Unintentional and undeclared, American History Week continues

My reading shifts a bit with the seasons, and with the arrival of summer I tend to find myself digging through the various histories I've accumulated during the year. Perhaps I'm driven to reading history in the summer by the memory of childhood vacations with my family when I was a kid, the five of us crammed into a compact car and wandering all over America, stopping off at historical sites along the way. So in acknowledgment of my summer tendencies, I'll continue what's turned into a history week by taking a look at a couple of strong American histories I've read recently, The Lincoln Nobody Knows (1958), by Richard N. Current, and Almost a Miracle: The American Victory in the War of Independence (2007) by John Ferling. Both authors seem to fit Montaigne's description of great historians in "On Books":

The truly outstanding historians have the capacity to pick out what is worth being known, they can select of the two accounts the one that is more likely to be rue. From the character of princes and their humors they infer their intentions and attribute to them suitable words. They are right to assume the authority of regulating our belief by their own; but certainly this privilege belongs to very few.

Current's book, which I picked up after Eric Foner recommended it in the New York Times Book Review, is set up explicitly along the lines that Montaigne suggests, weighing various bits of evidence, assessing veracity and pertinacity, and making judgments. As Current explains in the foreword, even fifty years ago when he was writing, the number of books on Lincoln was already almost unmanageable, presenting almost as many different Lincolns--many of them irreconcilable. So instead of attempting to write a definitive book on Lincoln or stake out new territory, Current decided to return to Lincoln's own words, and the words of his contemporaries, and sort through them for what they reveal about several specific facets of the man, including his military leadership, his handling of the South's initial provocations, his family life, and his religion.

The brief book that results could serve as an introductory course in writing history: for each topic, Current presents the evidence for each possible position, then, by taking into account the trustworthiness and reliability of each source, their distance (in both time and relationship) from Lincoln, and, ultimately, the inherent plausibility of each possible explanation for Lincoln's behavior, he makes a judgment. The Lincoln who emerges from Current's trial is by no means clear or open--the man played his cards too close to his vest for that ever to be the case--but I do feel that I know him a bit better and am more comfortable in my impressions.

John Ferling's aim in Almost a Miracle is much bigger; he's written a full history of the military side of the American Revolution to accompany his earlier account of its political and social aspects, A Leap in the Dark. But he, too, has taken Montaigne's dictum to heart and is not afraid to render judgments when appropriate. And while the British generals--dithering and uncertain where not positively incompetent--come off the worst, General Washington's reputation also takes some hits. Whereas other Revolutionary histories I've read--Benson Bobrick's Angel in the Whirlwind, for example--give Washington enormous credit for selecting and adhering to the Fabian strategy appropriate to his outnumbered force, Ferling presents a Washington whose attitude towards his situation is far more complicated.

Forced by circumstance to embrace the proto-guerrilla tactics of Fabianism, Ferling's Washington at the same time chafed against them, looking again and again for opportunities to discard his strategy of evasion in favor of a decisive, European-style battle. That desire, argues Ferling, led Washington to make a number of strategic blunders--blunders that, had the British had the creativity and ambition to exploit them, could have been fatal to the American cause. That's not to say that he dismisses Washington. Indeed, when Ferling presents the full picture of the conditions under which Washington labored--from being forced to create and train an army on the fly to having to perpetually reassure or cajole the weak and recalcitrant colonial government--the very fact that he remained in command throughout the war, let alone won it, remains impressive.

Ferling writes extremely well of battles, and he's particularly good at explaining the infighting that plagued the military leadership of both sides. Though I'm sure it wouldn't surprise anyone who's seen military service, I'm always astonished when I read military history by the amount of self-dealing and politicking that goes on among officers. While nominally dedicated above all else to a successful prosecution of the war, generals throughout history have undercut their leaders, secretly appealed to their elected representatives, and put themselves and their ambitions above the goals of the overall force; Washington's ability to navigate those waters--which reached their most treacherous with the betrayal of Benedict Arnold--is another testament to his leadership; the one quality that seemingly all writers on Washington assign him is a razor-sharp ability to assess people.

But fascinating as all this is, and as thoughtful as Ferling's presentation, I'm not ashamed to admit that ultimately my interest in history, like my interest in fiction, comes down to people. As Montaigne says elsewhere in "On Books":

I would rather choose to be truly informed of the conversation [Brutus] had in his tent with some of his particular friends the night before a battle than of the harangue he made the next day to his army; and of what he did in his study and his chamber than what he did in the public square and in the Senate.

Fortunately, Ferling is also extremely good at that sort of detail, as evidenced by the following brief character sketch that introduces General Charles Lee, pictured here in a caricature by Barham Rushbrooke.

Tall and wafer-thin, with a pinched and homely face, Lee was given to quirky behavior. He was habitually unkempt, slovenly even, and voluble. Opinionated and prone to ceaseless monologues, he also never learned to curb his penchant for delivering a searing riposte. Lee had never married and insisted that he preferred dogs to most people. He spoke "the language of doggism," Lee said, adding that he found canines attractive because, unlike many people, they were neither bigoted nor inclined to put their "convenience, pleasure, and dignity" ahead of his. He traveled everywhere with his pack of hounds and seldom hesitated to foist them on others. "He is a queer creature," John Adams said of him, and Lee would have been the first to agree. He once confessed to his sister that in his "cooler candid moments" he understood that "my deportment must disgust and shock."

