I’m trying to show by the juxtaposition that there’s some connection between my “French Connection” terrorized-life from Longfellow Avenue in the Bronx to the Tombstone, Arizona, near the U.S. “milint,” by this
detail from my 1976 Army discharge paper, DD-214, mentioning my enlistment address, that that is sure to be more than coincidental, going from Longfellow to Schieffelin, then I’d had no real option but to join the Army as a way of surviving after high school graduation in 1973.
The Schieffelins in NY were one of E.L. “the father of petroleum” Drake’s first customers for the new oil product, in 1860.
8/27. Looking into Rabbi Loew I notice the Polish town Salinger was in was in his areas, viz the Golem.
On the right here obviously looks like Rockefeller, Jr., famous back then, but on the left I’m thinking that maybe that looks like Wm. Randolph Hearst and I’d have to then check all about him. The only thing I understand about Hearst the newspaper-chain king is that he was more or less the subject of that Orson Welles film, Citizen Kane, but I’d have to check because I don’t know what he’d looked like himself, just that Marion Davies love affair story, Xanadu/Hearst Castle somewhere on the southern California coast, and that “Rosebud” was actually about that the base of this system is actually, jism-oriented that it is, homosexual, that that’s what the name of that sled had “really” been about, is what I figure. Here they might have been discrediting Aimee Semple McPherson’s feminism, setting a trauma at age 36 into the future-brains of all her little ovary “seeds” that they were planning to get, maybe, by that kidnaping to right near where the Fort Huachuca has been since before the 1880 founding of Tombstone. I haven’t looked into this too much and notice that here she looks maybe like Loretta Lynn, and other photos she looks blonde. — A senator for Arizona recalls both Cybill Shepherd and another female to my mind and that set me to trying to figure where they’d have come from and I thought I’d check Ms. Semple McPherson but it seems she only had blonde hair some of the time, me trying to learn about Arizona for this. Then however Ms. S.P.’s kidnapping really was a big deal and it’s odd that she’d been held captive here where I’m — sort of having to — get to now, due to this Mountain View-Sierra Vista correlation. JDRockefeller Jr. had passed in Tucson, 1960 I think. There’d been some scandal with some relative’s marrying a maid who said there were problems with their cabin somewhere out around there and the book about that had disappeared from the desk and then the library before I could read it.
I’ll be trying to fit Thomas Huxley and then Alexander “Boss” Shepherd to here, as these all look related and then also to my specific difficulties with this Armageddon business, but also “Boss” Shepherd wound up working not necessarily all that far south of the “Tombstone” area in Arizona, that I’d have to try to learn more about his mining in Mexico. Maybe I can get that shot of the odd book cover photo of Thomas Huxley’s grandson Aldous, that’s the same sort of the Armageddon difficulty-set personage, and then he’d lived just south of Muroc AFB, the whole desertified area of the continent seems to keep be spreading, making it seem maybe like the Gobi-situation.
8/31/19, Sat., The LURE is killing me and I’ve got too much to try to get done in this one last day till the “holiday” forced 2 days without being able to do much of any effort on this, etc. This little puzzle piece isn’t really meant to be humorous, but I stuck it here because it comes up so much with the Autism and I’m trying to work on it, but this Cybill Shepherd thing is getting worse as I’m looking into it, that she seems from another of the Ghent Altarpiece-era victim types, that those captive females that I think I’m connected to, that other one is the Sybil of Cunae and I don’t recall which prophet or what that is with her and will have to go try to dig all that up while I’ve also got some wild goose chase for info. connected to the “Boss Shepherd” historical character too and all kinds of things to try to go look up and do for my own self’s getting out of this LURE-torture, that it’s getting beyond beyond.
— Wiki says it’s prophet Micah and the Cumaean Sybil.
The set that seems like my imprisonment is the prophet Zechariah and the Erythraean Sibyl. Notice that she’s wearing a turban — it’s so bad that I think the system had gotten turban-wearing from that lady’s sincere attempts to keep papers intact, keep them safe wrapped under there, and they just stole that idea like everything else from her, etc., that then maybe even she’s pregnant and the “666” line of the brats was from that.
I had to move this from above because it’s so bad, what the system makes of Harlow’s having a red head: — I’ll try to get back and explain this tomorrow. — I’m back but it’s the or a short day of the week and I’m swamped with things to look up and the usual difficulties, and thinking of just moving this to down by Elvis as I try to get the Rabbi Loew, pronounced “Lev” somehow, image, and that one of Aldous Huxley from the cover of “Huxley Recollected” or Re-Collected, like he was a/the Frankenstein’s monster put together, and one other thing floating on my mind somewhere, that scene from a John Steinbeck story where some guy tells the Pirate in a trailer, shows him, how to — and I couldn’t finish reading it then and haven’t been able to go through all those Steinbeck stories to be able to find the scene again, where the guy showed the Pirate that you could decapitate a cherubic child and they would just keep smiling through it, and maybe some other image-photo to go look for and maybe find now but also I’d sent out a copy of this post yesterday without putting the warning to not show it to anyone else, I’m so afraid of these “magic”-parasites’ manipulation of all these mass-reproduced peoples they’ve made, etc. — Oh yeah, the people I forgot to say that this blog-address is only for them, not to spread it around, are Tombstone people.
