The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: The Leaders and their Early Battles

The Life of “Stonewall” Jackson: A Man of Faith, War, and Contradictions

Thomas Jonathan Jackson was born on January 21, 1824, in Clarksburg, Virginia (now West Virginia). His early years were shaped by hardship. When he was only two years old, his father and sister died of typhoid fever, leaving the family in dire financial straits. His mother remarried, but young Thomas never connected with his stepfather and was soon sent to live with relatives. Orphaned and poor, Jackson grew up with little formal education but developed a deep sense of self-reliance and moral discipline. He worked hard and taught himself as much as he could, reading extensively and striving to rise above his circumstances.

The Reluctant Cadet at West Point

Despite his humble background, Jackson set his sights on the prestigious U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He was admitted in 1842, though he was academically behind most of his classmates. Jackson struggled at first but displayed incredible determination. He studied tirelessly, often late into the night, earning the respect of classmates even if he remained somewhat of an outsider. By the time he graduated in 1846, he had climbed from near the bottom of his class to 17th out of 59 cadets. His persistence became a defining trait.

Cannon Smoke and Courage: The Mexican-American War

Jackson’s first taste of combat came during the Mexican-American War (1846–1848). He served under General Winfield Scott and distinguished himself for bravery and initiative during several key battles, including Veracruz, Contreras, and Chapultepec. His courage under fire earned him rapid promotions and a reputation for being calm and aggressive in battle. Jackson also began forming his strict military philosophy: discipline, duty, and unwavering commitment to mission. These experiences would prepare him for the future, even if he didn’t yet know it.

The Quiet Professor of VMI

After the war, Jackson accepted a position as a professor at the Virginia Military Institute (VMI) in Lexington, Virginia, teaching natural and experimental philosophy (science) and artillery tactics. His teaching style was peculiar and often frustrating to students—rigid, formal, and sometimes hard to follow. He was a deeply religious man, a devout Presbyterian, and lived a disciplined, almost austere life. Outside the classroom, he was known for his kindness, but he remained socially awkward and intensely private. Few would have guessed that this quiet professor would soon become one of the most revered generals in American history.

Stonewall at Manassas: The Nickname That Stuck

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, Jackson joined the Confederate army as a colonel and quickly rose in rank. His first major test came at the First Battle of Bull Run (Manassas), where Confederate forces were in danger of collapsing. Jackson’s brigade held firm against fierce Union assaults, and General Barnard Bee famously rallied his own troops by shouting, “There is Jackson standing like a stone wall!” From that moment on, the nickname “Stonewall” stuck, and Jackson became a legend almost overnight.

The Valley Campaign: A Masterpiece of Maneuver

In 1862, Jackson led a brilliant campaign through Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. With fewer than 18,000 men, he marched over 600 miles in just a few weeks, defeating multiple Union armies that had over twice his numbers. His use of speed, surprise, and terrain baffled Union generals and electrified the Confederacy. Known for his stern religious faith and eccentric behavior—such as holding one arm in the air to “balance his blood”—Jackson had become both feared by the enemy and adored by his men. He inspired fierce loyalty and demanded total obedience.

The Right Hand of Lee

As General Robert E. Lee’s most trusted commander, Jackson played a crucial role in many Confederate victories, including the Seven Days Battles, Second Manassas, and the Battle of Fredericksburg. He was known for his aggressive tactics and ability to move troops quickly. Lee once said of him, “He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right.” This statement came after the Battle of Chancellorsville in May 1863, where Jackson executed one of the most successful flanking maneuvers of the war, smashing the Union army’s right side.

But tragedy followed triumph. As Jackson returned from a night reconnaissance, Confederate pickets mistook him and his staff for Union soldiers and opened fire. Jackson was hit by friendly fire, gravely wounding his arm.

The General’s Last March

Doctors amputated Jackson’s arm, and at first, he seemed to recover. However, days later, he developed pneumonia. Despite the best efforts of his medical team, he weakened steadily. On May 10, 1863, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson died, surrounded by loved ones and fellow officers. His last words were fittingly peaceful: “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”

Legacy of a Legend

Stonewall Jackson remains one of the most admired and enigmatic figures of the American Civil War. A man of deep faith, unwavering discipline, and unmatched battlefield brilliance, he became a Southern icon and a model of military leadership. His strategies are still studied in military academies today. Though his cause was the Confederacy, and therefore tied to the defense of slavery and rebellion, his personal character and military genius continue to captivate historians and students alike.

A Nation’s Wake-Up Call: Told by General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson

It was July of 1861 when our young Confederacy faced its first great test. The Union army, confident in its numbers and eager for a swift victory, began its march toward Manassas Junction. They expected a brief engagement, a short war, and a parade back into Washington. But I knew better. War is never brief, nor is it glorious. It is terrible, and it must be fought with resolve, prayer, and principle. I was then a brigadier general, commanding a brigade of Virginians—simple men, but brave and true.