My only real complaint about Almost a Miracle is that it's one of the worst-edited books I've ever read. There are almost no typos, but other errors abound, from dangling modifiers to misplaced words to subject/verb disagreements. It's as if the only editing the book underwent was by a particularly good spell-checking program. Sloppy editing in and of itself is grating, but far more important--and frustrating--is the unshakable worry that an editor who isn't catching grammatical mistakes is unlikely to be catching mistakes of content. A serious book deserves far better.

But I hate to end on a negative note, so back to the positive: that's two books removed from the mess of histories ranged about on our spare bed, making my task of selecting books to carry on vacation later this month that much easier. Unless, that is, I make the mistake of going to the bookstore again before I leave . . .

Independence Day

These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.

When Thomas Paine wrote those sentences to open his pamphlet The American Crisis in December of 1776, the prospects for the rebellious American colonies looked bleak. Mere weeks before, General Washington and his Contintental Army, smarting from a string of defeats in New York and New Jersey, had been driven across the Delaware River, leaving much of New England undefended. New York City had fallen to the British. As the ragged Contintental Army entered winter quarters, the men and women who had risked their lives and livelihoods on the prospect of independence were deeply--and quite rightly--worried.

Legend has it that Paine's pamphlet was read to the army in camp that bitter December, lifting their flagging spirits. An enemy of Paine, James Cheetham, said that the reading "rallied and reanimated" both the army and the public. It's important of course to not give too much credit to mere words--Washington's spectacular successes at Trenton and Princeton following his daring crossing of the Delaware River later that month surely did more to reinvigorate public support for the war. But Paine's words--elegant yet straightforward, like all his prose--were powerful at the time, and they have served for more than two hundred years as both an emblem of the bravery and determination that animated our founders and a reminder of the duty we all still have to ensure that their democratic experiment continues to succeed.

But while those opening lines are familiar, there is an aspect of The American Crisis that is less remarked upon these days, yet seems essential. While the pamphlet was intended as a rallying cry, and Paine did put a good face on the dire situation, he at the same time didn't hesitate to explain, in detail, the calamities that had recently befallen the Contintentals. He told of the retreat, lamented the losses and failures, and openly wondered about the future.

At a time when we as a nation are just beginning to emerge from a period in which our leaders--with the help of the mainstream media--made every effort to shame and demonize anyone who spoke honestly about our military failures in Iraq, Paine's essential straightforwardness is a refreshing reminder that truth and openness should be bedrock American virtues. Despite a real existential crisis--not overhyped threats of terror, but an actual, devastating war whose outcome was clearly in doubt--Paine knew better than to sacrifice those virtues. Would that we had leaders of the same caliber today.

I'll close this Independence Day post with Paine, too, a few lines from Common Sense. Published in the summer of 1776, Common Sense saw Paine, with the thoroughness and brutality of a street fighter, laying waste to the pro-reconciliation arguments of Loyalists and waverers--and leaving the colonists no reasonable choice but to support the war that was already underway. Under Paine's assault, the whole concept of hereditary monarchy is revealed as unreasonable, illogical, and unacceptable, and while from our vantage that may seem obvious, it's important to remember that the more egalitarian and democratic world we live in was made possible, in part, by those very words--and by the words and actions of Jefferson, Franklin, Madison, Hamilton, and the officers and enlisted men of the Continental Army.

Given the revelations of recent months about the Bush administration's thorough corruption of the previously honorable Department of Justice--and especially Bush's craven action this week in commuting the sentence of Scooter Libby--I think you'll understand why I chose the following passage.

From Common Sense:

But where says some is the King of America? I'll tell you Friend, he reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind like the Royal Brute of Britain. Yet that we may not appear to be defective even in earthly honors, let a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the charter; let it be brought forth placed on the divine law, the word of God; let a crown be placed thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve as monarchy, that in America THE LAW IS KING. For as in absolute governments the King is law, so in free countries the law ought to be King; and there ought to be no other.

In the face of Bush and Cheney's depradations, our job as citizens is to fight for the rule of law. Only by doing that will we enure that America will see the better days appropriate to the descendants of Paine and the Revolutionary generation.

Some reading notes, sans theme

[Photo by rocketlass]

1. About half of Stacey's photos of me are of me reading. Seems about right.

2. On the L Friday on my way home from work, I sat next to a man who was reading a beat-up old mass market paperback of Sister Souljah's The Coldest Winter Ever (1999). Every time he turned a page, he would press the book open until its two garish covers touched, then return it to a normal reading position. It was a perfect demonstration of why I cringe any time I look at mass market paperbacks in a used bookstore.