Sept. 3, 2019, bad one.
I’m thinking the Abscam scandal’s Mel Weinberg had gotten this honorary Texas citizenship for enabling hidden-camera pornography, the Abscam off of me then started up later. The caption reads, “Weinberg (right) in Austin, Texas, on March 3, 1971, receiving an honorary Texas Citizenship from Lieutenant Governor Ben Barnes (left). (from “The Stingman,” by Robert. W. Greene, Elsevier-Dutton, NY, 1981.)
I have alot of checking to do on many different subjects but they all always seem to be inter-connected and amount to this same TOTAL PLANET EXTINCTION “difficulty” I’ve gotten saddled alone with. Cybill Shepherd was in north Texas and everything about her life is seeming to have been all set up behind her back like I’ve got, and then it seems like this Mel Weinberg “American Hustle” star-character was doing the same hidden-camera underworld ejaculo-people-manufacturing petroleum brain-eating masterminding similarly to her. Bad day this. — They’re giving me all kinds of difficulties. I guess that this Abscam-Weinberg was convolu-connected to the horror-film and petroleum industries, with the horror-film convolu-connected somehow to Warren Buffett, the whole world getting tied-up like that, pornography-crime and petroleum and film and this people-manufacturing and money. Plus I found an historical character nicknamed the swine that I’ll have to try to get back around and behind of somehow with my limited abilites on this search-engine, to where I’d seen an illustration that was loosely-connected to the first illustrations of native Americans and I’m looking for that but it’s so so obscure and I likely won’t be able to find another copy of it but will be spending “gobs” of my time here trying to anyway. I’m pretty sure it was credited to the well-known early illustrator named John White. He’s real famous, but in some other book I’d seen one or two extra pictures and I think his name was also on those and they’re not anywhere to be found now but whatever the details it’s important, and then I’m all convolu-wrapped up with that it probably goes back around to the ancestry of Ms. Shepherd, in real life, which is nearly impossible for me to keep separate from this “the swine” devil riding me’s warping any-/everything to their Armageddon or world-takeover/world-ownership, like right now they’ve got a plant doing a routine right into my left ear. They have manufactured so so many people and they just like to order people around, give orders under the guise of giving film directing -type directions, — I’m drowning in s***-throwup quicksand today after the phony “holiday” has been endured with all this sabotage on me (”little’ me.”) They have me mass-deleting these cellphone gmail items I feel like must have been put back onto there after the last time I’d done this one-by-one deleting them because the cellphone can only hold so much and then the gmail goes out of service, and I’m trying to get this illustration of a Roger Corman film through, that these things are all inter-connected. The system does anything, feels it has monopoly on anything, that has to do with “seeing,” everything about images, pictures, eyesight even, any of that they think belongs to their “portion” of the earth, that they want. But it isn’t this image of the Roger Corman film that they’re holding up letting the image-send to here get through about, it’s that I’d taken some other photos over the days off that they’re arranged for making a big deal off of. It’s too complex for me, and also I’m not good at photography so I’d taken at least 30 shots of what will wind up to be just a few that I’ll have to bring up here eventually and I guess “the bums” are prepared to make a big deal over that planted-subject that’d be bound to come up eventually so now it’s come up but doesn’t have anything to do with this other subject except that it’s all the same system, and none of it has to do with the drone-work of trying to find that John White illustration that I probably won’t be able to find again anywhere but will keep looking for, all my time frittered away all the time, holy horror, etc., all the time, and about nothing, just simple, Get off of other people, not even that, only a four-word description, Leave other people alone, “Get off of me!” it also could only come down to, me as a prime example that’s underneath you right now, get off of me, simplicity to this that in place of simplicity these goons are forcing TOTAL PLANET EXTINCTION off of as they just want to not have anyone but themselves in charge of everything, not any nature-God-Creator, nothing except themselves as nature-God etc. — This should probably go down where I’ve started that file on how they’ve been reprising the different phases of this Armageddon-off of me, that Bath Beach post below. I wrecked this Infinite Jest2 post in putting this Mel Weinberg announcement-attempt that I really think he’d “hooked up” to have hidden-camera pornography taken of Cybill — whose name I’m afraid of too along with the “superstitition” about using so much of the language that they’ve sabotaged, both the words sibyl and shepherd being like things the system thinks it owns. And it brings up the subject of Roanoke, Virginia, where people had disappeared right off when this part of the world got “discovered.” John White had left people on Roanoke island and when he came back in 1580 they couldn’t be found but now I’m reading about this that also this sea caption nicknamed the swine then wouldn’t let any of White’s group get back onto the ship for where they’d been headed, just pausing to check on Roanoke is what I’m reading now, and then that first baby born here, Virginia Dare, was his grandchild and I think she’d wound up disappearing then again the same way the first group had, so that is all kinds of “drone work” I’ll have to be going through as I’m only trying to locate this lovely simple illustration I’d seen. Right now I’m waiting to try to get some of these lovely simple gmails through.
