memo of their meeting began making the rounds in
Washington, where Sherman’s “insane” request for 200,000 men
was published in the press. Sherman writes that he became aware
of a widespread report that “I was ‘crazy, insane, and mad.’” Rela-
tions with his superiors deteriorated further as Sherman relayed his
complaints and fears to Washington. “I again repeat that our force

*The Confederates occupied Columbus on September 4, 1861.

24 : af t e r t he war

here is out of all proportion to the importance of the position,” he

said in one report, concluding: “Our defeat would be disastrous to
the nation; and to expect of new men, who never bore arms, to do
miracles, is not right.”
Yet the big battle with Johnston’s army still did not come.
By now Sherman himself was questioning his sanity. He ranted
in a letter to his wife, Ellen: “Rumors and Reports pour in on me of
the overwhelming force collected in front across Green River. . . .
To advance would be madness and to stand still folly. . . . The idea
of going down to History with a fame such as threatens me nearly
makes me crazy. Indeed I may be so now, and the constant applica-
tion for passes and little things absorbs all my time.”
It didn’t help when a plan to assist an uprising of Unionists in East
Tennessee went awry. The scheme, at the behest of Tennessee sena-
tor Andrew Johnson and with President Lincoln’s enthusiastic bless-
ing, envisioned sending men under Sherman’s subordinate, George
H. Thomas, to work with partisans planning to destroy bridges on
the vital East Tennessee–Virginia railway. Thomas had even set out,
but Sherman, believing the force was about to be trapped, panicked
and ordered him to pull back. Johnson, marching with Thomas,
was livid. The partisans went ahead with the plan, but unprotected
Unionists were rounded up and several hanged.
By this time Sherman had had enough of Kentucky, and his
commander, George McClellan, had had enough of Sherman. He
quickly granted Sherman’s request to be relieved. While waiting for
his relief, though, Sherman continued to send out warnings of immi-
nent attack and the virtual doubling of Sidney Johnston’s forces.
At this point Sherman’s aide was sufficiently moved to telegraph
the general’s father-in-law in Ohio to “send Mrs. Sherman and her
youngest boy to Louisville. There is nothing to alarm you but it
is necessary to turn Genl Shermans Mind from responsibility now
resting upon him.”
Ellen Sherman, however, found reason to be alarmed after arrival.
She wrote to Sherman’s brother, John: “Knowing insanity to be in
the family, and having seen Cump on the verge of it in California
I assure you I was tortured by fears, which have been only in part
William Tecumseh Sherman greeted his son Tom’s decision to become a Jesuit
priest with anger and heartbreak. Later he would say of the Catholic church,
“Why should they have taken my splendid boy? They could have brought over
thirty priests from Italy in his place.” (Library of Congress)
26 : af t e r t he war

relieved since I got here. . . . Cump’s mind has been wrought up to

a marked state of anxiety which caused him to request McClellan to
make the change. . . . I am puzzled to know what to advise or hope
for & I am distressed by his melancholy forebodings. . . .” She added,
ominously: “He thinks the whole country is gone irrevocably & ruin
& desolation are at hand—For God’s sake do what you can to cheer
him & keep him in the position most advantageous to his mind &
reputation. . . .”
Sherman, politically connected on both sides of his family, was
packed off to St. Louis where Henry Halleck, an old friend from
West Point and California days, was in command, then sent home to
Ohio on leave. Meanwhile a Cincinnati newspaper, under the head-
line general william t. sherman insane, accused him of having
tried to withdraw his army back across the Ohio River to escape the
Confederates. Sherman’s brother and father-in-law quickly rushed
to Lincoln to contain the damage and save Sherman’s career. A few
weeks later the Kentucky crisis ended when the Confederates were
rolled back all the way to Alabama by the combined if far-flung efforts
of Thomas, Grant, and Sherman’s successor, Don Carlos Buell.
Sherman would have to wait for the near disaster of Shiloh to
renew his march to glory.

