How Did Polish Jews Resist the Nazis Prior to the 1943 Warsaw Ghetto Uprising?

When the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, they had to determine how the increasing numbers of Jews would be controlled. Their temporary solution was to section the Jews off into ghettos, and Jewish methods of resistance must be seen in the context of that environment.

Heather Voight explains.

Resistance members captured during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.

A cursory reading of a Holocaust textbook would lead most readers to conclude that Polish Jews failed to respond to persecution prior to the Warsaw ghetto uprising in 1943. In order to determine whether the Jews resisted their oppressors, however, the term resistance must be defined. Webster’s New World Dictionary defines the word resist as “to oppose actively; fight, argue, or work against; to refuse to cooperate with, submit to, etc.” According to this definition, the Jews could resist their oppressors in other ways besides warfare, though physical fighting was sometimes involved. Patterns of resistance did not remain static but changed just as the situation of Jews changed. Polish Jews in the ghettos altered their response to persecution as the types of persecution they faced changed, but some form of resistance was ever-present.

Smuggling Food as Resistance

The Jews in Polish ghettos had every intention of surviving the war. In order to accomplish this, they needed more food than the meager Nazi provisions. Food supplies to inhabitants of the Warsaw ghetto each had a caloric value of 220, 15% of the normal daily requirement. Jews acquired the food they needed through smuggling. Adam Czerniakow, leader of the Warsaw Judenrat, a council of Jews created by the Nazis to carry out their orders, estimated that smuggling accounted for 80% of the food available in the Warsaw ghetto. Many smugglers were women and children who managed to circumvent the Nazi guards. Renia Kukielka went out of the Jedrzejow ghetto with her sisters to trade lace placements for coins that were used to buy food. Other young women served as couriers, smuggling out food and medicine.

Regardless of who did the smuggling, it was a dangerous task. Abraham Lewin, who kept a diary while in the Warsaw ghetto, wrote about children going over to the Aryan side to get potatoes. “There are some Germans who show a little mercy for these unfortunate children and pretend not to see, turning away deliberately, and the children dart with their little overcoats bulging…There are also vicious guards who hit the children with murderous blows…more than one child has fallen victim to their bloodlust.” Yet the Jews continued to engage in smuggling despite the bloodshed. The Nazis hoped the Jews would starve and thus disappear, but children and adults bravely resisted by smuggling food.

Music as Resistance

The people in the ghettos also continued to participate in cultural activities such as concerts. Though the Nazis didn’t allow Aryan music, Jewish musicians in the Warsaw ghetto still played to large audiences, which sometimes included Poles on the Aryan side of the ghetto. Not everyone thought these performances were appropriate, however. In his diary, Adam Czerniakow wrote, “Many people hold a grudge against me for organizing play activity for the children, for arranging festive openings of playgrounds, for the music, etc. I am reminded of a film: a ship is sinking and the captain, to raise the spirits of the passengers, orders the orchestra to play a jazz piece. I had made up my mind to emulate the captain.” Czerniakow understood that culture should continue regardless of what the Nazis did. Other ghettos also held concerts, including one of Poland’s most isolated ghettos in Lodz. Musical concerts in the ghetto resumed two months after deportations. Despite the loss of family and community members, Jewish creativity went on.

Religious Observance as Resistance

In defiance of the Nazi order which forbade all public religious practices, religious life for Jews in the ghettos simply went underground. Warsaw ghetto diarist Chaim Kaplan wrote, “Public prayer in these dangerous times is a forbidden act..But this does not deter us. Jews come to pray in a group in some inside room facing the courtyard, with drawn blinds on the windows.” Given their followers’ unprecedented circumstances, some tenets of Jewish law were modified. For example, people could not keep the sabbath because the Nazis forced them to work. Rabbis also permitted the consumption of non-kosher food because the preservation of life was more important than dietary laws. Though they had to practice their religion differently, the Jews did not surrender their beliefs.     

Education as Resistance

In addition to religious practices, the Nazis banned education in the Warsaw ghetto and others. Nevertheless, students and teachers found ways to meet. As early as 1939, teachers received bread in exchange for teaching groups of 4-8 children for a few hours. Unfortunately, there is no information on the number of these groups in the Polish ghettos because of the secrecy involved. As Chaim Kaplan explained in his diary: “It is possible that the ban against study also applies to such small groups, and if questions were asked they would have to be stopped. But no one asks questions. The matter is done quietly, underhandedly. There is no other solution.”

Education wasn’t limited to younger students. High school and college age students helped to organize education for themselves in consort with their teachers. A Zionist youth movement organized an illegal high school in the Warsaw ghetto which existed between 1940 and summer 1942. It wasn’t a high school in the traditional sense since teachers travelled to the students’ apartments. Yet by spring of 1942 the school had 120 pupils and 13 teachers. Courses included math, history, biology, philosophy and literature. There were also university level courses in education and medicine. In spite of the Nazi ban on education, teachers and students were determined to provide knowledge that students would need if they survived the conditions of the ghettoes and the eventual deportations.  

Writing as Resistance

Jews in the ghettos also used writing to keep the world and each other informed about the Nazi’s plans to exterminate the Jews. Jews sometimes escaped from concentration camps to the tenuous safety of the Warsaw ghetto. They told the inhabitants of the Nazi’s plans to kill them all. Courier girls who initially smuggled food and medicine began to smuggle underground writings.

In addition to communicating within the Polish ghettos, coded postcards from courier girls were sent to Jews outside Poland. Frumka Plotnicka wrote, “I am waiting for visits from guests: Machanot and Avodah should be coming here.” Machanot and Avodah were Hebrew words for camp and work. “Pruetnitsky and Schitah lived with me.” These are Hebrew words for pogroms and destruction. By using words the Nazis couldn’t decode, Jews in Polish ghettos warned others about their fate.

One of the most lasting ways that Jews defied the Nazis was by documenting their experiences. Secret archives were established to preserve the history of life in the ghettos. The Oneg Shabbat of Warsaw was established by Dr. Emanuel Ringelblum. He persuaded people like former teacher Abraham Lewin to contribute their accounts. Part of Lewin’s diary was discovered in a milk pail after the war. The partial diary covers late March 1942 to January 1943. Lewin wrote in June 1942, “We gather every Sabbath, a group of activists in the Jewish community, to discuss our diaries and writings. We want our sufferings, these ‘birth pangs of the Messiah’ to be impressed upon the memories of future generations and on the memory of the whole world.” Lewin’s diary entries got shorter whenever deportations to the death camps were increased. For example, he struggled to describe his heartbreak when his wife was deported in August 1942. “I have no words to describe my desolation. I ought to go after her, to die. But I have no strength to take such a step.” Although Lewin often found it difficult to write about the actions of the Nazis, his diary and others like it testify to the horrors of the Holocaust.   