Positioning for Battle

We arrived near Manassas early, my brigade forming up on Henry House Hill. It was high ground—a defensible place. Our orders were to hold the line against any flanking maneuver. I instructed my men with clarity and calm: to stand firm and trust in God. I had no desire for fame, only that we do our duty. My men were farmers and mechanics, fathers and sons—but they would stand like seasoned soldiers that day.

A Fierce Assault

Late that morning, the Union army began its attack. Their artillery opened fire, and soon their infantry came charging over the fields. The air was thick with smoke and the cries of the wounded. For a time, it seemed our line might falter. The enemy pressed hard, and confusion rippled through parts of the field. But on our hill, we stood firm. As cannonballs tore through the trees and bullets whistled past our ears, I remained mounted on my horse, unmoved, praying silently for strength.

The Moment That Defined Me

It was during the fiercest of this struggle that General Barnard Bee, rallying his faltering troops, pointed toward my position and cried out, “Look! There stands Jackson like a stone wall! Rally behind the Virginians!” Whether he meant those words as praise or rebuke, I cannot say—but they lit a fire in our men. We did not waver. We held that hill, and the enemy’s advance began to crumble.

The Union Retreat and Aftermath

By the late afternoon, our reinforcements arrived, and the Union lines broke into retreat—no, into a full rout. Civilians who had come from Washington with picnic baskets watched in horror as the “great day” of victory turned into chaos. The road back to Washington was choked with fleeing soldiers and abandoned equipment. It was a sobering sight.

Victory had been ours, but I did not rejoice. I knew what this meant. The war would not be over in a day, or a month. It would be long, and it would cost dearly. Both North and South had now tasted the bitterness of real war.

Reflections in the Stillness

That night, as I knelt in prayer, I asked the Lord for wisdom, for strength, and for mercy on both sides. We had proven that we would not yield—but I mourned the lives lost, Confederate and Union alike. I have always believed that soldiers on both sides must answer to God, and that we must conduct ourselves as Christian men, even in war.

The First Battle of Manassas—what the North calls Bull Run—was more than a victory. It was a wake-up call to a nation that believed war could be neat and swift. It was neither. War is fire and suffering. But it is also a crucible, revealing the heart of men.

And on that hill, on that day, the heart of the South was tested—and it stood firm.

A Cautious March to Defeat: Told by General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson

In the spring of 1862, while I was still engaged in the Shenandoah Valley, General George B. McClellan of the Union army launched what he believed would be the final stroke against our young Confederacy. He chose not to march directly overland toward Richmond but to move his grand army by boat down the Chesapeake Bay, landing at Fort Monroe and advancing up the Virginia Peninsula. It was a bold plan—well supplied, cautiously executed—but flawed in spirit.

McClellan brought over 100,000 men, and yet, he feared defeat at every turn. That was his weakness. He was a general who measured strength in numbers and hesitated at shadows.

Called to Join the Fight

While the enemy crept up the Peninsula, I was fighting a separate war in the Shenandoah Valley. My orders were to keep pressure on the Union armies in western Virginia and prevent them from reinforcing McClellan. By God’s grace, we did more than that. In a whirlwind campaign of marches and surprise attacks, we tied down tens of thousands of Union troops and captured the attention of President Lincoln himself. My men, worn and weary, still pressed on with fierce devotion.

Then came word from General Lee: I was needed near Richmond. Without rest, my men and I turned southeast and began the long march to the capital.

A Labored Arrival

We arrived near Richmond in late June, just as General Lee was preparing to strike. The Seven Days Battles would soon begin. My men were exhausted—having marched over 350 miles in less than a month—but they remained committed. I regret to say that my part in the opening days of the campaign did not live up to expectations. I was late to the field at Mechanicsville, and again at Gaines’s Mill. I moved cautiously, perhaps too much so. Whether it was fatigue, foggy orders, or my own fault, I cannot say with certainty.

I had always trusted in Providence and believed that success comes not from man, but from obedience to duty. Yet in those crucial days, my hesitation sowed confusion. I have carried that weight with me since.

The Seven Days Battles

General Lee’s plan was daring and aggressive—attacking McClellan’s right flank, forcing him to retreat from the gates of Richmond. My role was vital: I was to strike the Union rear and join in a powerful assault. Though the terrain was rough, and communication poor, we did manage to unite forces in time for battles at places like Savage’s Station, Glendale, and Malvern Hill.

But McClellan, cautious as ever, continued to withdraw rather than commit to open battle. Despite his overwhelming numbers, he feared we had more than we did. Each day, he crept farther back toward his gunboats on the James River.

Our losses were high. The fighting was brutal. But Lee’s pressure broke the Union advance and saved Richmond.