a sh erm a n b i o g r a pher, Stanley Hirshson, records that the

insanity mentioned by Ellen Sherman came through the maternal
side of Sherman’s family, the Hoyts. Sherman’s grandmother, Mary
Raymond Hoyt, was believed to have spent her last years in an asy-
lum, and a maternal uncle, Charles Hoyt, was in and out of an asylum
at the time of his death. One Sherman brother, Jim, died a drunk,
and two others were plagued by dizzy spells. The aforementioned
John Sherman, a congressman and senator from Ohio for whom the
Sherman Anti-trust Act is named, died in 1900 after a mental break-
down and not long after resigning as secretary of state. Suspicions
and accusations of insanity followed William Tecumseh Sherman
from Kentucky onward. Madness would emerge again, in actuality
and tragically, in yet another generation.
 The Conqueror’s Son : 27

Although the mercurial Sherman would discover a latent zest

for destruction as the war lengthened, his wife’s passion had long
been turned just as mightily toward religion. Ellen Sherman, as her
husband would later say, was “absolutely more Catholic than the
pope.”
She was born Ellen Ewing and grew up as something of a sister
to the young Cump, who was raised in the Ewing household after
his father died when Sherman was nine. As man and wife they had
eight children despite being separated for long periods by Sherman’s
various jobs. Ellen could never bear to be absent from other Ewings,
particularly her father, Thomas, who had served in the U.S. Senate
and as secretary of the Treasury and Interior departments. Two of
the Shermans’ four sons would die during the war, one as an infant.
The other, called Willy or Willie, died at age nine in Memphis of
typhoid after he and his mother had visited the general in Mississippi
following the Vicksburg campaign.
Ellen’s religion, and that of her five brothers and sisters, came
from their mother, a Boyle, whose father had fled Ireland. Of his
mother-in-law’s Catholicism, Sherman would later say “that I am
sure that though she loved her children better than herself, she
would have seen them die with less pang, than to depart from the
‘Faith.’” Ellen’s politician father, born a Presbyterian, happily went
along, though it was said that Thomas Ewing’s real religion was fed-
eralism, and more of that rubbed off on the young Sherman than
Catholicism. It did not, however, keep the rest of the Ewings, espe-
cially Ellen, from trying to convert him.
Priests were frequent visitors to the Ewing household in Lan-
caster, Ohio, and one was asked after Sherman’s arrival to baptize
him. Sherman’s admiring father had named his son Tecumseh after
the Shawnee chief—a name others shortened to “Cump”—and the
priest was forced to halt the proceedings when told of it. He pointed
out that to be baptized the boy must be named for a saint, not a sav-
age. It being the feast day of Saint William, the baptism resumed for
the redesignated William Tecumseh Sherman. The general would
later insist it was his own father who had also given him the William,
but then he never considered himself a Catholic, either.
28 : af t e r t he war

W.T. (or “Cump”) and Ellen Sherman had been married six years
when their fourth child and second son, Thomas Ewing Sherman,
was born in 1856. The first son, William Ewing or Willy and born
two years before, seemed to hold the greatest hopes in Sherman’s
view and would be mourned by his father as his “Alter ego” after the
child’s death in 1863. The death would also heighten something of a
schism in the household.
Ellen fastened early upon Tom. When less than a year old she
informed Sherman that she intended to refer to the infant as Ewing.
Before the boy had turned two, Ellen wrote her husband that her
“great desire” was to see Ewing become “an eloquent Priest some
day.” To Sherman, the boy would stay Tom or Tommy, and the father
was unequivocally opposed to his becoming a priest.
Ellen wrote of it again during Sherman’s 1864–1865 march
through Georgia and the Carolinas. In a letter she described the boy
as “very backward for eight years old.” Her plan was to enroll Tom
in the same Catholic academy that his dead brother had attended,
adding: “I am anxious that he should be a missionary Priest and join
the Paulist Fathers. Of course he will decide for himself but I hope
he may be called to that glorious life.”
To this Sherman responded: “I will risk his being a Priest—Of
course I should regret such a choice and ask that no influence be lent
to produce that result—Let him have a fair manly education, and his
own instincts will lead him right—I dont care how strict he may be
in Religion, but dont want him a Priest, but he is too young for even
the thought.” Just in case, he also wrote young Tom, “I dont want
you to be a Soldier or a Priest but a good useful man.”
The pious Ellen seemed never to weary of trying to bring the
general to the church. During this same destructive march that the
South would condemn for generations—and that would take its own
bizarre twist later with Tom Sherman—Ellen wrote her husband:
“Why can you not make your great works meritorious by offering
them to God and doing them in His honor? If you do this you will
perhaps be rewarded with faith & receive for your labors an imper-
ishable crown in the kingdom of God where our dear ones await us.
. . . The members of the Sherman family would be glad to see you a
 The Conqueror’s Son : 29