Violence as Resistance

 Although much of Jewish resistance prior to the Warsaw ghetto uprising was nonviolent, this was not always the case. For example, in fall of 1942 Jews in the town of Lubliniec were ordered to gather in the market and undress. Naked Jewish women began attacking the officers, biting them and throwing stones. The Nazis ran away. The headline in the Jewish Telegraphic Agency’s report read “Jewish Resistance in Poland: Women Trample Nazi Soldiers.” A bit later in the year, an armed act of violence by Jews in Krakow occurred. On December 22, 1942, 40 Jewish men and women fighters descended upon three coffee houses and bombed a Nazi Christmas party. Others threw grenades into another café. Their efforts killed at least seven Nazis and wounded many more. The Jewish resistance leaders were killed but others still bombed targets outside the city. Most importantly, Jews who used violence to resist inspired those who became part of the larger Warsaw ghetto uprising.

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References

Batalion, Judy. The Light of Days: The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler’s Ghettos. New York: HarperCollins, 2020.

Bauer, Yehuda. A History of the Holocaust. Danbury, CT: Franklin Watts, 1982.

Dwork, Deborah and Robert Jan van Pelt. Holocaust: A History. New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 2002.

Lewin, Abraham. A Cup of Tears: A Diary of the Warsaw Ghetto. Edited by Antony Polonsky. New York: Basil Blackwell Inc., 1989. 

The History of the Crossbow: The Rise, Reign and Resilience of the Crossbow

In the dense stillness of the jungle, a modern soldier crouches beneath the canopy, his weapon of choice silent but deadly. It's not a suppressed firearm or high-tech drone, but a crossbow. Though often considered a relic of medieval warfare, this weapon, which once helped shape the course of empires, continues to whisper through the shadows of modern conflict.

The crossbow's story stretches across centuries and continents, from its earliest appearance in ancient battlefields, through its fearsome medieval dominance, to its near extinction in the face of gunpowder and finally, to a surprising modern rebirth in specialist military operations. This is the tale of a weapon designed for precision, power, and quiet lethality.

Terry Bailey explains.

An Early Modern period depiction of two soldiers with a horse-drawn ballista.

Ancient origins

The crossbow's roots lie deep in the ancient world, with the earliest known examples emerging from China during the Warring States Period, (475 to 221 BCE), with early examples discovered from the 5th century BCE. Chinese crossbows featured sophisticated bronze trigger mechanisms and were often mass-produced. This innovation allowed large military units to wield powerful, standardised ranged weapons with minimal training. Perhaps most remarkable was Zhuge Liang's "repeating crossbow", capable of firing multiple bolts in quick succession, centuries ahead of its time.

Meanwhile, in Hellenistic Greece, engineers developed the gastraphetes, (γαστραφέτης), or "belly bow," as early as the 4th century BCE. Described by Heron of Alexandria, (Ἥρων ὁ Ἀλεξανδρεύς), this mechanical device required the user to brace the stock against the abdomen and press down to load it. It was vital in siege warfare, where powerful bolts could be launched with force from behind fortifications.

The Romans took the idea further with torsion-powered siege engines like the arcuballista and cheiroballistra, which, while not quite personal crossbows, shared similar mechanical principles. These innovations paved the way for increasingly powerful projectile weapons in European and Byzantine warfare.

The weapon that changed the rules

Crossbows faded from prominence in Europe after the fall of Rome but returned with force by the 10th and 11th centuries, likely through Mediterranean trade or the Crusades. As European militaries embraced the weapon, it underwent significant improvements. The medieval crossbow, or arbalest, evolved with steel prods, cranks, and windlasses, enabling it to punch through armour at close range with devastating force.

On the battlefield, crossbows proved invaluable during sieges and defensive actions, where a soldier could shoot from behind cover without requiring the strength or lifelong training needed to master a longbow. Their use at the Battle of Hastings (1066) and by Genoese crossbowmen at the Battle of Crécy (1346) cemented their reputation as serious threats.

However, the crossbow was not without controversy. In 1139, the Second Lateran Council declared its use against Christians to be immoral and banned it, a rare moment when a weapon was condemned by the Church itself. This ban only heightened the crossbow's reputation as a fearsome equalizer.

Unlike the longbow, which required years of practice and physical conditioning, a crossbow could be used effectively by commoners, allowing them to kill even the most heavily armored knight from afar. For some, this represented a degradation of chivalric warfare; for others, a necessary step in the evolution of combat.

Compared to the longbow, the crossbow was easier to learn, had greater penetrating power, but suffered from a slower rate of fire. The longbow retained its place in English warfare, but across much of Europe, the crossbow ruled the battlefield for several centuries.

Fall from grace

By the 15th century, the rise of gunpowder weapons began to overshadow the crossbow. Matchlocks and arquebuses offered greater armour penetration, required less mechanical upkeep, and perhaps most significantly, produced the terrifying psychological effect of gunfire.

As mass infantry formations and volley fire tactics developed, crossbows struggled to maintain relevance. Muskets were cheaper, could be taught to recruits quickly, and their manufacture was more adaptable to emerging industrial methods. By the 18th century, crossbows had disappeared from the frontlines of most European armies, lingering only in rare instances, such as in Napoleonic-era coastal militias, before vanishing almost entirely from modern warfare.

The crossbow in modern conflict

During the Vietnam War, the Montagnard mountain tribes, an umbrella term for various indigenous groups living in Vietnam's Central Highlands, used primitive but highly effective crossbows as part of their traditional arsenal. Constructed from locally available materials such as bamboo, hardwood, and twisted plant fibers, these weapons were simple yet reliable, optimized for jungle terrain and ambush tactics. Montagnard crossbows typically featured hand-carved wooden stocks and flexible bows made from resilient native wood, firing short, sharpened wooden bolts.

Despite their rudimentary design, these crossbows could deliver deadly force silently, an essential advantage in close-range forest combat and for hunting. Their quiet lethality and rugged simplicity did not go unnoticed by American troops operating alongside them. U.S. Special Forces, who often worked closely with Montagnard fighters through the Civilian Irregular Defence Group (CIDG) program, were impressed by the crossbow's stealth capabilities, ease of construction, and lack of a signature report, critical features in jungle warfare where silence often meant survival. These encounters likely inspired U.S. experimentation with modernized crossbows for specialized tasks such as cutting tripwires, silent sentry removal, and setting traps, contributing to a small but enduring niche role for the crossbow in unconventional warfare. Similarly, Russian Spetsnaz units have been known to use compact crossbows for covert operations, including breaching and wire-cutting in environments where silence is vital.

Modern crossbow as a tool

Modern crossbows have also evolved into tactical tools, equipped with a variety of bolt types, from blunt and non-lethal projectiles to armour-piercing or even explosive-tipped variants. Some are designed to fold or collapse into survival kits, making them viable for hunting or stealth missions in hostile terrain. In specialized law enforcement units, crossbows serve non-lethal roles: deploying tranquillizers, nets, or breaching tools in hostage scenarios or urban environments where gunfire could escalate danger. Their silence and versatility have secured the crossbow a niche in military and policing contexts where subtlety and control are paramount.

Archaeological evidence

Archaeological evidence has played a crucial role in uncovering the early history and battlefield use of crossbows. Some of the oldest surviving crossbow components were found in ancient Chinese tombs, particularly from the Warring States Period (475 to 221 BCE). Excavations at sites like Tomb 3 at Qinjiazui and the Terracotta Army pits at Xi'an have revealed bronze trigger mechanisms that were standardised, as indicated suggesting mass production and wide deployment in early Chinese armies.