A Victory of Spirit, Not Ground

Though we drove McClellan from the Peninsula, the campaign was not a clean Confederate victory. The Union army was bloodied, but not broken. Richmond was safe—for now—but our own forces suffered deeply from the strain of continuous combat, poor roads, and muddy fields. What was most remarkable to me was not the land gained or lost, but the endurance of our soldiers.

They followed me without question through the Valley, then to Richmond, and stood fast under fire. I could never praise them enough. Their courage was not for glory or gold, but for their homes and for what they believed was right.

Lessons Carved by Fire

From the Peninsula Campaign, I learned much—about war, about leadership, and about myself. I had always believed in moving swiftly and striking with surprise. But fatigue and delay showed me that even the strongest convictions can be dulled by human weakness. I prayed more during those days than I had before any battle. And though I made errors, the Lord was merciful in delivering us from destruction.

General McClellan had every advantage—yet he lost his moment. He lacked the will to finish the fight. In war, boldness can save a nation, and hesitation can ruin one.

Reflections at the Edge of the Fire

The Peninsula Campaign was McClellan’s chance to end the war. But God had other plans. Richmond stood. The Confederacy endured. And I—flawed and weary—remained at my post. War is a trial of soul and strength, and every man who walks its path carries the scars of what he learns along the way.

If I stood slower at the gates of Richmond than I did at Manassas, it was not for lack of heart. But I have learned: even the stone must bend under strain, lest it shatter.

The Steady March: The Life of Ulysses S. Grant in His Own Words

I was born Hiram Ulysses Grant on April 27, 1822, in Point Pleasant, Ohio. My folks were modest, hardworking people. My father was a tanner, and though I tried to help in his shop, I hated the work. I preferred horses—quiet animals, strong and dependable. I could ride almost before I could walk, and that skill stayed with me my whole life. When I was seventeen, my father secured me an appointment to the United States Military Academy at West Point. They enrolled me as Ulysses S. Grant by mistake, and I let it be. Truth be told, I didn’t care much for soldiering back then, but I stuck with it—because quitting wasn’t in my nature.

A Soldier in Mexico

After graduating in 1843, I served in the Mexican-American War under Generals Zachary Taylor and Winfield Scott. I saw real battle there—blood, confusion, and courage. I learned the weight of command and the cost of war. Though I did my duty, I didn’t glorify the fight. I wrote Julia, my future wife, often during those days. I missed home. When the war ended, I was stationed at outposts far from my family. The separation wore me down, and I resigned from the army in 1854, uncertain of what would come next.

Struggles in Civilian Life

Those were hard years. I tried farming, selling firewood, even real estate—none of it suited me. Money was always short. I was no businessman. What I could do was work hard and stay true. Julia and I raised our children the best we could. When the Civil War broke out in 1861, I was clerking in a leather shop in Galena, Illinois. I knew the country needed experienced officers, so I rejoined the army—quietly, without fanfare. I wasn’t chasing glory. I just wanted to help preserve the Union.

Rising Through the Ranks

I started with a regiment of volunteers and did my best to keep them organized and ready. Success followed. At Fort Donelson, I refused to accept anything but “unconditional surrender.” That phrase stuck with me. At Shiloh, the losses were terrible, but we held firm. President Lincoln noticed. He said, “I can’t spare this man—he fights.” That’s what I did. I didn’t waste time talking or retreating. I found the enemy, and I kept moving forward.

At Vicksburg, we split the Confederacy in two. At Chattanooga, we drove them from the heights. By 1864, I was made General-in-Chief of all Union armies. It was my job to finish the war.

The Long Road to Appomattox

I went east to confront General Robert E. Lee. The battles were brutal—Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor—but I kept pressing. I wasn’t trying to win with flashy tactics. I was trying to wear Lee down, to end the killing. In April 1865, Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House. I treated him with respect. I told my officers, “The war is over—the rebels are our countrymen again.” That’s how I saw it. The war had taken enough.

From Soldier to President

I never sought political office, but the people trusted me. In 1868, they elected me President of the United States. I wasn’t a politician. I believed in peace, equality, and rebuilding the nation. I supported the Reconstruction of the South and worked to secure the rights of freedmen. I fought against the Ku Klux Klan and worked to protect Black voters. But politics is a different battlefield. I made mistakes. I trusted the wrong men, and corruption crept into my administration—not by my hand, but by my name. That weighs on me.

A Journey Around the World

After two terms, I stepped away. Julia and I traveled the world. We were welcomed in Europe, Asia, and beyond—not as rulers, but as guests of honor. It was humbling to see how far we’d come from Point Pleasant, Ohio. I saw nations rise and fall, but none like ours—where a man born in a log cabin could rise to command an army and lead a nation.