This isn’t one of those, this is pasted from Wikipedia, PD: 1585 map of the east coast of North America from the Chesapeake Bay to Cape Lookout by John White. == That that’s an enormous area, like half of both the Virginia and North Carolina coasts, around 250 miles by land, from Newport News, VA to Cape Lookout, NC. Then that’s Roanoke Island about in the middle there. When I was trying to figure out all this about the many different “native” American tribes and early history here I’d somehow come across 2 books with John White’s (famous) illustrations in them except that one book had also had these other 1 or 2 illustrations, like a tribe of blonde-seeming females sitting around a barber-pole type Maypole with all flowers around everything and a couple of “discoverers” talking to one or 2 of the males with all those blonde-seeming females, my recollection of the picture/s only a little vague and I had gotten busied with trying to trace where those pictures’ originals could be found, who they are copyrighted to, where they had come from, etc. Then I’d probably gotten “bopped” off the subject by coming down with that “slug-pneumonia” like the system’s been bearing down on me for getting again for the past 10 days or so lately that I’ve been real nervous about being caused to become ill-sick again lately, to right now it’s always a running theme that this library is too cold-temperatured for me and then that chill works with how the system gets these “slug” bugs to form in my insides, that I can come in here okay-healthy but my innards get cold and I’ll be coughing-up green slugs by the end of the day if I’m not careful to keep myself fed well enough, have to be careful not to let myself get run down. Because then what they’ve running-theme been doing all these decades is then saying I spread “flu” colds that get unsuspecting masses of normal people “Armageddoned,” really is one of their standard tricks all these decades, that being homeless I can’t do much about staying indoors away from other people till I get well again, I have to go out and to a library every day, there isn’t any other place that I can go, etc., some of this millennial-scam off of the old Abscam scam has been being perpetrated by. Then that partner of Weinberg’s, John Good, he has a brother near here, not far from Archer City being my point, that I think looks like alot of those guys involved, like a big stereotype-push off of the petroleum industry’s usual company I mention besides the American Standard, etc.
— I found it, a drawing of it…. skip the word “drawing” though, the LURISTS use it alot.
I’ll be right back:
While I’m looking into that one could read this LegendsOfAmerica dot com/fl-fountainyouth/ that looks pretty good.
René Goulaine de Laudonnière and Jean Ribault; then they’ve got Hernando de Soto mixed in there too somehow, all to somehow be checked out by me. Why do I think those are a blonde people kept a secret….
My photograph didn’t come out, I’ll have to do it again, cropped too much off the top where there’s some little “mess” up on the very top there and I thought I’d gotten it — maybe I hadn’t thought it over enough yet but I did over the weekend then in conjunction with this other “mess” I’m gotten into, and putting the 2 similar things together and then seeing an illustration of a pineapple somewhere I came to the conclusion that that’s what this headdress is supposed to be represent-symbolizing, a pineapple, and then it comes down in a veil you can barely notice here, a veil down to her shoulders. Then I just stuck this “A New World” thing I’d found while working on this other subject and it happens to have a depiction of a pineapple in it so it reminded me to find this from when I’d sent it before the “holiday” weekend that this had been. What it means is that this lady and then probably also the other sibyl from the front or closed view of the medicine-cabinet or cupboard-like Ghent Altarpiece, that these ladies had come to Ghent from the New World, ta-da. They were prisoners and still are
That brings me back around to this “the swine” sea captain. His name was Simon Fernandes, from Terceira in the Azores and went to school in Seville, big subject I was trying to look into when I noticed this pineapple together with that they’re native to here. Fernandes brought John White for the second trip but wouldn’t let him go anywhere except to where the first trip had been to, and all this is a whole big section of history that I’d have to coordinate with from say “Columbus,” that story, to Ponce de Leon, who I think is a big key to untangling all of this people-manufacturing, him and then his son as governors of Puerto Rico, and the Longfellow “French Connection” Avenue Bronx neighborhood I was raised in was mostly Puerto Rico so I figure it’s all linked, and then, “coincidentally” now here’s this all inter-linked business with the actress etc. Cybill — plus, guess who gets to try also to look into Washington DC and Mexico’s Boss Shepherd, me, me who’s thinking he’s of that “666” type and then it comes up that he went and did to northern Mexico what he’d just done to Washington, circa 1880. And then I’ve got less than an hour left here today and I get all invisibly-tortured in the intervening hours and lucky if I make it back to here and the negativity and hostilities all around poor little me are unreal but I can’t do anything about it because after I can get the “emergency” historical look-ups done I have always got trying to find assistance for getting me out of this LURE-trap I’m in because I can’t make it through another winter like this. Really I’d like, besides trying to get to Arizona because of all this, to alternatively go to Puerto Rico to do this learning about Ponce de Leon’s time et al., and the concept of half-dead me’s trying to get there is absurd, but I can’t go to Arizona if I can’t make a real-life contact there and I have to go somewhere because Houston’s too cold for me. Etc. First chance I get I’m going to try to put this post back like I’d had it and put today’s jotting like this down under the post where I’ve got the Chandra & Levy business, that this is just like a continuation of all that syndrome-set of this invisible-torture and trying to look up things and write letters for toward getting me assistance out of this and if I could get out of it then I could work on trying to get Earth out of this etc. But this what I’m doing is, under the swine, really, under all of the evil in the world.