THIS SPACE LEFT BLANK INTENTIONALLY.

Even before Tom Sherman turned two, his mother Ellen Ewing Sherman hoped
he would become “an eloquent Priest some day.” The 1868 portrait by G. P. A.
Healy shows the devout Ellen with a cross at her bosom. (Smithsonian American
Art Museum / Art Resource)

Catholic because they fear to see you die without any faith. How you
can live since Willy died, without the faith I cannot conceive & from
my heart I pity you for my own sufferings since his death have been
more than I could have borne without its consolations.”
Sometimes Ellen Sherman’s letters seemed to raise questions of
her own stability, as she wrote when their sixth child, Rachel, was
approaching her first birthday in 1862, a year before Willy’s death:
“She is too sweet to live here long & I pray from my heart that God
30 : af t e r t he war

may take her to Heaven in her loveliness & purity that her eternity
may be secure & that we may have one at least of our little flock
constantly interceding for us before the throne & in the presence of
the Lamb that was slain for our redemption.” (Rachel would survive
into the next century.)
After Union Colonel Daniel McCook died of a wound received
at Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, in 1864, Ellen wrote to Sherman:
“Poor Dan McCook is gone. I am very very sorry and feel truly sad
about it, particularly as I fear whilst serving his country he forgot his
God. . . . What is time & what is earthly glory to poor Dan McCook
now? And our Willy—how differently he now views these things
from his home in heaven. May his prayers be your shield & guard
until we all join him to be separated no more.”
And yet, while Ellen Sherman was writing with eyes uplifted,
her husband was concentrating on a war that had intensified in its
brutality.
Even before Georgia and South Carolina, the line had blurred
between civilians and the military. Sherman’s troops torched a Cath-
olic church in Jackson, Mississippi, during the Vicksburg campaign.
On the march through Columbia, South Carolina, soldiers drank
whiskey from a Catholic communion chalice and burned an Ursuline
convent and school—an incident that brought a defense from Ellen
when, ten years later, a newspaper attacked Sherman over it. His
army would shell noncombatants, and in Georgia Sherman ordered
female factory workers and their children put aboard trains and sent
north, to wander strange cities. In Columbia, white women were
groped for valuables, and black women were raped by his troops.
When Sherman’s deliberate profanity embarrassed the religious
General Oliver O. Howard (later the namesake of Howard Uni-
versity) and prompted him to leave Sherman’s presence, Sherman
remarked to another general: “The Christian soldier business is all
right in its place. But he [Howard] needn’t put on airs when we are
among ourselves.”
Throughout his life Sherman fought off Ellen’s pleas and prayers.
Early, in the fifth year of their marriage, he wrote her of a visit while
in San Francisco from a Father Gallagher, who had asked jokingly
 The Conqueror’s Son : 31

when “I proposed to come into the fold—I told him you had Catho-
licity enough for a very large family, and that my Catholicity was
more catholic than his, as mine embraced all Creation, recogniz-
ing the Maker as its head and all religions past, present & future
as simple tools in the Great accomplishment yet to be. A little too
transcendental for Mr. Gallagher.”
Clearly, Sherman and his wife were evenly matched, with neither
giving ground. But it is also as if Ellen used their departed Willy to
try to outflank her husband and somehow bring him around. Willy
was Sherman’s deepest grief. The boy’s death brought perhaps the
most excruciating pain to a man who both inflicted and witnessed so
much of it.