The Final Battle: Memoirs and Legacy

In my final years, I was struck by illness—throat cancer. At the same time, I’d lost nearly everything in a financial swindle. But I wasn’t finished yet. I wrote my memoirs to provide for my family and to tell the truth of the war. I wrote through the pain, day and night. Mark Twain helped me publish it. I finished the final pages just days before I died in July 1885. The book was a success. More importantly, it told the story I needed to tell—with honesty, without vanity.

A Life of Duty

I never claimed to be a genius or a hero. I was a quiet man who did what needed doing. I believed in the Union. I believed in justice. I believed in pressing forward, no matter the odds. I made my share of mistakes, but I served my country as best I could—with humility, resolve, and a steady hand. That is the life of Ulysses S. Grant—soldier, husband, president, and American.

The Battle of Fort Donelson, “Unconditional Surrender” Grant: Told by Grant

In early 1862, the war was young, but blood had already been spilled. My command was in the Western Theater, and we were looking for opportunities to gain ground for the Union. After capturing Fort Henry on the Tennessee River with the help of the Navy, I set my sights on a bigger target: Fort Donelson, just twelve miles away, guarding the Cumberland River. If we took it, we’d open a vital path into the Southern heartland—Tennessee, Kentucky, and beyond.

I wasn’t interested in half-measures. I believed in pressing the enemy, not waiting for the perfect conditions. We marched through snow and mud, and by mid-February, we had that fort surrounded.

Laying Siege

We had about 25,000 men, and the Confederates under Generals John Floyd, Gideon Pillow, and Simon Bolivar Buckner had roughly the same. The fort was perched on high ground, ringed by rifle pits and artillery. It was cold—bitter cold. Snow fell as we dug in. My men had no tents, barely any winter clothing. But they held their ground and prepared for a siege.

We began probing their lines, skirmishing day by day. I brought up artillery and made arrangements with the Navy to assist, though their gunboats suffered heavy damage in a bold attempt to shell the fort from the river. Still, we tightened the noose.

The Breakout and the Turn

On the morning of February 15, the Confederates made a desperate move. They launched a breakout attack on our right flank, aiming to open a road for escape. They hit hard and nearly broke through. For a few hours, it looked like the battle might turn against us. Some of my men fell back, disorganized. Some generals thought we should retreat and regroup.

But I saw something different. I noticed that after their attack, the Confederates didn’t press their advantage. They pulled back to the fort—hesitating, unsure. That was a mistake. I turned to my staff and said something I often believed in war: “The enemy has given up the initiative. Now’s the time to strike.”

We counterattacked across the entire line. By sundown, we had regained everything we’d lost—and more. I ordered my men to hold position through the freezing night. We were ready to finish it.

The Letter That Made History

The next morning—February 16, 1862—a white flag appeared over the fort. The Confederate generals were in disarray. Generals Floyd and Pillow, fearing capture, fled during the night, leaving the task of surrender to General Buckner, a man I had known at West Point.

Buckner sent me a note, asking for terms of surrender. He hoped I’d be generous.

But I had no interest in negotiations or delays. I wrote back a simple, direct reply:

“No terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.”

Buckner had little choice. He replied that he would surrender the fort.

The Name That Stuck

The newspapers picked up my words quickly. Soon, folks across the North were calling me “Unconditional Surrender” Grant. I never asked for the nickname, but it seemed to follow me from that day on. I suppose there are worse things to be known for.

I wasn’t interested in glory. I just believed that when the time came to act, you acted. No hesitating. No wavering. The lives of your men—and the fate of your country—depended on it.

The Aftermath

The fall of Fort Donelson was the first major Union victory in the war. We captured over 13,000 Confederate soldiers, opened up the Cumberland River to Union control, and forced the South to abandon Nashville—the first Confederate state capital to fall.

It was a turning point. The people in the North needed hope. The men in the ranks needed proof that victory was possible. Donelson gave them both.

As for me, I simply moved on to the next task. There was more work to be done, more battles to fight, and I had no intention of slowing down.

The Battle of Shiloh: Two Days of Blood and Thunder: Told by Ulysses S. Grant

In the early spring of 1862, after our success at Fort Donelson, I moved my army south into Tennessee, aiming for Corinth, Mississippi. The Confederate railroads ran through there, and if we could cut them off, we’d divide the South and cripple their movement. We camped at a quiet spot called Pittsburg Landing, near a small church named Shiloh. The men were tired, but spirits were high. Reinforcements under General Buell were marching to join us, and I planned to move against Corinth as soon as they arrived.

I didn't build strong fortifications around the camp. It wasn’t negligence—I simply didn’t expect the enemy to strike first. I believed they were retreating deeper into Mississippi. I was wrong.