I don’t think I even noted which book I’d found this from, that I only used the library catalog to find that main recent book on John White and then I clicked for the link to similar works with John White and then it popped up, I think it’s just another book in the downtown library that I’ll be able to go back and find the call number for, maybe right now while I’m thinking of it, but I will quick-note that there -was a caution somewhere that the authenticity of this is suspect, and I’d had some suspicion about the subject of Le Moyne/LeMoyne at all too. However, I think it’s possible this is a kept-hidden piece, and also there’s that I thought I’ve seen this in color somehow. I suspect that these people were all sneak-enslaved. That Ghent Altarpiece Sibyl of Cumae might have come from here and the other one from Egypt, possibly. Then I’d get around to naming the “intelligence” fort Holabird, that’s then moved to Arizona since 1971. That coast of Maryland and then Delaware and now I’m noticing North Carolina is real suspicious, and of course how Florida seems taken over by the system. I was nearly killed when I’d “escaped” to there in early 2018, like followed around by Hells Angels-looking old guys who seem the same stereotype I’d mentioned elsewhere recently reminds me of the leader who’d taken over from Anton LaVey, that I see that stereotype all over the place, thinking they come from Marcus Samuel, and before Samuel possibly Henry the decapitating-wives 8th, but they were especially right there when I got to Florida and I was sort of invisibly bludgeoned till hospitalized. I’ve not any idea what would have happened with that hospital bill. I’m always in one sort of an emergency or another, haven’t been able to check on the 2015 car-hit let alone that bizarre hospitalization to Flagler Hospital, I only wanted to get out of there but I couldn’t find housing and the “magic” wouldn’t let me sleep till I was just unable to do much but lay on the ground trying to get rest and being all eaten up by these disgusting ants or what these things are, I call them cannibal-ants, that bite, teeny-tiny things, that they seem related to some similar kind of teeny-tiny spider also, maybe inter-breeds of things the system invents to annoy humans to death by, spreads them around to places they don’t want humans to be. First time I’d noticed them was on an odd sculpture-bench in Washington, right on Constitution Avenue outside the National Gallery of Art and up the street a little toward the Capitol, a round sculpture in the middle of the street or what it is. I’d run out to get away from “tricks” being played on me at the nearby shelter and make notes on them and then you have to find a place to sit in order to be able to make notes and I guess they don’t want anyone sitting there and I was getting annoyed by some biting little itchy thing so I left but they stayed in the clothes I put in the locker probably, that “the jew” knows they’re there and won’t let them die, it’s some regular scam, then you get these little cobwebs that are barely cobwebs, just filmy things to wipe away, that those make. Houston is full of those and these similarly-small cannibal-ants and I think that the 2 places just don’t want the sort of people that would lay down on grass so they sprinkle around these annoyance-bugs and it irritates me every day as the ants crawl on your feet any time you’re just standing near some grass and I’m always walking to and from these bus stops, etc., the goon-circus. In any Natural Order of Life those things wouldn’t be allowed by mothers because they’d get onto babies, they have to go, but the system seems to think of parasites as being fertility-fetishes, really, cockroaches, ants, probably flies too, they think that those quick-reproducers bring good luck to the people-manufacturing they’re trying to do so they’ve filled the world with these parasites, like themselves. (So) I’m thinking that the one Sibyl, of Cumae, which I’d have to look up again where that is. I’d guess it’s in Italy. It’s near Naples. The search-engine doesn’t bring up the Ghent Altarpiece one by that name but people I think only make guesses about most of those names, maybe. That St. Christopher is working though, where there’s even a picture across the street from here of one of them with a kid holding a see-through “crystal” or soap bubble ball. Today is over with, I didn’t get to the library catalog, but now that I know it’s a LeMoyne that’ll be a start for whenever I can get to it, likely tomorrow since I’m intrigued that those might have been a kept-secret people, with Ponce de Leon and all the other gold-seekers around that time.
[Sept. 5] Some things I have to get onto learning about:
I’m thinking that the boy looks like Shepherd and that Shepherd seems a real suspicious character for what that move to Mexico was all about, right south a good bit from where the “milint” all is now for us. I think Shepherd is the “Pill-grim boy/666” type, what I call the “Shahan/666” type. Then these guys manufacture all these excess people illicitly and leave them on the populace, the same way as these dogs that bit me last night were available as weapons then against me, and this kid being from some E. European country and more or less just wandering around, probably the same syndrome then as with the 1980 ambush of Reagan by John Hinckley, and many of these similar violence-horrors, that these “system-guys/brain-eaters” leave all these orphans all over the place, and the fraud-family I come from the system’s been specifically mass-manufacturing some of those genes for “security” roles all over the place, for goons, strongarm-goon types and paid “security” of any kinds.
I’m out of the hospital but EVERYTHING is worse, realizing about this longtime world-takeover
John Wesley Powell, 1834-1902, a Me-kill-angelo type, co-conspirator with Alex. Graham Bell, 1847-1922, et al., maybe “Boss” Shepherd, 1835 WDC – 1902 Batopilas, MX; ck John Doyle Lee, 1812-1877, UT — Also Joseph Henry 1791 Albany, NY- 1878 WDC, of the Smithsonian and then likely Thomas Huxley had “come from” him, 1825 London- 1895 Eastborne= across from Calais, Fr., and he was the “grandparent” of Aldous Huxley of this Brave New World time-period they conspired us into and own everything in now.