3. Like a lot of (white?) folks, I mostly know Sister Souljah from Bill Clinton's opportunistic use of her in his 1992 campaign. Her Wikipedia entry notes that The Coldest Winter Ever was her first novel and that it was praised by the New Yorker; the book's Amazon page, however, features celebrity librarian Nancy Pearl saying that "although the novel's writing is amateurish, the message is sincere." Amazon also reveals that the book contains the following statistically improbably phrases: bad bitch, drug game, difference between writers, Long Island, Slick Kid, House of Success.

Given the countless novels set in New York, how many times does a writer have to use the phrase "Long Island" in order for it to be statistically improbable?

4. While I'm on the topic of books marketed at an African American audience: a while back, also on the L, I saw a woman reading a novel called Thong on Fire (2007), which I learn from the Internet is subtitled "An Urban Erotic Tale." Now, being a man, perhaps I don't have standing to weigh in on this, but wouldn't fire be among the last things one would want to associate with a thong?

5. If, like me, you enjoy noting what people on the train around you are reading, you'd probably enjoy Seen Reading, a blog by a woman in Toronto who notes what people are reading around her, makes a guess of what page they're on, then, after going to the bookstore and reading that page, draws on what she finds there to write a bit of speculation about the person and their day. It's well worth your time.

6. A last note on the the topic of things thought on the L: as I sat on the L this morning, I was working through this post in my mind, thinking about how I would have to make sure to include the story of the odd conversation I had at the Printer's Row Book Fair yesterday:

After studying the books for sale at my employer's booth for a bit, a woman said to me, "Why don't you have any good books?"

To which I, reasonably, replied, "We do--all of these books are good." For emphasis, I accompanied my confident statement with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the dozens of books on offer in front of me; we had, after all, only brought good books.

"No," said the woman, emphatically. "I mean good books--ones that are written by Sports Illustrated!"

To which I had no response.

But as I sat on the L thinking about how bizarre this exchange had been, it slowly dawned on me that it had never happened: I had simply dreamed the whole thing.

Which does, however, give me a good excuse to point you to the Annandale Dream Gazette, a virtual dream aggregator that should be in the Google reader of all dream fans.

7. From dream to nightmare: remember learning about Valley Forge in grade school? What I've learned this week from John Ferling's compulsively readable Almost a Miracle: The American Victory in the War of Independence (2007) is that Valley Forge was far worse than we were probably taught. Due to a variety of failings on the parts of the nascent Congress and the poorly (and, to be fair, hastily) organized Army, along with some plain old bad luck, the Continental Army ran out of most supplies almost the instant they made winter camp at Valley Forge. Ferling's description of the conditions for the enlisted men rival the horrors faced by Napoleon's army as it fled Moscow, so vividly and terrifyingly described by Adam Zamoyski in Moscow 1812 (2004). Ferling puts Washington's army's suffering in perspective:

Upward of 2,500 of Washington's men perished that winter, very nearly one man in seven of the Continentals that were with him late in December. (In contrast, about one American in thirty who were involved in operations in the Battle of the Bulge died in battle).

8. Relating events earlier in the war, Ferling describes the British government's surprise at the Americans' strong showings in early battles thus:

Incredibly, [Prime Minister] North's government had led Britain into a faraway war without a plan for waging it. All along it had presumed that the Americans would back down when faced with British force. The government also believed that if the rebels were so foolish as to resist, their army could not possibly be a match for regulars. It, and the rebellion, would be crushed in short order.

Okay, fellow contemporary Americans: any of that sound frustratingly familiar?

There's also another reason the Revolutionary War is important to remember right now: the American military's longstanding tradition of treating prisoners with justice was originated by George Washington's army, who understood the necessity of treating one's vanquished foes with humanity and dignity. The Bush administration's repudiation of that heritage is one of the blackest stains on its reprehensible record.

9. One of the strengths of Almost a Miracle is Ferling's eye for the odd story or detail that makes this long-ago conflict come alive--makes it become human again, even when it's horrifying. Here, he tells of a foraging operation in the Valley Forge winter where a conscript, John McCasland, and fifteen comrades

were sent on a patrol to search out Hessians who were suspected of being in the area. They found them occupying "a large and handsome mansion house," and discovered, too, that the Germans had posted only a single "large Hessian" outside as a sentinel. The guard had to be disposed of before the others could be taken, but no one wanted "to shoot a man down in cold blood." After some debate, those who were thought to be the best shots drew lots to determine whose job it would be to take out the sentry. McCasland won (or perhaps lost) the draw. While he readied himself, the others surrounded the house. Finally set, McCasland decided that he would not shoot to kill, but instead fire "to break his thigh. I shot the rifle and aimed at his hip," he remembered. The shot struck a tobacco box in the soldier's pants pocket, ricocheted and entered his leg "and scaled the bone of the thigh to the outside." Hearing the shot, the other Hessians immediately decided that they were heavily outnumbered and must surrender. As none spoke English, one "came out of the cellar with a large bottle of rum and advanced with it at arm's length as a flag of truce." The sixteen Americans took twelve Germans prisoner "and delivered them up to General Washington."