These finds demonstrate a high level of mechanical sophistication, with levers and sears similar in principle to modern firearm triggers. The Chinese crossbow was clearly not a one-off innovation but a cornerstone of ancient military strategy.

In Europe, physical remnants of early crossbows are rarer but not absent. Some Roman-era torsion crossbow-like devices, such as arcuballistae and cheiroballistrae, have been reconstructed from surviving parts and contemporary descriptions. Later medieval examples, including steel prods, windlass mechanisms, and wooden stocks, have been discovered in castle ruins, riverbeds, and former battlefields, often in fragments due to degradation over time. For instance, parts of crossbow quarrels (bolts) have been found at sites like the Battle of Visby (1361) in Gotland, Sweden, one of the most archaeologically rich medieval battlefield excavations in Europe.

More compelling still is the skeletal evidence of crossbow wounds, which offers chilling insight into the weapon's effectiveness. At Visby, numerous skeletons showed trauma consistent with crossbow impacts: puncture wounds in bone, especially in skulls and pelvises, where bolts had penetrated armour and lodged deep into the body. Some remains even display shattered limb bones or embedded bolt heads, testifying to the kinetic power of these weapons. The clean, concentrated puncture marks differ significantly from sword or arrow wounds, allowing archaeologists to distinguish crossbow injuries from other types of trauma. These finds confirm not only the battlefield presence of crossbows but also their deadly role in medieval warfare, where a single shot could pierce chainmail, break bone, and end a life in an instant.

Legacy and influence

Despite its eclipse on the battlefield, the crossbow lives on in the cultural imagination. From medieval reenactments to video games and TV shows like The Walking Dead, it has become a symbol of silent lethality and rugged resilience.

Crossbows also thrive in the fields of sport and hunting, especially in regions where gun ownership is restricted or tightly regulated. Modern hunting crossbows are precision instruments, engineered for stability and accuracy.

Among engineers and historians, the crossbow remains an object of fascination. Its intricate trigger systems, leverage mechanisms, and materials engineering continue to be studied as examples of early mechanical ingenuity.

Though outclassed by firearms centuries ago, the crossbow endures as one of history's most remarkable weapons, an invention that democratized lethality, challenged battlefield hierarchies, and even rattled the conscience of a medieval Church. From ancient Chinese skirmishes to the quiet footfalls of a special forces operator in the jungle, the crossbow's story is one of adaptation, resilience, and quiet power. It may no longer dominate the battlefield, but the crossbow still whispers in the shadows of warfare, silent, deadly, and unforgettable.

Echoes of the Crossbow

Needless to say, the story of the crossbow is not merely a chronicle of iron, wood, and sinew, it is a reflection of humanity's evolving relationship with power, precision, and progress. From the regimented ranks of ancient Chinese armies to the rain-soaked fields of medieval Europe, and from the dense, watchful jungles of Southeast Asia to today's urban tactical operations, the crossbow has carved a singular path through military history: one of constant adaptation, innovation, and quiet endurance.

Far more than a technological curiosity or medieval oddity, the crossbow revolutionized the battlefield by granting lethality to those once excluded from the warrior class. It helped dissolve the rigid hierarchies of feudal combat, where strength and aristocratic birth once dictated martial dominance. In its place came a weapon that demanded only a steady hand, a calm nerve, and the will to fire, shifting the power of life and death into the hands of the common foot soldier. The crossbow democratized warfare, frightened the nobility, and even compelled religious authorities to attempt its banishment, proof of how deeply it challenged prevailing norms.

Its mechanical sophistication, particularly in ancient China, speaks to the ingenuity of early engineers who saw beyond the bow's limitations. These innovations echoed centuries later in European refinements: windlasses, goat's feet, steel prods, and complex trigger mechanisms that brought a brutal elegance to the battlefield. The archaeological record, with its telltale puncture wounds and preserved bolt tips, preserves the visceral reality of its deadly impact.

And yet, the crossbow's story did not end with the thunder of muskets or the precision of rifles. Its rebirth in modern warfare, though modest, demonstrates a remarkable resilience. Where silence, stealth, and improvisation matter more than volume of fire, the crossbow endures, whether in the hands of Montagnard tribesmen defending their ancestral forests, or Special Forces soldiers operating deep behind enemy lines, The crossbow's relevance persists in situations that call for control, quiet, and calculated lethality.

In a world driven by ever-advancing technology, the crossbow reminds us that simplicity, reliability, and silence still have their place. It is a weapon not only of war, but of principle: one that marries form and function, history and innovation, brutality and discipline. It is a tool of ancient armies, a relic of medieval sieges, a whisper in the dark jungles of modern combat and above all, a tribute to the enduring ingenuity of those who shaped it.

The crossbow may no longer decide the fate of empires, but its legacy endures, etched in steel, remembered in bone, and still alive today.

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Notes:

Crossbow compared to an English Longbow

When comparing the advantages and disadvantages of the medieval crossbow to the English longbow, several key contrasts emerge that reflect the differing roles and accessibility of the two weapons.

The crossbow's greatest advantage over the longbow was its ease of use. Unlike the longbow, which required years of training and considerable physical strength to master, the crossbow could be effectively operated by less experienced soldiers with minimal instruction. This made it ideal for militias, mercenaries, or conscripted troops, especially in regions lacking a strong archery tradition.

Additionally, the mechanical design of the crossbow allowed it to achieve high draw weights through cranking mechanisms such as the windlass or cranequin, giving it the power to penetrate heavy armour at short to medium ranges, an area where the longbow could sometimes falter.

The crossbow also offered greater consistency in terms of aim and accuracy due to its stable mechanical release, which reduced the influence of human error compared to the manually drawn and released longbow. This precision made the crossbow particularly effective in siege scenarios, where defenders or attackers could take time to aim at fixed targets.

However, the crossbow had several significant disadvantages when compared to the longbow. Most notably, it had a much slower rate of fire, typically only 2–3 bolts per minute, leaving crossbowmen vulnerable during the lengthy reloading process. This made them less effective in fast-paced battles or open-field engagements, where the English longbow's rapid fire of up to 10–12 arrows per minute could dominate. Additionally, the crossbow was more cumbersome to carry and maintain, and its complex mechanisms were more prone to failure under adverse weather conditions, unlike the simpler and more robust longbow.

Therefore, while the crossbow offered greater armour penetration and ease of use for untrained soldiers, it lacked the speed, endurance, and battlefield versatility of the English longbow. Its strengths lay in precision and accessibility, whereas its limitations made it less effective in dynamic, large-scale combat scenarios dominated by trained longbowmen.

Zhuge Liang's repeating crossbow

Zhuge Liang's repeating crossbow, known in Chinese as the Zhuge nu, is one of the most iconic mechanical weapons in Chinese history. However, its association with Zhuge Liang may be more symbolic than literal. This device was a rapid-fire crossbow capable of shooting multiple bolts in quick succession with minimal user effort.

Though crossbow technology predated the Three Kingdoms period, the repeating crossbow attributed to Zhuge Liang was notable for its simplified firing mechanism, which allowed for a high rate of fire, a crucial advantage in the chaotic skirmishes of ancient warfare.