in h is m em o i r s, Sherman recalled that 1863 family visit to his

camp outside Vicksburg: “Willie was then nine years old, was well
advanced for his years, and took the most intense interest in the
affairs of the army. He was a great favorite with the soldiers, and used
to ride with me on horseback in the numerous drills and reviews of
the time. He then had the promise of as long a life as any of my chil-
dren, and displayed more interest in the war than any of them. He
was called a ‘sergeant’ in the [Thirteenth] regular battalion, learned
the manual of arms, and regularly attended the parade and guard-
mounting of the Thirteenth, back of my camp.”
When Sherman was ordered to move his men east by way of
Memphis, he and Ellen, Willy, Tom, and the two oldest daughters
took a Mississippi River steamboat together back to Tennessee.
“When the boat was ready to start,” Sherman continued, “Willie
was missing. Mrs. Sherman supposed him to have been with me,
whereas I supposed he was with her. An officer of the Thirteenth
went up to General [James Birdseye] McPherson’s house for him,
and soon returned, with Captain Clift leading him, carrying in his
hands a small double-barreled shot-gun; and I joked him about car-
rying away captured property. In a short time we got off. As we all
stood on the guards to look at our old camps at Young’s Point, I
32 : af t e r t he war

remarked that Willie was not well, and he admitted that he was sick.
His mother put him to bed, and consulted Dr. [E. O. F.] Roler, of
the Fifty-fifth Illinois, who found symptoms of typhoid fever. The
river was low; we made slow progress till above Helena [Arkansas];
and, as we approached Memphis, Dr. Roler told me that Willie’s
life was in danger, and he was extremely anxious to reach Memphis
for certain medicines and for consultation. We arrived at Memphis
on the 2d of October, carried Willie up to the Gayoso Hotel, and
got the most experienced physician there, who acted with Dr. Roler,
but he sank rapidly, and died the evening of the 3d of October. The
blow was a terrible one to us all, so sudden and so unexpected, that
I could not help reproaching myself for having consented to his
visit in that sickly region in the summer-time. Of all my children,
he seemed the most precious. Born in San Francisco, I had watched
with intense interest his development, and he seemed more than any
of the children to take an interest in my special profession. Mrs.
Sherman, Minnie, Lizzie, and Tom, were with him at the time, and
we all, helpless and overwhelmed, saw him die. Being in the very
midst of an important military enterprise, I had hardly time to pause
and think of my personal loss. . . .”
In a letter dated midnight, October 4, Sherman wrote to Captain
C. C. Smith of the Thirteenth to thank the battalion’s men for their
kindness toward his son. His grief was scarcely contained: “Consis-
tent with a sense of duty to my profession and office, I could not leave
my post, and sent for the family to come to me in that fatal climate,
and in that sickly period of the year, and behold the result! The child
that bore my name, and in whose future I reposed with more con-
fidence than I did in my own plan of life, now floats a mere corpse,
seeking a grave in a distant land, with a weeping mother, brother,
and sisters, clustered about him. For myself, I ask no sympathy. On,
on I must go, to meet a soldier’s fate, or live to see our country rise
superior to all factions. . . . God only knows why he should die thus
young. He is dead, but will not be forgotten till those who knew him
in life have followed him to that same mysterious end.”
He also soon wrote to Tom, now back home in Ohio: “You are
now our only Boy, and must take Poor Willy’s place, to take care of
 The Conqueror’s Son : 33