Sunday Morning Firestorm

On the morning of April 6, 1862, we were hit hard—very hard. The Confederate Army under Generals Albert Sidney Johnston and P.G.T. Beauregard launched a surprise attack just after dawn. Our pickets fired warning shots, but it was too late to prepare. The thunder of artillery and the crack of rifles rolled across the fields and woods. Men scrambled from their tents, some without boots or weapons. Whole divisions were driven back in confusion.

We were not ready, but we did not break.

I was near the river recovering from an injured leg when the attack began. I rushed to the front. The scene was chaos—smoke, screaming, horses stampeding, wagons overturned. But amid the confusion, I found leaders, gave orders, and rallied the men. I would not retreat. I never considered it.

Holding the Line

Throughout that terrible Sunday, the fighting raged. The Confederates drove us back toward the Tennessee River, nearly to our last position. But brave men made brave stands—like in the Hornet’s Nest, where Union troops held firm for hours in the face of repeated attacks until they were surrounded.

The Confederate commander, General Johnston, was killed that day, and Beauregard took over. He believed he had won by nightfall. He sent word back to Richmond that the Union army was finished.

But I knew better. General Buell’s men had begun arriving late in the day, and by night, thousands more had crossed the river to join us. We were bloodied, but we were not beaten.

The Counterattack

At dawn on April 7, I ordered a full assault. The Confederates had spent their strength the day before, and now it was our turn to press forward. The fresh troops gave us momentum. We drove Beauregard’s army back, pushing them from the field they had won the day before. By evening, they were in full retreat, heading back toward Corinth.

The Battle of Shiloh was over. It had lasted two days—two days of blood and thunder, unlike anything we had seen in this war so far.

Counting the Cost

The losses were staggering—over 23,000 men killed, wounded, or missing on both sides. Many in the North were shocked. They thought war would be swift and glorious. Shiloh changed that. It was a wake-up call. This war would be long, brutal, and costly.

Some in the press called for my removal. They said I was reckless, that I had been caught off guard. But President Lincoln stood by me. He said, “I can’t spare this man—he fights.” That was all I needed to hear.

What Shiloh Taught Me

Shiloh taught me many things. It taught me that war does not wait for perfect plans. It taught me that resilience matters more than surprise. And it taught me that leadership means staying calm when others panic and holding the line even when it seems all is lost.

It was the bloodiest battle the country had seen up to that point. And yet, it was not the last. We had faced the storm and stood our ground. And from Shiloh forward, I knew that this war would be won not by easy victories, but by perseverance, grit, and the will to press on.

Jackson’s Valley Campaign: The Ghost of the Shenandoah: Told by Jackson

In the spring of 1862, the Lord called me to the Shenandoah Valley—not with a voice from the heavens, but through orders from General Joseph E. Johnston. The task was clear: defend the Valley, prevent Union reinforcements from reaching McClellan near Richmond, and if Providence allowed, strike the enemy when they least expected.

The Shenandoah was my home ground—narrow roads, wooded ridges, swift rivers, and friendly towns. I knew it like a man knows the folds of his coat. With fewer than 17,000 men, I would march, strike, and vanish. Some called it reckless. I called it obedience to duty—and trust in God’s will.

The First Blow: Kernstown

Our campaign began with a test at Kernstown in March. I was misinformed—I believed the Union force was smaller than it truly was. We attacked and were repelled. Some would call it a defeat. But in its outcome, it served a greater purpose: it convinced Washington to keep troops in the Valley rather than send them to McClellan. Even in setback, the Lord can use the hand of man for His higher purpose. And so, I pressed on.

Speed and Surprise

I kept my men on the move. We marched miles in days that seemed meant for weeks, through sleet and sun, mountain passes and muddy trails. My officers sometimes questioned the pace, but I reminded them that victory favors the army that arrives unexpected and undeterred.

At McDowell, we struck Fremont’s advance and turned them back. Then at Front Royal, we surprised the Union garrison, capturing prisoners and supplies. General Banks, who had grown bold in the Valley, now found himself in danger. We pursued him down the Valley Pike, driving him back through Winchester in panic and disarray.

Northern newspapers cried out that we had “invaded the North.” But we were still in Virginia. I was simply reclaiming ground that belonged to our people—and keeping the enemy guessing at every step.

The Ghost in the Valley

By May, my command had become a mystery to the Union high command. We would be seen in one county, and gone by nightfall. Columns moved to trap us, but we slipped away. At Cross Keys and Port Republic, we struck two separate Union armies within days of each other and forced both to retreat.

We were outnumbered, but never outmaneuvered. I used the terrain, the fog, the roads, and—most of all—the faith of my men. They followed me, sometimes marching over 30 miles a day, living off hardtack and hope, believing not in my fame but in our cause. Some called me a phantom, a ghost of the Shenandoah. I called it the work of Providence.