The weapon operated through a combination of a magazine-style bolt hopper and a push-pull lever mechanism. Each time the operator pulled and pushed the lever back and forth, the bowstring would automatically draw, release, and reload with a fresh bolt from the magazine. This allowed even relatively untrained soldiers or defenders in fortified positions to unleash volleys of bolts rapidly, making the weapon especially useful in close-quarters defence, ambushes, or when mounted on walls and chariots.

The bolts were often poisoned, compensating for their relatively low penetrative power compared to single-shot crossbows. While Zhuge Liang (181–234 CE), the famous strategist of the Shu Han state, is often credited with inventing or popularising the repeating crossbow, historical evidence suggests the concept may have existed before his time. However, his reputation as a master of military innovation and engineering likely led to the weapon being named in his honour. Surviving versions of the Zhuge nu from later dynasties show refinements in design, but the fundamental concept of a mechanical device enabling rapid bolt fire endured for centuries in Chinese warfare, proof of its practical ingenuity.

The Weight of Liberty: Washington’s Legacy and His Post-Presidency Worries

George Washington is often remembered as the figurehead of the American Revolution. The first President of the United States and Commander and Chief. His leadership was absolutely instrumental in our nation’s founding, his Presidency has continued to be seen as a guiding light among many leaders today. Yet, behind the image of a resolute commander and statesman lay a man who, after stepping down from power in 1797, faced a deep sense of anxiety and uncertainty over the future of the country he helped create. Far from basking in the glory of his achievements and historic relinquishing of power, Washington found himself haunted by doubts over the fragility of the new republic and his own role in the life of an ex-politician.

Preston Knowles explains.

George Washington - The 1796 Lansdowne portrait.

The Man Behind the Legend

George Washington wrote to Thomas Jefferson in 1796 “I am wearied by the public service.. But still am I anxious for the success of our republican experiment.”  This quote would set the tone for his post-presidency years, a time where the founding father, despite his long known desire to retire, was deeply affected by the political divisions springing up in the youthful United States.

Washington’s desire to retire from public office wasn’t simply a political maneuver; it was a personal choice, Washington had long expressed his desire to return to Mount Vernon. And In his 1796 farewell address, Washington famously warned against “the spirit of the party,” describing it as a danger that could lead to the “destruction of the republic.” He cautioned against the divisiveness of political factions, understanding the potential for them to destabilize the unity of the nation.

Washington’s farewell address is one of the most enduring pieces of advice in American political history. Yet, despite his warnings, political parties emerged almost immediately after his departure of office. With Hamilton leading the Federalists on one side and Jefferson’s Democratic-Republicans on the other.

Washington held increasing concerns as these factions grew more hostile and entrenched. In his personal letters and conversations, he expressed frustration with the direction the country was taking. He feared that the growing divide would prevent the nation from achieving its potential and would ultimately lead to a breakdown in national unity. Even leading Washington to consider taking up public life again. In a letter to John Adams in 1796 he wrote,

“I have long been of the opinion that nothing but the most imperious necessity could ever call me to the helm again. I feel that we are in a dangerous situation, and I have no patience with the spirit of party that threatens to tear the country asunder.”

 

Seeking Peace, Finding Conflict

Washington’s post-presidency years at Mount Vernon were meant to offer him a chance to rest and return to a simpler life he had long dreamt of. He attempted to focus on the management of his estate. Yet, even in retirement, Washington was never truly free from the demands of public life.

His daily life at Mount Vernon was filled with a much loved routine: overseeing his land, attending to correspondence, and meeting with visitors. Washington's influence continued to loom large over the young nation. Presidents, legislators, and foreign leaders often turned to him for advice or reassurance. His very presence was a stabilizing force, and Washington’s judgment was still highly valued by those in power.

But even in the peaceful surroundings of his estate, Washington found himself troubled by the political turmoil that continued to roil the nation. Despite his desire to retire from public affairs, he remained a prominent figure, and his opinion was still sought after by those in power. In several letters in 1798 Washington frequently discusses his fear of the division the political parties were causing.

To John Jay in 1798, Washington reflected on the growing political conflict: “The party spirit has been carried to such lengths that it threatens to subvert the very government which it is supposed to protect.” These words, written from Mount Vernon, underscore his deepening anxiety about the emerging divisions within the government.

To Hamilton in 1798, Washington wrote, "I am fully persuaded that we have no alternative but to preserve the Union. Yet, how to do so, with the factionalism that is emerging, I cannot say.”

Washington’s letters to Jefferson were similarly filled with apprehension. In one, he lamented the growing ideological divide between the two men’s parties, saying, “It seems to me that we are drifting farther apart, and I fear the consequences of this estrangement.”

Despite his desire to avoid political involvement, Washington was repeatedly called upon to mediate disputes and offer guidance on ever evolving situations the Country faced. He was particularly concerned with the rise of foreign threats, particularly from France and Britain, and often expressed anxiety over how the country would navigate its position in the international arena.

In a letter to his friend James Madison, Washington wrote, “I tremble for the future when I think of our dependence on foreign nations. It is a great and dangerous experiment we have undertaken.” His thoughts on foreign relations reflected the weight of his concerns about the vulnerabilities of the young Republic, even in his retirement.

The Cost of Command

Despite his retirement, Washington found himself ever consumed by a longing sense of devotion to a nation he had given most of his life to serve. Finding himself ever worried over the turmoil the young country was facing, his anxieties speak to the immense pressures of leadership and the uncertainty even the most revered figures in history face when navigating the ever complex world of politics.

In the end, Washington did not find the peace he sought but he did provide an excellent and valuable lesson in the art of leadership, illustrating how even the most steadfast and stoic of leaders can be deeply affected by division and uncertainty. Spending his last years at Mount Vernon we see an often unseen side of Washington, not as the mythical figure of a revolutionary force. But as a man, whose doubt, worry and deep sense of responsibility weighed heavy on his mind through the last years of his life.

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Britain’s Unwitting Entanglement in the 1961 US-Backed Invasion of Cuba

The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a failed US-supported landing on Cuba against Fidel Castro’s Communist Cuba in 1961. Here, J.J. Valdes considers Britain’s involvement in the affair.

Bay of Pigs Invasion: The flagship Blagar, near the Cuban coast, April 16, 1961.

“Speak in English,” Bob Hines, radio operator at the airport tower in Grand Cayman, kept telling the Spanish-speaking pilot of the Douglas B-26 Invader circling overhead. There was no scheduled arrival of a plane on that early morning of April 15, 1961, so Hines was perplexed about the identity of the unexpected flight. Hines spoke some Spanish and could understand that the pilot was asking for landing instructions. Unable to get the man to communicate in English, he gave him instructions in Spanish as best he could and the plane finally landed.

The radio operator, who was working alone in the tower at the time, then went out to meet the plane on the tarmac. The pilot, in military garb, was the first to exit the aircraft, which bore Cuban air force markings. “Give you this,” he said to Hines, holding two pistols in his outstretched hand. Hines took the pistols then, deciding that this was something for the government to handle, summoned the islands’ Immigration Officer (also the Chief of Police) and Administrator Jack Rose.