Also I should try to coordinate William James of that The Metaphysical Club book of around the turn of the millennium, around 2001 it was published, I’ll look to re-scan a copy of it, that they were all involved with the “Transcendentalists” and that’s that all of those people in that time-period over here were busy busy high on the “Limitless” serotonin-from brains of people availability and as “Limitless” self-believers high on it they’d set this country up to be a nonstop supply-ground for themselves, “The Dark Fields” limitlessness for their next generations but I’m trying to explain that that was before the moon-landing showed that they don’t really know or care what they’re talking about, they just feel real good high on other people’s serotonin and the “Michelangelo” type is just always has been insane with their “Metaphysical Club” back in the so-called Trojan times had gotten together. The hospital stay was an in-retrospect nightmare as I’m kept surrounded by these system-types until it’s obvious that they are everyone anymore. I had 2 male doctors that look nothing alike but they appear to be from the same basic “Jomon” root as on the Ghent Altarpiece, you wouldn’t ever guess that they had much of anything in common but they have most everything in common, differ very little as far as the takeover-Plan thinking goes. The other main thing I realized was that these “fraud-parent types” are likely typified in those Easter Island or some similar huge statues whose title I can’t recall offhand but I’ll go looking for examples. — It isn’t the Easter ones, the Olmec giant heads are what I was thinking of, I’ll have to research them next time I can get back, check to try to figure out what they were about, if they were actually natives or if they were for “fetishes” like-things to brings like-things to there, on the Gulf of Mexico. In the meantime, everything is worse than I could recall this’s being about, that it’s much further gone, but that’s in large part from all these years of the system’s living off of me like this. I still haven’t gotten the email with the photos of me from the fraud-sibling, that I think it was last March, or April, that I’d requested this matching photo-set from just before the phonied-faked little “Kindergarten” picture of me at age 4, that that was a big set up and so the photo-session 2 or 3 days before that was sneak-taken from me must have been part of the set up but the fraud-sibling won’t let me get a look at the photo-set in a box at her house, send a copy by email to me, and I’ve nearly died twice since requesting those as evidence for myself here, that these “Jomon” just took hold of my life as a 4-year old they could get advantage of and they’re still doing it and used me for this Armageddon all these decades, etc.
try to check these links to Tau-Gu….
19 September, 2019 20:43 (cellphone-send:) I’m back in the hospital but it’s all worse than can be described. If you are one of the people I gave a URL-chit to please call or come by 3B-198 to tell me what this blog looks like on your screen; no one ever has in these 4 years of my trying to upload to describe that the system comes from “pointless” insane parasites, taking us to trashed-away eternity, etc., etc.
I’ll have to read this right away before they sue for copyright infringement or devil’s somesuch.
Disunion follows the Civil War as it unfolded.
The Battle of Shiloh began at sunrise on April 6, 1862 — the Sabbath — as 45,000 Confederate soldiers swooped down on an unsuspecting Union army encamped at Pittsburg Landing, a nondescript hog-and-cotton steamboat dock on the Tennessee River. What followed were two of the bloodiest days of the Civil War, leaving 24,000 men on both sides dead, dying and wounded.
When it was over the nation — two nations as it were, for the moment — convulsed, horrified, at the results. A great battle had indeed been anticipated; at stake was control of the Mississippi River Valley, which would likely decide who won the war. But the Battle of Shiloh was not the outcome that anyone wanted.
Beyond the grisly statistics, Americans north and south of the Mason-Dixon line were suddenly confronted with the sobering fact that Shiloh hadn’t been the decisive battle-to-end-all-battles; there was no crushing victory — only death and carnage on a scale previously unimaginable. The casualty figures at Shiloh were five times greater than its only major predecessor engagement, the Battle of Bull Run, and people were left with the shocking apprehension that more, and perhaps many more, such confrontations were in store before the thing was settled.
Among the many ironies of the battle is that its name was taken from a small chink-and-mortar Methodist chapel on the battlefield that had been christened after the Hebrew expression for “Place of Peace.” The building itself was hardly better than a respectable Tennessee corncrib, but it was a house of God and gave its name to the first of the great battles of the Civil War.
The fate of the armies was sealed in mid-March when Gen. Ulysses S. Grant’s 49,000 men began disembarking at Pittsburg Landing. Elsie Duncan Hurt was 9 years old at the time, a child of one of the area’s farmers. Her black nurse returned from the Landing one day with word that “there were strange steamboats on the river and Yankees camped in the hills.”
This news soon flashed to Corinth, Miss., a mere 20 miles to the south, where the renowned Confederate general Albert Sidney Johnston had gathered 45,000 rebel soldiers bound to the destruction of Yankee host invading Southern soil. At Johnston’s side was the dashing and magnificently named Louisiana Creole general Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, recently celebrated as the “hero” of Bull Run.
Noted as a master of strategy and tactics, Beauregard urged an immediate attack on Grant, who was awaiting the arrival of a second Union army marching overland from Nashville under Gen. Don Carlos Buell. When the two combined, they would constitute an irresistible force against any rebel army in the western theater.
Johnston also wanted to wait for another army, a 14,000-man force coming from Arkansas under Gen. Earl Van Dorn, but Beauregard persuaded him to strike at once, before Buell could arrive. Johnston told the Creole to draw up the attack order.
