Dead Confederates, A Civil War Era Blog

Crew of U-576. Ed Caram via NOAA.

You may have seen the headlines recently about the discovery, off the North Carolina coast, of the remains of U-576 (above), a Type VIIC U-boat sunk in 1942. It’s a remarkable discovery, made more so by the fact that one of her victims, the Nicaraguan freighter Bluefields, lies on the bottom less than 300 yards away. They don’t call that area the “Graveyard of the Atlantic” for nothing.

A discussion came up on SHPG about U-576, and its declared status as a “war grave” that should not be disturbed. Gary Adams started the discussion, contrasting the case of U-576 to that of H. L. Hunley, and concluding that

Adams has presumably forgotten about the case of U.S.S. Monitor, of which large components have been removed, including the engine and the famous revolving turret — the latter with the remains of two crewmen inside. Like the crew of Hunley, who were buried with military honors and great ceremony in Charleston in 2004, the two men from Monitor were interred at Arlington in March 2013. So yes, “they” handled the wreck of a famous Union ship in much the same way “they” did Hunley.

Adams’ citing of the case of U.S.S. Arizona is also flawed. That vessel is considered to be an inviolable war grave today, but that designation came long after her destruction in December 1941.  The Navy spent months extensively salvaging what was left of the battleship, and removed all the human remains they could find for burial in a conventional cemetery ashore. The human remains there now are there only because divers could not recover them in he 1940s. It wasn’t until 1950 that what was left of the ship was designated a memorial, and the current memorial structure, designed by architect Alfred Preis, did not open until 1962. So “they” disturbed U.S.S. Arizona, too.

A salvage diver emerges from the after magazines of U.S.S. Arizona, Pearl Harbor, October 1942. U.S. Navy photo.

Still — it’s important to look at some of the reasons that H. L. Hunley and Monitor were handled differently than U-576. So I thought I’d share some insights on why there cases were dealt with differently. I know that some folks will not be persuaded, and that’s fine. But there are different circumstances that should be acknowledged.

First and foremost, by international treaty, military vessels that have not been decommissioned or sold remain the property of the governments that employed them, or their successor governments, under the “Doctrine of Succession.” It’s up to those governments to decide if and how those wrecks should be dealt with. In the case of U-576, that’s the present-day Federal Republic of Germany, which issued a statement that it “is not interested in a recovery of the remnants of the U-576 and will not participate in any such project.” Germany’s boat, Germany’s decision.

Legal claim for the wreck of H. L. Hunley, on the other hand, lies with the U.S. government, which assumed the assets of the “so-called Confederate States” under a joint resolution of Congress in 1870. and subsequently codified in June 1965 as part of 40 U.S.C. 310. Thus, Confederate shipwrecks are U.S. government property and, in most cases, assigned to the oversight of the Underwater Archaeology Branch of the U.S. Naval History & Heritage Command. United States’ boat, United States’ decision.

Under this arrangement, the Underwater Archaeology Branch reviewed, approved and participated in the recovery of both the Monitor artifacts and H. L. Hunley. They oversaw the work here on U.S.S. Westfield, and currently have oversight on the work being done on the ironclad battery C.S.S. Georgia at Savannah. This same arrangement also helps protect Confederate ships from plunder, notably the wreck of C.S.S. Alabama, which lies in French waters and was discovered in 1984, and subsequently excavated by a joint U.S./French team under international agreement.

One of Alabama’s guns, lying in French territorial waters. Image via CERES, the European underwater Research Center.

Admittedly, the Navy’s practice when it comes to wrecks where the presence for human remains is either known or presumed — which was the case for both Monitor and Hunley — has been less than absolute. The official policy provides a little discretionary leeway, saying in one place that “the United States Government does not grant [salvage] permission with respect to ships that contain the remains of deceased servicemen,” but also citing an act of Congress in the 19th century requiring “that any salvage must provide for the removal and proper burial of the remains of the crew.” As a result, the Underwater Archaeology Branch has the discretion to authorize the excavation and removal of wrecks that contain human remains, provided that there are compelling reasons to do so.

There’s no doubt in my mind that there were compelling reasons to so so in the case of H. L. Hunley. The amount of information gained about the design, construction, and operation of that unique craft since its recovery in 2000 is just phenomenal — and they’re not done yet. More important, though, by the mid-1990s the wreck itself had become extremely vulnerable to plundering. The boat was buried under several feet of sand, but at a depth of only 30 feet or so, within easy reach of any amateur diver. Worse still, numerous private individuals and groups, including treasure hunter E. Lee Spence and adventure novelist Clive Cussler’s group NUMA, either claimed to have found the boat or were actively looking for it. There’s no question that H. L. Hunley would be found and disturbed; it was simply a matter of when, and by whom.