Marching with Faith

I often rode with a Bible in my saddlebag and prayed before each engagement. I did not ask the Lord for victory, but only that we be found faithful. I taught my staff to obey without hesitation, for hesitation in war is often the death of victory.

When I was told by civilians or scouts that the enemy was near, I listened carefully—but always turned to prayer before making decisions. My confidence was not in numbers, nor in arms, but in the Almighty. Still, I demanded discipline. My men knew I would not tolerate cowardice, but they also knew I would never lead them where I would not go myself.

The Results of the Campaign

By June, we had marched over 600 miles, fought five major battles, and tied down over 50,000 Union troops who might have otherwise crushed Richmond. With fewer than 17,000 men, we had outmaneuvered and outfought superior numbers.

We had done more than win a campaign—we had changed the course of the war, at least for a time. I rejoined General Lee in time for the Seven Days Battles outside Richmond, leaving behind a valley cleared of invaders, a people restored with hope, and an enemy shaken and embarrassed.

Reflections from the Saddle

The Valley Campaign, as the world would come to call it, was not my triumph alone. It was the Lord’s mercy, the courage of my men, and the swiftness of our movement. It taught the North that we would not yield. It taught the South that faith and discipline could overcome any odds.

I never sought glory. I sought only to serve the Lord and my country. If I became a “ghost” in the Shenandoah, it is only because we moved with conviction and disappeared when we were needed elsewhere. Like the wind through the mountains, we came, we struck, and we were gone. And in that valley of mist and mountains, we left behind a legacy that even time cannot erase.

Steady as She Goes: The Life of Admiral David Glasgow Farragut: Told by Farragut

I was born on July 5, 1801, near Knoxville, Tennessee, though the sea would become my true home. My father, Jorge Farragut, had come from Spain and served with valor in the Revolutionary War. When I was still a boy, we moved to New Orleans. After my mother died of yellow fever, I was taken in by Commodore David Porter—an officer in the U.S. Navy—who raised me like his own. It was Porter who first brought me aboard ship, and from then on, the ocean was in my blood.

At just nine years old, I was appointed a midshipman in the U.S. Navy. I set sail on the USS Essex during the War of 1812. Most boys my age were at school or working the farm. I was dodging cannonballs and commanding prize ships in the Pacific.

Growing in the Service

I grew up in the Navy. I served in peacetime patrols and naval expeditions from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean. Promotions came slowly in those days, but I earned every one of them through steady conduct, discipline, and an understanding of ships and men. I learned early that a commander must be calm in storm and fire—and must lead by example.

In time, I married and raised a family, living a sailor’s life of long deployments and constant travel. When the country split and war seemed certain, I found myself in a painful place. I had Southern roots, but my loyalty was always to the Union and to the flag under which I had served since childhood.

The Civil War Begins

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, I was living in Norfolk, Virginia—a secessionist stronghold. It was made clear that I had to choose sides. I chose the Union. I left Virginia and offered my services to the Navy once more. Many questioned my decision, but I never did. This was my country—whole and undivided—and I would defend it.

The Navy placed me in command of the West Gulf Blockading Squadron, and I began preparing for a campaign that would change the course of the war.

The Storming of New Orleans

In April 1862, I led a daring mission to capture New Orleans, the Confederacy’s largest and most important port. We had to pass Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip, two heavily armed forts guarding the Mississippi River. The night we made our move, the river was lit by fire rafts, cannon flashes, and smoke. I ordered my fleet forward under heavy bombardment. We ran past the forts, battered but intact, and entered the city.

New Orleans fell without a street battle. It was a major blow to the South and a turning point for the Union war effort. For this, I was promoted to rear admiral, the first man to hold that rank in the U.S. Navy.

"Damn the Torpedoes": The Battle of Mobile Bay

Two years later, I was tasked with shutting down the Confederate port at Mobile Bay, Alabama—one of the last major Southern harbors still in operation. The entrance to the bay was heavily mined with underwater explosives—called “torpedoes” at the time—and protected by Fort Morgan and the Confederate ironclad CSS Tennessee.

As our fleet hesitated under fire and in danger of being bottled up, I gave the order that became my most famous words: "D*** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"

We surged forward, took heavy fire, and defeated the enemy. The Tennessee surrendered, and Mobile Bay was ours. That battle sealed the fate of the Confederate navy in the Gulf.

The First Full Admiral

For my efforts, I was promoted again—this time to vice admiral, and later to full admiral, the first in U.S. history. I did not seek honors or titles. I only sought to serve well and to uphold the traditions of courage, discipline, and duty that had been passed down to me since I was a boy aboard the Essex.

Reflections in the Twilight

After the war, I continued to serve the Navy, visiting ports and receiving honors both at home and abroad. I remained on active duty until my final days, though sickness began to wear on me. I passed away in 1870, but not before seeing the Navy I had loved and served become a modern force, forged in the fire of civil war.