Cayman Islands

The Caymans, consisting of Grand Cayman and two other smaller isles, came under British rule in 1670. In 1961 the territory was administered as a dependency of Jamaica, where the governor resided. Jack Rose, a former Royal Air Force (RAF) fighter pilot during World War II, was the island’s resident administrator.

Rose quickly arrived at the airport. The Cubans were demanding to be flown to Miami and at first Rose assumed that they were defectors from that country. But in fact, the unexpected arrivals were Cuban exile pilot Alfredo Caballero and navigator Alfredo Maza. They were part of a force trained in Central America by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) for an invasion of Cuba intended to topple Fidel Castro. Their plane was one of three B-26s that had attacked San Antonio de los Baños airbase, near Havana, as part of pre-invasion strikes on three of the country’s main airfields. Caballero had discovered en route to Cuba from Nicaragua that there was a malfunction with the plane’s droppable fuel tanks. Despite his flight leader’s order to turn back, he had opted to continue with the mission. However, his fuel situation had become critical on the return trip, forcing him to divert to Grand Cayman.  

No one had bothered to inform Rose about the possible arrival of such visitors and he was “far from pleased to see them” because he “smelt trouble.” Adding to his foreboding was the fact that one of the plane’s rockets had apparently misfired and was still attached under a wing. The Cuban crew offered no cooperation in addressing the dangerous situation. Rose, therefore, called on his old RAF skills to remove the device and other ordnance from the plane with help from ground personnel and an American tourist onlooker who had been a bomber crewman.

Rose’s next order of business was to contact the governor in Jamaica, Sir Kenneth Blackburne. As there was no telephone connection at the time between Kingston and the Caymans, messages had to be exchanged via radiotelegraphy. Blackburne, it turned out, was as surprised as Rose by the incident and had little to offer. This left Rose in a crux regarding “what attitude to adopt in practical and propaganda terms.” He thought it prudent “to try to keep the lid on what had happened.” Thus, in addition to requesting local ship owners to refrain from radio chatter about the B-26’s arrival, he arranged for the postmaster to hold off all outgoing mail for a time.

Lack of knowledge

Even the highest levels of the British government had apparently not been informed by the Americans of their plans for an invasion of Cuba, let alone that an airstrip on British territory had been designated as an emergency landing alternative. British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, despite his close association with President John F. Kennedy, had been kept in the dark about such plans when he had visited Washington in early April. The American strategy seemed to have been not to involve the British authorities pending the advent of actual emergency landings on the Caymans. If the British then decided to intern any landed aircraft, the Americans considered raising the specter that Cuba and other nations might view the planes’ presence there as indicative that the islands were being used as a launch base.

As it happened, however, the British government proved most cooperative. During the evening, Rose received a radiogram from Sir Blackburne informing him to expect “a visitor” during the night who “should be given every courtesy.” Around midnight, a transport aircraft with no landing lights approached the dark runway (which lacked an illumination system) at low level. Upon touching down, the “visitor” and several other CIA men deplaned. The leader of the group introduced himself and, over the course of their conversation, revealed to be intimately acquainted with assorted details about Rose’s life. The rest of the group consisted of aviation technicians who immediately set to work on the parked B-26.  

After sizing up the situation, the lead CIA man indicated that he needed to phone Washington. He initially thought Rose was joking when the latter informed him that the island had no telephone connection to the outside world. Arrangements were then made via radiogram for a charter plane from Jamaica to pick up the American in the morning and fly him there so he could make his call. Afterward, he returned on the plane to Grand Cayman. Rose came to find out that, to pay for expenses, this fellow carried a case containing stacks of US paper currency, “neatly packed just as one sees them in films or television as ransom money.”

Events took a precipitous turn on April 17 when the disembarkation of troops at the Bay of Pigs began. Throughout the day, the invasion force received air support from B-26 bombers arriving over the area from Nicaragua in staggered fashion. The aircraft, which lacked tail guns, were often engaged in lopsided aerial battles by fighter planes from Castro’s air force. By day’s end, two more B-26s had arrived at Grand Cayman. One, piloted by Marío Zúñiga, diverted there in the early morning low on fuel after engaging in a dogfight with, ironically, a British-made Hawker Sea Fury. A number of the prop fighters had been inherited by Castro from former Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista. Another B-26, piloted by Antonio Soto, arrived in the early afternoon after having one of his engines shot out by a T-33 jet.

In retrospect

Both Rose’s and Hines’s oral accounts, recorded more than three decades after the events, are imprecise in various respects, including the total number of B-26s, each carrying a two-man crew, that diverted to Grand Cayman. Whereas they both claim that a total of four planes arrived, CIA documents indicate that only three did, including Caballero’s on the 15th. The three aircraft were flown back to Nicaragua by CIA personnel as soon as each was made airworthy. Meanwhile, the six Cuban exile crewmen they had carried were issued civilian clothes and flown out on regular air service flights to Miami. Zúñiga and Soto arrived back in Nicaragua in time to join the invasion’s most devastating air support mission late on the afternoon of April 18. Caballero, however, was transported by mistake to Retalhuleu, the CIA’s airbase in Guatemala, and remained there until the invasion’s collapse on April 19.

Both Administrator Rose and Governor Blackburne subsequently received letters of commendation for their handling of the affair from the British Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Sir Frederick Millar. However, Rose was “given to understand” that if the matter had attracted any adverse publicity, he alone would have been assigned blame for the incident.

The role of British territory in the CIA’s Cuban invasion has largely remained hush and been little publicized over the years. Radio operator Hines declared in his 1995 oral account that he “was the only person allowed to take pictures [of the landed planes], on word that I would not publish them; I have never published them.”  To this day, the pictures have never come to light.

Author J.J. Valdes’s recent book about the 1961 Cuban invasion is Besieged Beachhead: The Cold War Battle for Cuba at the Bay of Pigs. Available here: https://www.amazon.com/Besieged-Beachhead-Cold-Battle-Cuba/dp/0811776794

Sources

Beerli, Stanley W. “Transmittal of Documents.” Memorandum to Lt. Colonel B. W. Tarwater, USAF (Attachment C), April 26, 1961. https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/DOC_0000252273.pdf.

Lesley Hines. “Interview with Lesley (Bob) Hines.” By Heather McLaughin. Cayman Islands National Archive Oral History Programme (16 February 1995; finalized transcription: 16 April 1997)

Pfeiffer, Jack B. Official History of the Bay of Pigs Operation. Vol I. Central Intelligence Agency, 1979.

Jack Rose. “Interview with Jack Rose.” By Heather McLaughin. Cayman Islands National Archive Oral History Programme (18 May 1999; finalized transcription: 22 July 1999).

Sandford, Christopher. Harold and Jack: The Remarkable Friendship of Prime Minister Macmillan and President Kennedy. Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2014.

Valdés, J.J. Besieged Beachhead: The Cold War battle for Cuba at the Bay of Pigs. Essex, Connecticut: Stackpole Books, 2024.