The case for recovery of elements of U.S.S. Monitor was more controversial in the underwater archaeology community, not because of the prospect of disturbing human remains — sixteen men were lost when she sank on the night of December 31, 1862 — but because of the enormous  amount of resources it would consume. The money would be better spent, they argued, on other projects, where more original knowledge might be gained; by contrast, many of the original drawings used to build Monitor still survive. Others countered that, well-documented or not, Monitor was both a unique vessel and of fundamental importance in the progression of maritime and naval technology, one of just a handful of genuinely ground-breaking vessels in history. Furthermore, they argued, Monitor was rapidly deteriorating on the sea floor, large sections of her hull having collapsed in the years since her discovery in 1974. In the end, the pro-recovery argument won out, with the ship’s engine being lifted in 2001 and the 120-ton turret the following year.

Illustration distributed by the Monitor National Marine Sanctuary to show the deterioration of the Monitor wreck site.

The big-picture takeaway here is every shipwreck is different in terms of their historical value, their vulnerability to destruction, and their prominence in society’s collective conscience. As a practical result, they end up getting treated differently. I think that’s probably the right approach, although I know others will disagree. And that’s fine, too.

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Clearly, my own politically-correct education is lacking:

I had no idea. I really did not.

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Via Michael Lynch, Nathaniel Philbrick’s In the Heart of the Sea is coming soon to the big screen:

In the Heart of the Sea tells the story of the whale ship Essex, one of the most harrowing tales of survival at sea every recorded.

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At least for me. I’ve mentioned before how a relative of mine in the Fourth Texas Infantry, Lawrence Daffan, witnessed the wounding of General Hood at Chickamauga, and was sure that Hood had been hit by fire from other Confederate troops. Daffan wrote:

Emphasis added. I’d never understood why the “new, standard uniforms” of the Texas Brigade would have caused such confusion, even for the ill-equipped Confederate troops in the Western Theater. Now, I find this in a discussion of the issue of new uniforms to Longstreet’s corps shortly before the battle:

The Texas Brigade was fired on by other Confederates because they were wearing blue uniforms. Simple as that.

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I’ve come across this term occasionally, and wondered about its origin. It turns up, among other places, in the song “The Fall of Charleston,” in the lines,

Sounds like it means happily drunk.

Well, I finally found a near-contemporary source. New York Commercial Advertiser, August 5, 1870, p. 2:

So it means stupid drunk. Close enough, y’all.

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I’d like to extend my sincere thanks to the Friends of the Library at the University of Texas at Arlington, who hosted me on Friday evening to talk about blockade runners and sign some books, and the Houston History Association, that asked me to speak about Charles Morgan at their annual research conference on Saturday. It made for a convoluted schedule and a lot of road time, but it was Hell’s own fun, and I appreciate the opportunity.

A special thanks goes to the 70 or so people from the Friends of the Library and the Fort Worth Civil War Round Table who braved some atrocious weather on Friday evening in Arlington — I’m glad y’all came out!

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Arguably the most widely-known event in Danville, Virginia’s history was the September 1903 wreck of a southbound Southern Railway Fast Mail. Accidents of that sort were sadly common in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, but the Danville wreck was immortalized in the song, “Wreck of the Old 97,” that became a big hit for Vernon Dalhart in 1924. His version was, reportedly, the first country song to sell over a million copies. It’s been covered by many artists since, including Woodie Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Pink Anderson, Boxcar Willie, Hank Snow, Bobby Osborne (featured briefly here) and others. Here’s a Dutch group, Def Americans, doing a worthy effort in tribute to Johnny Cash’s recording.

Y’all have a great weekend. I’m off to Arlington to talk about blockade runners.

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A chandelier seized from Ron Wilson’s home and sold at auction to repay his victims. Via FoxCarolina.

Looks like Ron Wilson, the former SCV Commander-in-Chief who went to federal prison in 2012 for masterminding a decade-long, $57M ponzi scheme — one that ran concurrently with his tenure as C-in-C — wasn’t done cheating his victims:

John Booker Kennedy was one of the original six Confederate veterans who organized the Ku Klux Klan in Pulaski, Tennessee. In fact, according to one history of the group, it was Kennedy who suggested they call themselves after the Greek word kuklos, that another member suggested be written as “Ku Klux.” Kennedy’s own obituary in the May 1913 issue of the Confederate Veteran magazine explicitly acknowledges his role in the founding of the group. Confederate Heritage™ folks will trip all over each other in the rush to absolve Nathan Bedford Forrest of the common (and strictly incorrect) accusation that he was a founder of the Klan, but John Booker Kennedy really was.

I do wish these folks would quit pretending that they’re put off by the Ku Klux Klan, and have no truck with it. Confederate Veteran magazine, then (as now) the official publication of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, certainly wasn’t squeamish about embracing the group. Robert Mestas, the proprietor of Defending the Heritage, surely knows about Kennedy’s history, since it appears that he lifted both the image and caption from the Tennessee State Archives. Here’s the full caption:

I don’t know why I should expect better from Robert. After all, he has a habit of making up fake quotes from Confederate veterans, right?