Confusion and disarray reigned from the outset. First came an appalling mix-up in the muddy streets of Corinth, where the 10,000-man corps of Gen. Leonidias Polk (a cousin of President James K. Polk and, until recently, the Episcopal bishop of Louisiana) was encamped with all of its wagons, animals and baggage.
For reasons unknown, Polk idiotically refused to march without a written order — which was still being composed — and it proved impossible for the other corps to move around him. At long last Polk shoved off, but the delay cost the Confederates precious time and prompted one of his officers to remark, “Polk had been in the cloth too long.”
The remainder of the march quickly turned into such a ceaseless military fiasco that it reminded an artillery captain “of the temple scene from ‘Orlando Furioso.’” A mighty rainstorm doused the countryside in floods and washed out roads. Men became lost during the night — whole regiments got lost, even guides got lost — and by dawn entire divisions were so hopelessly entangled that it became necessary to postpone the attack until April 6, perhaps a fatal error.
Meanwhile Grant’s army languished at Pittsburg Landing, supremely ignorant of the menace slowly lurching toward it.
The Yankee soldiers had not been told to fortify their positions — in fact they were ordered not to — which left them camping in the open like Boy Scouts, while daily instruction was given in close-order drill, weapons training and latrine building.
This lack of preparation against attack has never been satisfactorily explained. After the battle, Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman suggested that fortifying adversely affected the courage of the men, implying that if they dug in it would look like they were scared of the rebels. Both he and Grant maintained that since there were so many green, or untrained, volunteers in the army, the men’s time would be better spent learning military technique.
In any case, even as the attack was about to burst upon them, when Yankee officers in the most forward camps began reporting a strong enemy presence in their fronts, Sherman threatened to have them arrested for spreading false rumors.
On the morning of April 6, when these reports could no longer be ignored, Sherman crossly mounted and rode forward — just as the main Confederate battle line emerged from a hedge of trees. As he reached for his field glasses, a bullet struck his orderly in the head; the orderly toppled from his horse, dead. Sherman himself was hit in the hand and dashed off, shouting, “My God, we are attacked!”
All of this overshadowed an otherwise idyllic Sunday morning that had broken cool, bright and clear in the Yankee camps, where the men were finishing breakfast, polishing brass and leather or attending services. Orchards were in full flower, dogwoods were in bloom, the forest floor was carpeted with violets. A number of men recorded that a great many birds were singing in the trees, an ironic cacophony against the sudden spatter of gunfire.
The rebel army, together at last, presented a stirring and dismaying sight, as regiment after regiment, dressed in Confederate gray or butternut brown, emerged from the woods in three successive waves, each in a line two miles long. Banners waving, officers on horseback shouting orders, they marched in perfect order “as if they were on parade.” Sunlight glinted off their gun barrels and bayonets and their bands played “Dixie,” but above it all the bone-chilling Rebel Yell rose from tens of thousands of throats, nearly drowning out the music and the gunfire.
On they crashed forward through forest and field, preceded by a diaspora of frightened wildlife — bounding rabbits, leaping deer, whirring coveys of quail — while Union officers tried frantically to put their units into fighting order. Men, some of whom had only received their weapons the day before, were hastily shoved into a line of battle. Artillery batteries that had never fired a round were raced to the front, where they began blasting shot, shell, canister and grape into the surging enemy.
Among the first casualties was the rebel general Adley H. Gladden, a prominent New Orleans merchant and president of that city’s exclusive Boston Club. Leading a charge, he was blown from his horse by a cannonball that tore off his arm at the shoulder, mortally wounding him.
His opposite in the Union line was 38-year-old Col. Everett Peabody, a 6-foot-1, 240-pound, Massachusetts-born and Harvard-educated engineer commanding a Missouri volunteer regiment that bore the brunt of Gladden’s attack. He was struck by five bullets during the first two hours of fighting, buying time for the Yankee divisions in his rear, before a sixth slug shattered his skull, killing him.
All morning the Confederates drove the blue coats northward in a carnival of carnage that left the mutilated bodies of both sides strewn in heaps amid great heroism and equally great cowardice. An estimated 10,000 of Grant’s troops fled the fighting and hid under the bluffs by the river, while a number of rebel regiments were banished to the rear for timidity in battle.
Grant had arrived on the battlefield about 9 a.m. after a two-hour steamboat trip from the mansion where he’d been staying, nine miles downriver. It was an unfortunate and unfair stain on his reputation that, even years afterward, the lady of the house was called upon to testify that Grant was sober when he left the premises.
Thirty-nine years old, flawed, an indifferent West Point student, disgraced as an army officer, gossiped about as an alcoholic, a failed farmer and a failed businessman, Ulysses Grant had come to his command almost as a fluke. Only nine months earlier the Illinois governor had appointed him to take charge of a dissolute regiment of volunteers that he described as “a mob of chicken-thieves, led by a drunkard.”
Grant managed to whip these miscreants into shape so efficiently he was given two more troublesome regiments, which constituted a brigade. Under army regulations, such a command required a brigadier general, and thus the once-disgraced Grant suddenly found himself wearing the stars of a general officer in the United States Army.