Wells, Davis. A Brief History of the Cayman Islands. Dover, UK: The West India Committee, 2018. eBook.  https://www.cigouk.ky/downloads/Cayman-Islands-e-book-October2018.pdf.

Wise, David, and Thomas B. Ross. The Invisible Government. New York: Random House, 1964.

From Palisades to Castles: The History and Evolution of Fortifications

Throughout history, fortifications have served as physical manifestations of a society's desire for security, power, and territorial control. From the earliest wooden palisades of the Neolithic era to the massive stone castles of the medieval period, defensive architecture has evolved in response to changing technologies, political structures, and threats. Many of these fortifications still rise above the landscape today, while others lie buried beneath layers of earth and centuries of development, offering clues to archaeologists about the ancient world's priorities and conflicts.

Terry Bailey explains.

York Castle (Clifford's Tower) in 1644.

Early fortified settlements

The need for protection from rival tribes, wild animals, or marauding raiders spurred the earliest humans to construct rudimentary fortifications. Archaeological evidence from Çatalhöyük in modern-day Turkey, dating back to around 7500 BCE, suggests that early urban settlements employed dense housing patterns and elevated entrances as a form of communal defense. Although not a fortification in the traditional sense, the lack of streets and the rooftop-only access served to repel invaders.

The first recognizable fortifications, constructed with the intent to produce a clear defensive perimeter, appear during the Neolithic period. At sites like Jericho, one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities, archaeologists have uncovered a massive stone wall dating to around 8000 BCE, complete with a round tower over 8 meters high. This structure likely protected the community from floods or hostile groups and stands as evidence of early human instinct for security.

Bronze Age walls and citadels

As societies grew more complex during the Bronze Age (c. 3300–1200 BCE), fortifications became increasingly sophisticated. Many were constructed using earthworks, stone, and timber. Defensive ditches and ramparts encircled hilltop settlements, particularly in Europe.

A notable example is Mycenae, a powerful city-state in ancient Greece. By the 14th century BCE, its rulers had constructed massive Cyclopean walls, named for their enormous limestone blocks, so large that later Greeks believed only the mythical Cyclopes could have built them. Mycenae's Lion Gate, adorned with a stone relief of lions, remains standing and is one of the most iconic survivals of ancient fortification.

Near East, cities like Babylon were surrounded by formidable walls. King Nebuchadnezzar II (6th century BCE) expanded the walls of Babylon, which Greek historians like Herodotus claimed were so wide that chariots could race atop them. However, modern scholars question this scale, the archaeological remains nonetheless show double and triple layers of defense, with crenellated towers and fortified gates such as the Ishtar Gate, now reconstructed in Berlin's Pergamon Museum.

Side note:- Today it is well recognized that the historical writings of Herodotus were heavily laced with artistic license

Iron Age hill forts and ramparts

With the arrival of the Iron Age (c. 1200 - 600 BCE), tribal societies in Europe began constructing hill forts, which were fortified enclosures built on elevated ground to command views of the surrounding landscape. These were often surrounded by dry-stone walls, timber palisades, and deep ditches.

In Britain, examples such as Maiden Castle in Dorset and Danebury Hillfort in Hampshire provide extensive archaeological evidence of Iron Age fortifications. Maiden Castle, one of the largest hillforts in Europe, features multiple concentric ramparts and ditches, which would have been topped with wooden palisades. Excavations have revealed signs of violent conflict, including weaponry and evidence of burning, indicating their active use in war.

Further afield, (large fortified settlements) emerged in the Celtic world during the late Iron Age. Sites like Bibracte in modern France combined residential, commercial, and defensive functions, surrounded by stone walls that reflected both technological innovation and social complexity.

The Roman military machine

No civilization better epitomized systematic military fortification than ancient Rome. Roman engineers constructed a vast network of forts (castra), walls, and border defenses that spanned the empire.

Standardized fort blueprints included rectangular layouts with rounded corners (similar to modern-day forts), stone walls, watchtowers, and barracks within. A well-preserved example is Housesteads Roman Fort along Hadrian's Wall in northern England, which was part of a continuous defensive structure begun in 122 CE to mark the empire's northern boundary. Many stretches of Hadrian's Wall remain visible today, with watchtowers and milecastles dotting the windswept hills.

Another notable example is Vindolanda, located just south of Hadrian's Wall. Layers of occupation have revealed multiple phases of construction, including wooden forts predating the stone phase, as well as thousands of writing tablets, providing a rare glimpse into daily life at a Roman military outpost.

The age of castles; medieval fortifications

With the fall of Rome and the fragmentation of Europe, defensive architecture took on new forms in response to feudal power structures and frequent warfare. The castle emerged as both a military stronghold and a symbol of lordly authority.

The earliest medieval castles were motte-and-bailey structures, popularized in Norman-controlled areas following the conquest of England in 1066. These consisted of a wooden or stone keep perched on a raised mound (the motte), accompanied by a courtyard (the bailey) enclosed by a wooden palisade and ditch. Clifford's Tower in York originated as a wooden structure, with later stone enhancements.

As military tactics evolved, so did castles. From the 12th century onward, stone became the standard, and concentric fortifications with curtain walls, crenellations, and moats emerged. Castles like Dover Castle in England or Carcassonne in France, still standing in remarkable condition demonstrate the complexity of medieval defense systems. Features like machicolations (openings through which defenders could drop stones or boiling oil), arrow slits, and drawbridges became common.

The Tower of London, begun by William the Conqueror in the late 11th century, evolved over centuries from a simple keep into a formidable fortress complex with multiple layers of defense. Its central White Tower still dominates the skyline, surrounded by curtain walls and bastions that testify to successive waves of expansion.

Archaeological legacies; fortifications beneath the feet

While many castles and city walls survive above ground, even more remain buried beneath centuries of sediment and urban development. Tell sites in the Middle East, such as Tell Brak in Syria or Tell es-Sultan at Jericho, consist of accumulated layers of occupation where ancient fortifications are discovered at lower strata, sealed by later civilizations.

Modern techniques like ground-penetrating radar, LIDAR, and aerial photogrammetry have revolutionized the discovery and mapping of these ancient defenses. At Troy in western Turkey, Heinrich Schliemann's 19th-century excavations revealed multiple layers of city walls, some dating back to the late Bronze Age, indicating a continuous occupation of the site and once thought to be myth, now recognized as an archaeological fact.

In Scandinavia, Viking ring fortresses such as Trelleborg in Denmark, dating to the 10th century, were only rediscovered through aerial surveys and excavations. These perfect circular enclosures with symmetrical gates and wooden palisades were highly advanced for their time and demonstrate the military precision of Viking engineers.

All these sites simply show that the history of fortification is as much a story of evolving engineering as it is of social and political transformation. As materials improved and societies grew more organized, so too did the scale and complexity of their defensive architecture. While many ancient palisades and timber walls have rotted into obscurity, their stone successors, ramparts, towers, and battlements continue to shape the landscapes and cities of the modern world.

From the buried remains of prehistoric hillforts to the tourist-drawing towers of medieval castles, fortifications remain some of the most enduring monuments of human civilization. They speak not only of the human fear of conflicts but also of the ingenuity, determination, and capacity for monumental construction.