your sisters, and to fill my place when I too am gone. I have prom-
ised that whenever you meet a Soldier who knew Willy that you will
give him half you have. Give him all if in want, and work hard to gain
knowledge & health which will when you are a man, insure you all
you need in this world.”
A third son, Charles Celestine Sherman, born in June the follow-
ing year and apparently conceived during the reunion at Vicksburg,
lived only six months. Ellen told an aunt: “Mother’s superstitions
are generally regarded as idle but I always had a strong presentment
that Charley would not live. I felt that Willy would pray to have him
taken early to heaven.” She also admitted in a letter to John Sher-
man that Willy’s death overshadowed that of the infant, and that her
husband had said “with Willy died in me all real ambition.”
As victory neared and Sherman exulted in his popularity with
Lincoln and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton (who soon would turn
on Sherman over Confederate peace terms), he told Ellen: “Oh,
that Willy could hear and see—his proud little heart would swell to
overflowing.”
Guilt was to remain thick for the trip to Vicksburg that cost the
boy’s life. Months after the war’s end, and with Sherman as one of
the North’s great heroes, Ellen would defend her decision to travel
there as being at her husband’s request. “Poor Cump had no idea
that he was inviting Willy to meet his death when he wrote for us to
come there,” she told a cousin.
Two years later, and shortly after the birth of their fourth son,
Philemon Tecumseh Sherman, the general would say to a comrade
about Mississippi: “It was Vicksburg that cost me my Willy. . . .”
Could Tom, the second son, ever fill the void left by the death
of the first?
*

if sh er m a n commanded thousands in the field, Ellen commanded

at home. A niece of Ellen’s recounted this scene while the family was
living in Washington after the war:
“One day the General came in to dinner full of spirits, sparkling
and happy.
34 : af t e r t he war

“‘I was talking to Grant today,’ he said. ‘He’s going to send Fred
to such and such a preparatory school and I’ll have Tom go there,
too; so Grant’s boy and mine can be together. Later on, they can go
to West Point together. That will be splendid.
“‘And Senator Blank wants Ellie and Rachel to go to such and
such a school with his little girls . . .’
“Aunt Ellen broke in—
“‘Cump, tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock Tom’s going to George-
town to the Jesuit College and tomorrow morning the girls are going
to the Sisters’ school around the corner—or tomorrow morning at
ten o’clock I’ll take them all back to my father.’
“The General was terribly hurt, got up and left the table. He was
mum for several days. But by the end of the week Aunt Ellen said he
was reconciled to it and was helping Tom with his lessons as though
nothing had happened. He was tremendously loving with his family,
very close to them and affectionate.”
When the war ended, and after the triumphant Grand Review of
his army in Washington, Sherman and Tom had traveled to New York
to see both the city and West Point, where Sherman had graduated
in 1840. For the trip up the Hudson River, Tom had been outfitted
in a corporal’s uniform of Sherman’s old Thirteenth Infantry—Wil-
ly’s battalion. In this and in his later remark regarding Grant’s son,
it would appear that Sherman had quite forgotten having said he did
not want Tom to be either priest or soldier but “a good useful man.”
With Willy’s death and the war concluded, the soldier’s life—the
“Alter ego”—seemed in the process of transfer. There is, however, a
hint that Tom hadn’t yet measured up to Willy. His corporal stripes
were a rank lower than those of his late older brother; Willy was an
honorary sergeant, and surely his father remembered. Still, Sherman
had hopes for Tom . . . barring Ellen.
Although loving with wife and children, Sherman spent a large
part of his life far away from them. His labors as both soldier and
civilian before the war took him to such places as St. Louis; New
Orleans; San Francisco; Leavenworth, Kansas; and Alexandria,
Louisiana—places where Ellen either refused to follow him or soon
abandoned, usually for Ewing nests in Ohio. The war naturally
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brush in

of

reported

game

another creatures

RACCOON species
by Street

ENNETT in of

many T

steel great largest

which been to

working found

like handsomest
the When or

under being

with

neighbourhood sometimes they

and in strong

checked and and

leaf cat and

North form

in usually

in passages water

walked beach

frozen