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A reconsideration of events in Galveston during the late summer and fall of 1864 suggests a likely linkage between the first steam blockade runners arriving at Galveston after the Battle of Mobile Bay in August 1864 and the outbreak of a yellow fever epidemic the following month. During the first three years of the war, steam blockade runners arrived at Galveston only on rare occasions; the Texas coastal city was too far removed from the main theaters of war to be of much use. After the Union admiral Farragut closed the entrance to Mobile Bay, however, Galveston was left as the only seaport on any significance left in Confederate hands on the Gulf of Mexico. As a result, beginning in late August there was a sudden upsurge in blockade-running activity at Galveston that continued through the end of the war ten months later.

Although yellow fever can now be prevented by an effective vaccine, in the 19th century it was a recurring and serious problem in the southern United States and the Caribbean. Yellow fever is a mosquito-borne viral disease varying widely in severity, exhibiting everything from flu-like symptoms to severe hepatitis and hemorrhagic fever. A large proportion of those infected died. At the time of the American Civil War, the variability of the symptoms made the disease difficult to distinguish from other illnesses, and even today a positive diagnosis is only possible through laboratory testing.

The threat of yellow fever was taken very seriously in Galveston, and on August 3 the Confederate commander in Texas, General Magruder, ordered a strict 30-day quarantine for all vessels arriving from Mexico, the Caribbean and other areas where the fever was endemic. It seems likely that Magruder’s order met with sharp opposition from merchants and others that had an interest in blockade running, because the following day he revised his order to require quarantine only for ships arriving from ports known to be infected with fever, and then only for eight days’ isolation. These watered-down precautions would prove to be woefully inadequate.

The first steam blockade runners arriving at Galveston after the fall of Mobile was the Susanna, arriving about August 24, and the Denbigh, which arrived on August 25. No other steam blockade runner is known to have arrived at Galveston for two weeks following Denbigh‘s arrival. In the days following Susanna‘s and Denbigh‘s arrival, several cases believed to be yellow fever appeared among civilians and soldiers stationed in the town. On September 14, the first deaths positively attributed to the disease occurred. That same day the military command sent out a call for nurses to care for those afflicted, and two days later the city was quarantined (unsuccessfully) to prevent the spread of the disease inland.

Over the next two months, at 259 deaths in Galveston were attributed to the disease. This figure represented nearly ten percent of the town’s military and civilian population at the time. The majority of the dead were civilians, and over a quarter were children ten years and under. The heaviest toll occurred in September, but deaths were recorded as November 20. A heavy frost on the evening of November 22 “dissipated the fever” and the quarantine was lifted soon thereafter.

There was debate at the time about the origin of this particular outbreak of fever. The etiology of the disease, and the role mosquitoes played in transmitting it, would remain unconfirmed for two generations. Some in Galveston argued adamantly that the disease must have come by way of a blockade-running schooner that had sailed from Vera Cruz, Mexico, while others insisted that it sprang from “local causes in the city.”

I believe that case for the schooner from Vera Cruz being the source of the yellow fever outbreak to be somewhat unlikely. The length of the voyage from Vera Cruz, typically a week or longer, would probably be enough time for symptoms to begin appearing among the crew and to draw the attention of authorities inspecting the vessel upon arrival. A steamer from Havana, on the other hand, would normally be able to make the run into Galveston in three or four days, making it much easier for infected seamen to pass undetected. It is also possible that the disease arrived at Galveston not in an infected sailor (who was subsequently bitten by a local mosquito), but in an insect brought along from the vessel’s point of origin. In that scenario, too, a steamer making a quick passage seems a more likely means of transmission than a relatively slow sailing vessel.

The normal course of the disease suggests its first victims in Galveston were infected very shortly after the arrival of the Susanna and Denbigh in late August. There were two interments of victims on September 14 – they same day they died – and three more the following day. The disease has a normal incubation period of three to six days, during which time there are no outward symptoms of the illness. After this incubation period, most victims enter what is now termed the “acute phase” of the disease, during which they experience fever, headache, muscle pain, nausea and vomiting. These symptoms usually subside after three or four days and the patients recover. In some cases, however, within 24 hours the disease enters its “toxic phase,” and the patient experiences develops jaundice (from which appearance yellow fever gets its name) and complains of abdominal pain with vomiting. Patients bleed from the mouth, nose, eyes and stomach. Kidney function drops off and sometimes fails altogether, resulting in a rapid rise in the levels of toxins in the body. About half the patients who enter the toxic phase of the disease die within 10 to 14 days, while the rest usually recover gradually.

If one takes this as the course of the disease in those patients who died on September 14 and 15, and the disease had its normal incubation period of three to six days, they most likely were infected during the last week of August, immediately after the arrival of the two steamers from Havana. Did Denbigh or Susanna bring the dreaded “yellow jack” to Galveston? I think it’s very likely that one of them did.

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