In conclusion, the evolution of fortifications reflects far more than a mere arms race between attackers and defenders, it charts the rise and fall of civilizations, the march of technology, and the changing fabric of human society. Each wall, ditch, bastion, and barbican tells a story, not just of conflict, but of ingenuity, adaptability, and the deep-seated human desire for permanence and protection.

From the early walls of Jericho and the tower-studded ramparts of Babylon to the moated castles of medieval Europe and the precise, measured castra of Rome, fortifications reveal how communities confronted insecurity in both practical and symbolic terms. They were not only shelters against physical threats but also statements of power, order, and control. The very act of building a fortification, whether a Bronze Age citadel, an Iron Age hillfort, or a Norman castle was a declaration of intent: to claim and hold territory, to deter rivals, and to withstand the unknown.

Moreover, these structures evolved hand-in-hand with developments in military tactics, political authority, and material science. The shift from earth and timber to dressed stone, the introduction of concentric defenses, and the incorporation of innovations such as drawbridges, towers, and bastions all point to a dynamic interplay between builders and besiegers.

Fortifications were never static; they were constantly adapted, expanded, and sometimes abandoned as the tides of history shifted. Even in the modern era, the ghostly outlines of these ancient structures, revealed through archaeology, satellite imaging, and painstaking excavation are a reminder that beneath the foundations of modern cities and towns lie the remnants of humanity's earliest efforts to shape and safeguard its future.

Discoveries such as the multi-layered defenses at Troy, the perfect geometry of Viking ring forts, or the massive Cyclopean walls of Mycenae underscore how sophisticated early societies truly were, and how much effort and resources they devoted to their protection.

Today, as individuals or researchers marvel at restored castles or peer over ancient battlements worn by time, as a species we are not merely looking at relics of warfare, we are witnessing the resilience of human civilization, etched into earth and stone. Fortifications, in their many forms, represent a universal language of resistance and survival, transcending geography, culture, and chronology. They are lasting proof of the lengths humanity and cultures have gone to safeguard their people and citizens, while asserting their dominance, and expressing their identity through architecture.

In a world increasingly defined by fluid borders and new forms of conflict, cyber, ideological, and environmental, the ancient fortifications that still dot the landscape serve as poignant reminders of a time when stone walls and high towers stood between safety and peril. Their enduring presence is a bridge between the distant past and the present, inviting an appreciation of craftsmanship, in addition to, the historical importance, along with reflections on what it means to build, to defend, and ultimately, to endure.

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Notes:

The walls of Jericho, long immortalized in biblical stories and tradition as having "come tumbling down" at the blast of Israelite trumpets, have been a subject of both faith and archaeological inquiry. While the dramatic biblical account attributes their collapse to divine intervention during Joshua's conquest, archaeological evidence has suggested a more grounded explanation. The technique of undermining, where besiegers dig beneath a wall to weaken its foundations, may have been responsible for their fall.

Excavations at Tell es-Sultan, the site of ancient Jericho, have uncovered significant remains of fortification systems, including massive stone retaining walls and mudbrick superstructures that once stood atop them.

Kathleen Kenyon's work in the 1950s revealed a collapsed pile of mudbrick debris at the base of the retaining wall on the western side of the site. This discovery pointed to a sudden structural failure of the upper walls. Rather than the result of an earthquake or simple erosion, archaeologists have interpreted this pattern of collapse as indicative of human action, specifically, undermining.

Undermining involved digging tunnels under a wall and setting fire to supporting wooden beams, causing the earth and wall above to collapse. This was a known siege technique in the ancient Near East. In Jericho's case, if besieging forces had tunneled beneath the mudbrick structures resting on the stone base, the sudden release of pressure would have caused the entire superstructure to slide outward and down, resulting in the kind of massive debris field Kenyon uncovered. The consistency and location of the rubble support the theory of internal weakening and outward collapse, which aligns with the effects of undermining.

Thus, while the biblical narrative presents the destruction of Jericho's walls as a miraculous event, the archaeological record offers a plausible military explanation rooted in ancient siegecraft. The evidence of collapsed mudbrick walls at the base of the fortifications suggests that undermining, rather than trumpet blasts, was likely the true cause behind the dramatic fall of one of history's most legendary walled cities.

Tell sites

Characteristics of Tell Sites:

Layered occupation:

A tell forms when successive generations build new structures on top of the ruins of older ones, often using mudbrick, which erodes and compacts over time.

Each layer (or stratum) represents a different period of occupation, producing a chronological sequence that archaeologists can study.

Mound shape:

Tells are typically conical or flat-topped mounds, with steep sides formed by centuries of erosion and debris accumulation.

They often stand prominently above the surrounding landscape.

Rich in cultural material:

Tells are archaeological goldmines, containing artefacts, architecture, burial remains, tools, and ceramics that reveal much about ancient daily life, trade, and society.

Examples of famous Tell sites:

Tell Brak in Syria

Tell el-Hesi in Israel (one of the first to be scientifically excavated)

Tell Halaf and Tell al-Rimah in Mesopotamia

Çatalhöyük in Turkey, a Neolithic mega-settlement and one of the oldest known tells

Archaeological importance:

Excavating a tell site allows archaeologists to trace the long-term development of a community or region.

The stratigraphy within a tell is crucial for relative dating, where deeper layers are generally older than those above.

In short, tells are time capsules of human occupation, offering a vertical record of history at a single geographic point.

The root of the word palisades

The word "palisades" comes from the Middle French word palisade, which itself is derived from the Provençal (palisada) and ultimately from the Latin word palus, meaning stake.

Therefore, originally the Latin word palus, meaning stake or "post, Latin (plural), pali, stakes (used to construct barriers), and late Latin verb, palicium meaning a fence made of stakes, passed to old French: palis a stake or fence, through middle Middle French, palisade meaning a defensive fence made of stakes.

Eventually into English in the late 16th century, as palisade, a fence of wooden stakes or iron railings fixed in the ground, used as a defensive structure.

Thus originally, a palisade referred to a defensive barrier or fence made of pointed wooden stakes, often driven into the ground in close succession. Used from ancient and medieval times to fortify military camps, towns, or temporary strongholds.

The term later expanded to describe natural formations resembling fences of stakes, such as cliffs or steep rock faces, hence, names like The Palisades along the Hudson River in the United States.

The root of the word castle

The word "castle" has a rich etymological history that reflects its military and feudal significance throughout the centuries.

The word castle finds its root in Latin, originating from the Latin term castellum, which is a diminutive of castrum, meaning "fort" or "military camp."

Castrum refers broadly to Roman military encampments or forts, therefore, Castellum would then mean a small fort or fortified place which was often used to describe watchtowers, outposts, or minor fortifications during the Roman Empire.

Evolution into English:

The Latin castellum passed into Old English as castel, but it was primarily reintroduced into English through, Old French, Castel or chastel (modern French: château) during the Norman Conquest (1066 CE), which had a profound impact on the English language.

Whereas, in Middle English, the word became castel, retaining the meaning of a large fortified residence or stronghold of a lord. However, in modern English, it was eventually standardized as "castle", the term came to refer specifically to the fortified residences of European nobility during the medieval period.