Looking back, I did not consider myself a hero. I was a sailor and a servant of my country. I believed in bold action, clear purpose, and loyalty to the flag under which I sailed since boyhood. And when the storm came, I did not flinch—I went full speed ahead.

The Battle of Hampton Roads: The Duel of Ironclads: Told by Admiral Farragut

In March of 1862, while I was preparing my fleet for the assault on New Orleans, a momentous clash unfolded in the waters of Hampton Roads, Virginia—a battle unlike any that had come before it. It was there that two ships—the Confederate CSS Virginia and the Union’s USS Monitor—faced off in a duel that would echo across every navy in the world.

I wasn’t present in person, but like every officer in the service, I watched closely as the reports came in. What happened there changed the course of naval warfare—and shook the wooden navies of the world to their knees.

The Monster from Norfolk

The Confederacy had taken the wreck of the scuttled Union frigate Merrimack and rebuilt her into something new and terrible. Her wooden upperworks were replaced with sloped iron plating, her masts and sails torn away, her decks armed with heavy guns. She was rechristened the CSS Virginia.

On March 8, 1862, she steamed into Hampton Roads and wreaked havoc. She rammed and sank the USS Cumberland and set the USS Congress aflame. Union cannonballs bounced off her armored hull like raindrops off a roof. Wooden ships—once kings of the seas—suddenly looked like toys. That day, the Southern ironclad had the entire Union fleet on its heels.

Enter the Monitor

But the Confederacy didn’t count on what was waiting just over the horizon. That night, after the Virginia had returned to port to prepare for another assault, a strange craft slipped quietly into Hampton Roads. She looked like a cheese box on a raft—low to the water, with a single revolving turret and almost no freeboard. She was the Union’s answer to the ironclad threat: the USS Monitor.

On March 9, the two titans met—iron against iron. For four hours, they battered one another at close range. The Monitor circled, firing from her revolving turret. The Virginia pressed in, trying to ram or land a crippling blow. Shells clanged off armor, smoke boiled over the water, but neither ship could land a fatal shot.

The Battle Ends, but the World Has Changed

By afternoon, both vessels were damaged, their crews exhausted. The Virginia withdrew to Norfolk. The Monitor, too, pulled back. The battle was a tactical draw, but a strategic revolution. The age of the wooden warship was over. From that point forward, no navy worth its salt would build another man-of-war without iron.

For me, as a career officer who had come up under sails and fought in the War of 1812, it was a startling thing to behold. But I was not afraid of change. I respected boldness, and the Monitor was bold indeed.

A New Era of War at Sea

The Battle of Hampton Roads wasn’t just a duel between two ships—it was a clash of eras. The old way of naval war—graceful ships-of-the-line, the wind in the sails, wooden hulls splintering in broadsides—that world vanished in a single day.

From then on, speed, armor, steam, and machinery ruled the waves.

When I led my own fleet into Mobile Bay two years later, I faced mines—then called torpedoes—and rebel ironclads of my own. But I remembered the lessons of Hampton Roads: to press forward with purpose, to trust in innovation, and to never be caught standing still.

Final Thoughts from the Deck

Some say tradition is everything at sea. I say adaptation wins wars.

The Monitor and Virginia didn’t just fight for control of a harbor—they fought for the future of naval warfare. And they handed us a new kind of war: a war of steel, steam, and smoke, where the bravest captains must lead not from the quarterdeck, but from behind iron walls and turning gears.

The sea has always favored the bold. At Hampton Roads, we saw just how bold the future would be.

The Anaconda Plan: Strangling the Rebellion: Told by Admiral David Farragut

When the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter in April of 1861, most Americans imagined a swift and decisive conflict. But those of us with salt in our blood knew better. The South was not some disorganized mob—it had ports, shipyards, rivers, and miles of coastline to exploit. The Confederacy might have lacked factories and foundries, but it had access to the world through the sea. And if we were going to win this war, we had to cut them off—inch by inch, harbor by harbor.

Winfield Scott’s Serpent

That’s where the Anaconda Plan came in.

General Winfield Scott, old and wise from years of service, proposed the idea: instead of charging straight at the Confederate armies, the Union would surround and suffocate the South like a great snake, cutting off its ability to trade, resupply, or reinforce. The Navy would blockade every Southern port—from Virginia to Texas—while the Army moved down the Mississippi River, splitting the Confederacy in two.

At first, the plan was mocked. People wanted fast victories and dramatic battles. But I understood the wisdom in Scott’s thinking. You don’t win a war like this with bravado alone—you win it with patience, steel, and strategy.

Blockades Begin: A Long, Watery Front

The task of establishing the blockade fell to the U.S. Navy, and it was no small job. The Southern coastline stretched over 3,500 miles, with dozens of inlets, rivers, and hidden coves where blockade runners might slip through. At the war’s start, we didn’t have nearly enough ships to cover it all—but we built quickly.