Early on he had become friends with another flawed officer, Sherman, who had been publically accused of being both “timid” as well as “insane” and sent into military limbo before redeeming himself with the army during Grant’s push south. It was suggested that at Shiloh Sherman might have been overcompensating for the accusation of timidity by belittling the notion of a rebel attack.
The rebel onslaught continued unabated, and the Union front lines grudgingly collapsed as the Confederates pressed forward. Elsie Duncan Hurt remembered: “The fighting began at our gate just past the house. As the battle raged it got further away leaving dead men and dead horses behind.”
About midday the fighting coalesced around the Union center, at a scrubwood forest that became known as the Hornet’s Nest for the interminable bullets zinging through the air. It was bisected by an old wagon trail called the Sunken Road, where so many soldiers of both sides perished. Men who went through there next day said that such trees as remained standing were riddled with so many thousands of bullet holes they were astonished anyone, or anything, had survived it.
By mid-afternoon General Johnston was exceedingly pleased with the progress of his assault. The original intention was to drive the Yankees northwestward, into the boggy, moccasin-infested swamps of Snake and Owl Creeks, where they could be rounded up as prisoners. Now they were simply being driven backward — due north.
But the fortunes of war frowned on General Johnston that day. Acclaimed personally by Jefferson Davis as the Confederacy’s finest officer, Johnston was a perfect specimen of military prowess and acumen, and at 59, he was at the height of his career when the war broke out. He spurned an offer of high Union command to side with his native South and was put in charge of the Department of the West.
Even with the frequent bullet or cannonball whizzing overhead, and with death and destruction all around him, Johnston was in unabashedly good humor until word came from one of his corps commanders that a Tennessee brigade was refusing to fight. Shocked, he rode to the scene and shamed the Tennesseans by declaring that he would personally lead their charge. The attack was soon successful in taking a bloody Union strong point known as the Peach Orchard, amid a rain of bullet-clipped blossoms that fluttered down like snowflakes among the wounded, the dying and the dead.
Shattered refugees from both sides made their way nearby to the so-called Bloody Pond to bathe their wounds beneath an unspoken (and unauthorized) truce, as the savage fighting raged all around them.
Returning from his charge about 2 p.m., Johnston suddenly reeled in his saddle. When he was lowered from his horse it was discovered that a bullet had severed an artery behind his knee; within a few minutes he bled to death in his boot. In the rush of battle, he hadn’t even known he was hit. A doctor would have immediately stanched the wound with a tourniquet, but as luck would have it, Johnston had sent his doctor away to tend some wounded Yankee soldiers.
Command abruptly devolved on Beauregard, whose headquarters had moved forward near the Shiloh church where Sherman had been encamped. Following Johnston’s death a lull was said to have settled over the field for nearly an hour, which many Southerner’s blamed on Beauregard’s inaction. Nevertheless, as the afternoon wore on, the Confederates pressed nearer to Pittsburg Landing, the last Union stronghold.
The Hornet’s Nest finally collapsed between 5 and 6 p.m. with the mortal wounding of Union Gen. W.H.L. Wallace, a division commander, whose young wife, come to surprise him, was waiting on a steamboat at the landing. Shortly afterward came the capture of Union Gen. Benjamin Prentiss, along with the surrender of his entire division. As the sun cast its last, long shadows, it was beginning to look like the end for the federal army.
Good news came with the arrival of Buell, whose army would cross the river near sundown. It was not a moment too soon, for Grant’s army had begun to draw up for a last-ditch stand with its back to the miry wastes of Snake Creek. Gen. Braxton Bragg immediately ordered his corps to “Sweep everything forward.… Drive the enemy into the river.”
Grant’s adjutant had placed a battery of enormous siege guns in the Union line at that particular point, and the very shock of its fire drove the Confederates back. As Grant was observing these proceedings, a rebel cannonball blew the head off of one of his aides standing not 10 feet away.
Soon Bragg was sending out reinforcements, organizing another, final charge to break the Union line. Then he was staggered by orders from a messenger: Beauregard, unaware that Buell had arrived, had called off the attack till morning.
Bragg was convinced that even though some of Buell’s army was taking the field, one last great charge would split the line and the battle would be won. “My God!” Bragg cried, as he watched other rebel units pulling back. “Too late! My God! Too late!”
It was also too true. Beauregard, commanding from the Shiloh church nearly two miles from the present scene of battle, was unaware that Buell’s army was arriving. He believed only the remaining Yankees of Grant were milling around Pittsburg Landing like goats being prepared for the sacrifice and could be mopped up in the morning.
But with morning instead came one of the great reversals of the Civil War. Dawn brought an uproar of Union artillery and word that the Yankees were attacking all across the Rebel front. For half a day Beauregard put up a good fight, if for no other reason than he couldn’t think of anything better to do, but the odds were hopeless and his men were spent. At around 2 p.m. on April 7, Beauregard ordered a withdrawal back to the stronghold of Corinth.
That should have ended the matter, but instead the next day Sherman took a large force in pursuit until he ran into a man — Nathan Bedford Forrest — with whose name he would become well acquainted as the war progressed. At the Battle of Fallen Timbers on April 8, Forrest taught Sherman a lesson about the power of cavalry that he would not soon forget, and with that, the fighting at Shiloh came to an end.
There remained the repugnant task of burying the thousands of dead, as well as hundreds of dead horses. The butcher’s bill at Shiloh was just shy of 24,000 killed, wounded and missing, about evenly divided between both sides.
