Good Stories Make up Good Chapters, Which Make up Good Books

Over the course of forty years or so, I’ve read and reread books on the American Civil War by Shelby Foote and Bruce Catton. For this ten-year reading plan, I wanted to branch out and find some other authors worth visiting over and over. One of my happy discoveries has been Steven E. Woodworth. In rereading just now my post from two years ago on Woodworth’s While God Is Marching On, I was reminded about some disappointing features early in that book. But right now I’m reading his history of the Union Army of the Tennessee, entitled Nothing but Victory, and I’m happy to report that none of the problematic tendencies of the earlier book show up here.

It is odd to read an account focusing on just one of the several armies that the United States deployed in that war; the tightly defined subject matter creates some interesting differences in the way some familiar stories are told. The Battle of Lookout Mountain, for instance (the so-called “Battle Above the Clouds”), is barely mentioned, in just one sentence, having been conducted, as far as the northern forces were concerned, by Joseph Hooker leading the Army of the Cumberland. On the other hand, the accompanying Battle of Missionary Ridge (begun by the Army of the Tennessee, both struggles being part of the greater battle for Chattanooga) is outlined in detail, regiment by regiment. (Regiments make up brigades, which make up divisions, which make up corps, which make up armies.)

Where Woodworth really shines is in the personal stories. I loved reading about the men who scoured Illinois during the summer of 1861 trying to recruit one hundred soldiers each in order to be made captain of the company. (Companies make up regiments, which make up . . . .) Then there were the women and girls who sewed flags for these companies and special hats for the uniformless volunteers to wear and who held parties and public ceremonies in which they bestowed, with eloquent blessings, the precious sewn goods to the departing troops. I’d read often that John McClernand was a political rival to Lincoln whom Lincoln commissioned as a general; Woodworth tells me just how that happened. (It involved McClernand’s help in recruiting in southern Illinois, where many were sypathetic to the seceded states.) I’d read about the Battle of Shiloh before, but I don’t ever remember reading about the crowds of northern civilians who swarmed to the rural Tennessee area after the battle to help the wounded or search for and bury dead loved ones.

Woodworth reads personal journals of soldiers incessantly. I might have expected to read in another book that private George Smith told God that he would serve Him if he survived the siege of Vicksburg. But Woodworth’s reading doesn’t end with the entries from 1865; he tells us that Smith’s journal from fifty years later confirms that he kept his promise. How many pages about sick children and cows bought for five dollars and visits from Aunt Polly did Woodworth have to read through before finding this pertinent detail? Moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, my final example concerns Private Albert Crummell of the 30th Ohio who, in a brief lull in the fighting around Atlanta, made furtive forays into no-man’s land to search for tobacco in the packs of dead rebel soldiers but found one who was, as Miracle Max would say, only mostly dead and who demanded that Crummell carry him to safety in return for the tobacco. Crummell made the trade.

All’s Well that Ends with a Problem?

All’s Well that Ends Well has been known since 1896 as one of Shakespeare’s “problem plays.” The problem, according to some, is that Bertram [spoilers ahead!] displays his love for Helena too suddenly at the end of the play, after four-and-seven-eighths acts of despising her. Here’s how the situation unfolds: Helena is the orphan of a great physician, and she brings a cure to the king of France one day. The cure works, and as a reward, the king gives her any lord she wishes to marry, and Helena chooses Bertram. The offended Bertram weds her according to the sovereign’s orders, but vows never to consummate the marriage. He even runs away to war just to get away from her. But the ever hopeful Helena plays an elaborate ruse on Bertram and then appears at the end to explain everything that has happened, upon which Bertram accepts her.

Some say that Bertram doesn’t really willingly relent at the end but gives in only under coercion. Some say that there must be some missing text that explains the reluctant husband’s sudden change. And I have to admit that the first two times I read this play, I was searching for some explanation for Bertram’s quick conversion, as well. But this time, everything seemed clear. The problem seemed to resolve itself very neatly right in the clear words written on the page. How did I miss this before? How have others missed this?

First, there’s a comic side-plot involving Bertram’s rascally servant named Parolles. Parolles is also the subject of a ruse, and as a result Bertram sees just how unfaithful his servant is. Perhaps this series of events gets our hero thinking about relationships and vows and duty and helps him see things from Helena’s point of view. Second, it is rumored near the end of the play that Helena is dead, and Bertram explicitly admits that he loves her now that he realizes what he has lost. So what’s the problem? How is his change of heart “sudden”? Can I also suggest that Shakespeare didn’t see a problem or else he wouldn’t have given the play the title he did?