I watched our fleets stretch outward from Hampton Roads, around Charleston, down past Savannah, through the Florida Keys, and into the Gulf of Mexico. Every port was a pressure point—and we meant to tighten the noose.

Some of the fiercest Confederate resistance came in the Mississippi River region, where I would later lead the attack on New Orleans, the South’s busiest port. But even before my fleet steamed up the river, smaller squadrons were already pressing the Confederacy at sea, capturing blockade runners and cutting off supplies.

Choking Off the Lifeline

The effect of the blockade wasn’t immediate, but it was devastating over time. The South had counted on trading cotton for weapons, ammunition, and goods from Europe. With each passing month, their ports fell quiet, their warehouses emptied, and their people felt the hunger of isolation.

Ships from Britain and France tried to break through, some disguised, some fast and low in the water. We hunted them relentlessly. Every captured schooner or burned blockade runner wasn’t just a tactical win—it was a blow to the Southern economy and morale.

We tightened the ring slowly, but with purpose. Mobile, Wilmington, Charleston—each stronghold would eventually feel the pressure.

The Anaconda Squeezes Tight

By 1863 and 1864, the Anaconda Plan was in full effect. The Mississippi had been taken, cutting the Confederacy in two. My own victory at Mobile Bay in 1864 further sealed the fate of the Gulf ports. Only a few stubborn cities held out, and even they were starved of the supplies they needed to continue.

No cotton out. No powder in. That’s how you end a war of attrition.

Reflections from the Flagship

Some men like to charge headfirst into battle and call it courage. I respect that. But war is also about endurance—and the blockade was a test of naval discipline and quiet strength. It didn’t earn headlines like Gettysburg or Shiloh, but it won the war just the same.

Bottom of Form

“On Duty and Honor”: A conversation between Jackson and Grant

Jackson: Brother Grant, I have long wished for such a moment—where sword and rifle are set aside, and we speak as soldiers, not as enemies.

Grant: General Jackson, I’ll admit, I never expected to find myself in friendly conversation with the man who made the Shenandoah Valley a Union general’s worst nightmare. But yes—there’s value in looking back, if we do it with honesty.

Jackson: Then let us speak plainly. The early days of the war were… uncertain. Men were green, commands unclear, and the politicians thought it would be over in weeks. But you and I knew better. War is not swift. It is grinding.

Grant: That’s true. Take Fort Donelson—they said it was a fortress. Turned out to be a trap for them. I demanded unconditional surrender because I wanted no confusion. No delay. Just as I imagine you meant to strike with full force when you moved through the Valley.

Jackson: Indeed. Speed and surprise were my constant companions. I believed—still do—that an army in motion is far more dangerous than one entrenched. I struck where they thought I was retreating. I moved when they expected me still. But you, Grant… you didn’t care much for maneuver. You moved forward—always forward.

Grant: Smirks I wasn’t a flashy general. I didn’t care much for parades or speeches. I found the enemy and kept pressure on him. At Shiloh, the first day nearly broke us. But I wasn’t going to pull back. The next morning, I ordered a counterattack and drove them off the field.

Jackson: You held. That much I respect. I must confess, I studied your movements with great interest. Your resolve reminded me of my own at First Manassas, when we held the line on Henry House Hill. They called me “Stonewall” after that day. I never asked for the name, but I bore it as a reminder that soldiers must stand when others fall.

Grant: You earned that name, and earned the respect of even your enemies. But let me ask you, General—did you ever doubt your cause?

Jackson: (Pauses) I served Virginia first. My allegiance was to my state, and I believed our people had the right to govern themselves. But I also prayed often—for wisdom, for mercy. I hated war’s destruction. What about you? You were quiet about politics.

Grant: Always was. I didn’t care for speeches. I just wanted the Union preserved. Once I saw what secession meant—disunion, rebellion, slavery still in chains—I knew we had to fight. Not out of hatred, but out of duty. You and I may have disagreed on the cause, but we both did our duty, and we led our men with discipline.

Jackson: Agreed. Discipline. Devotion. And unwavering purpose. On that, we were of one mind. And I daresay, if we had served together on the same side, we might have made quite a pair.

Grant: Chuckles lightly The war would’ve ended a lot faster, that’s for sure.

(They Both Grow Quiet)

Jackson: The Lord has judged us both, I believe. But I hope history remembers not just what we fought for, but how we fought—with honor, with conviction, and for the men beside us.

Grant: That’s what mattered in the end. The cause lives in books, but the character—that lives in the lives of the men who followed us, and in what kind of peace we left behind.

Jackson: Then let us leave this memory in peace, General Grant.

Grant: With respect, General Jackson.