Nothing like it had ever happened in the Western Hemisphere. By comparison, the combined casualties at the Battle of Bull Run were 4,800. In fact, the two days fighting at Shiloh had produced more casualties than all the previous wars of the United States, combined.
Word soon got out to the Union public that Grant’s army had been surprised, that men were bayonetted to death in their tents while they slept, which was an exaggeration. The public was incensed to hear that an entire 8,000-man division never took the field on the terrible first day, which was true. (It belonged to Gen. Lew Wallace, who took the wrong road and would afterward write the novel “Ben Hur.”) There was also the shameful matter of the 10,000 of Grant’s soldiers who ran away.
In the press and in the halls of Congress Grant was censured for dallying in a mansion miles from the battlefield, for failing to fortify, or reconnoiter, or to even have a battle plan in case of attack, as well as failing to pursue and destroy the beaten Confederate army. Much of this sticks. But there were also accusations of drunkenness, indifference and sloth, which do not.
In Washington, a chorus arose for Grant’s removal, despite the fact that he had won the battle. Popular lore has it that when Grant was accused of drunkenness, Lincoln told the critics, “Then find out what kind of whiskey he drinks and send a barrel to my other generals.” There is no real evidence he ever said this, but there is evidence that he said of Grant: “I can’t spare that man. He fights.”
In the South there was widespread dismay over the outcome and over the death of Sidney Johnston. Late on the first day of battle Beauregard had foolishly sent a telegram to Richmond saying, “The day is ours!” Disappointment was palpable, and Davis wept bitterly over Johnston’s death — they had been at West Point together. He never forgave Beauregard for calling off the attack.
The significance of Shiloh cannot be overstated. If the Union had lost badly, there would have been practically nothing standing in the way of a Southern invasion of the North. Cities like St. Louis, Cincinnati, Chicago, even Cleveland, would have been exposed. Almost certainly Kentucky would have joined the Confederacy — and probably Missouri as well, a calamity for the Union. Southern states would have rallied and recruits poured in. Lincoln would have had to shift his armies to counter the threat, upsetting the military and political balance at the most critical time.
None of that happened, of course. But a very real and important result of the battle was that after Shiloh Grant reached the stark conclusion that the only way to restore the Union would be the total conquest — or in his words, “subjugation” — of the South. Sherman had understood this long before Shiloh and began to indulge his soon-to-be well-known pyromaniacal urges along the Mississippi River near Memphis.
But the overarching significance of Shiloh was to impress on everyone that there was never going to be one neat, brilliant, military maneuver that would end the war — or even come close to winning it. It was as if Shiloh had unleashed some tremendous, murderous thing that was going to “drench the country in blood,” as Sherman had prophesied on the eve of secession.
From the ordinary foot soldiers’ point of view, they had “seen the elephant,” as the expression of the day went. For many it was so terrible that they ran and hid behind the bluffs. It was terrible for others too, but they stood their ground and faced it, or died trying. None of them who went through Shiloh would be the same again.
Confederate private Sam Watkins of the First Tennessee summed it up in his countrified elegance: “I had been feeling mean all morning, as if I had stolen a sheep … I had heard and read of battlefields, seen pictures of battlefields, of horses and men, of cannons and wagons, all jumbled together, while the ground was strewn with dead and dying and wounded, but I must confess I never realized the ‘pomp and circumstance’ of the thing called ‘glorious war’ until I saw this.”
Winston Groom is the author, most recently, of “Shiloh, 1862.” Photo by Squire Fox.
“Kindergarten” = 0119_001.pdf ck
from the “Kindergarten” 1975 Compton’s Encyclopedia article, with the photo credit to YMHA nursery school or some such, this 1959/’60 photo sneak-tricked off of me, uncomfortable standing there waiting for the photographer to move along as I hadn’t agreed to a personal portrait photo, just that I was also in the room they’d seemed to be doing some newspaper story on.
I’m going to have to either hide this mess or leave it like this till tomorrow. — I’ve hidden it, really exhausted; never been so demoralized, sadism thriving everywhere over nothing but lies and doo-doo, unreal, but I have to take a break for today now anyway… after being trashed all month like leaving a few minutes early on my part is noteworthy or anything, etc. Here I’m going to try to work around that I can’t get the copy of the actual “rehearsal” photo-set for then that set-up “Kindergarten” photo credited to the ymha, which I’d thought stood for Housing Authority when I’d found it circa 1996. But I think I’ll try to go ahead with what my concept there is, that way back 1959/60 these same “global-system ‘magicians'” had started this living off of tiny little me process! Then they’re so without anything going for themselves that that’s just grown by leaps and bounds and they’re jumping up and down all over me for decades and getting worse now, keeping all this all covered up, etc. Mas manana.
— 28 Sept., I didn’t get far with much yet, everything is really horrible, and then tomorrow’s Sunday. Big deal for getting to try to research a little on that satanism crap, but the reference book that I was looking for that mentions it can’t be found anymore somehow, I’d been looking to check a specific book and it isn’t on the catalog, a book that mentioned that old business with p&g is how I’d noticed it and otherwise it’d just be looking up that subject for the sake of doing this “research” so maybe I won’t. I am so lonely.