The Peninsula Campaign and The Seven Days Battles: Part 2

The American Civil War had a number of critical junctures in 1862. Here, Lloyd W. Klein considers the 1862 Peninsula Campaign and The Seven Days Battles. Here, he considers the final part of the campaign, including the Seven Days Battles.

A depiction of the Battle of Savage's Station.

Battle of Oak Grove or French’s Field (June 25, 1862)

A surprise attack by McClellan began a series of six major battles over the next week—the Seven Days Battles. By the last week of June, the Army of the Potomac lay astride the Chickahominy River, two-thirds of its strength south of the river and one-third north of it. Lee hoped to crush the portion north of the river and then turn against the rest.

The first of the Seven Days battles was The Battle of Oak Grove. McClellan had finally decided to move forward to initiate a siege, and the foundation of this battle was to get closer to the city of Richmond. He sent two divisions across a swampland called White Oak Swamp.

What ultimately prompted McClellan to take action was the intelligence he received indicating that Lee was poised to launch an attack. Additionally, he became aware that Major General Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson's corps was on its way from the Shenandoah Valley. In light of this information, McClellan resolved to initiate an offensive before Lee could execute his own plans. Had McClellan demonstrated greater effectiveness in his approach, it is conceivable that he could have disrupted Lee's intended maneuvers. The Union's assault originated from the left flank, which was the opposite flank Lee intended to target the following day.

McClellan's strategy involved advancing closer to the city limits to commence siege operations. He aimed to reposition his siege artillery approximately a mile and a half nearer to the target, selecting Old Tavern near Nine Mile Road due to its advantageous elevation. However, to reach this location, he first needed to secure Oak Grove, situated to the south of Old Tavern. Oak Grove consisted primarily of a cluster of oak trees in proximity to Seven Pines. Given the ongoing skirmishes in the area since the previous battle, it was expected that this would be his initial objective. The terrain between the opposing lines featured a dense forest that extended for 1,200 yards and was characterized by swampy conditions.

To lead the assault, McClellan appointed his two most seasoned commanders, Joseph Hooker and Philip Kearny. The brigades were commanded by Daniel Sickles, Cuvier Grover, and John Robinson. While Grover and Robinson made commendable progress, Sickles, positioned on the right flank, found himself amid the swamp and faced significant Confederate resistance. This situation resulted in a distortion of the line. A Confederate brigade under Ambrose Wright launched a counterattack in the center, forcing a retreat. An additional complication arose from uniform confusion, as one of Wright’s regiments donned red Zouave uniforms, leading Sickles’ troops to hesitate in firing upon them, having only encountered Union regiments in similar attire.

McClellan was situated at a considerable distance from the battlefield, located three miles behind the front lines, which foreshadowed the behaviors to come. His attempts to issue commands via telegraph were hampered by his lack of awareness regarding the unfolding events, leading him to panic and call for a withdrawal that left those present on the field perplexed. A prolonged pause of two and a half hours followed as the Union forces awaited McClellan's leadership on-site. Upon his eventual arrival and assessment of the situation, which he deemed less dire than anticipated, he instructed his troops to return to the swamp they had recently vacated, effectively placing General Heintzelman in a position of de facto command during the engagement.

The battle itself was relatively minor in scale, with the Union army managing to advance a mere 600 yards at the expense of approximately 600 casualties, resulting in an inconclusive outcome.

Battle of Mechanicsville or Beaver Dam Creek (June 26, 1862)

On the following day, Lee initiated a significant offensive. Confederate troops commanded by A.P. Hill launched an assault on the Union's right flank at Mechanicsville, specifically at Beaver Dam Creek. The Union forces, led by Fitz John Porter, were well-fortified and successfully repelled the Confederate attack, resulting in substantial casualties for the attackers. The strategic objective of this assault was to compromise the Union's right flank near the Chickahominy River, as a collapse in this area would have jeopardized the integrity of the entire Union line.

From the outset, the Confederates encountered difficulties. The initial plan involved Stonewall Jackson leading the attack; however, he failed to arrive on schedule, causing a significant delay. A.P. Hill, positioned and awaiting Jackson's signal, ultimately faced the dilemma of either continuing to wait or proceeding independently with his division and a brigade from D.H. Hill. Jackson's anticipated assault from across the river was a crucial element of the strategy, and the complexity of the plan proved challenging for Lee to manage among his dispersed commanders. Additionally, Union artillery inflicted severe damage on the Confederate forces, while Hill neglected to deploy his artillery. As a result, Hill's repeated assaults were largely ineffective, leading to numerous failed attempts. General Fitz-John Porter and V Corps, entrenched behind Beaver Creek Dam, successfully defended the area, suffering nearly 1,500 casualties in the process.

Stonewall Jackson did not appear when he was anticipated by the Confederates. Utilizing a railroad tunnel beneath the Blue Ridge Mountains, he had arrived earlier than expected and subsequently transported his troops to Hanover County via the Virginia Central Railroad. McClellan did expect Jackson at Mechanicsville. Intelligence reports had indicated that Jackson's forces were still in the Shenandoah Valley, which contributed to McClellan's decision to withdraw upon learning that Jackson had reached the battlefield. But Jackson's troops, having endured intense fighting in the Valley, were already fatigued, and their march to the front lines further drained their energy. At 3 PM, General Hill, growing impatient, launched an attack without explicit orders. When Jackson eventually reached the scene, he was unable to locate General Hill and decided to set up camp despite the ongoing sounds of combat. This incident marked the beginning of several missteps in his military conduct, with some attributing his inaction to narcolepsy, suggesting he may have succumbed to sleep due to exhaustion.

President Davis was present, observing the situation, and both he and Lee were perplexed by the ongoing attacks. Lee had anticipated that the offensive would commence only after Jackson made contact, which added to his confusion when the battle erupted in Jackson's absence. The persistent assaults by the Confederates were regarded as one of the significant miscalculations of the war, with Lee attributing the failure to Jackson.

The outcome of the battle seemed to indicate a clear victory for the Union forces. But in that critical moment, McClellan assessed that his right flank was indeed exposed, jeopardizing his supply line. Consequently, he initiated a withdrawal to the southeast, inadvertently granting Lee the strategic advantage. This retreat proved to be a considerable error, as the Union's defenses were robust, and the Confederates had incurred substantial losses, with approximately 1,500 casualties compared to 360 on the Union side. McClellan's failure to recognize the Confederate assault as a chance for a counteroffensive or to capitalize on Lee's divided forces led him to order Porter to retreat to a new position at Gaines’ Mill, forsaking the advantageous stance at Mechanicsville. A decisive counterattack against Lee's vulnerable forces could have potentially dismantled the Confederate right wing.

The Seven Days Battles. By Hlj, available here.

Battle of Gaines’ Mill (June 27, 1862)

Gaines' Mill stands out as the battle during the Seven Days Campaign that most clearly showcased General Lee's capabilities as a military leader. His approach was characterized by significant risk-taking, which underscored his aggressive command style and his readiness to pursue high-stakes opportunities. At this pivotal moment, Lee successfully gathered between 60,000 and 65,000 Confederate troops, while the Union forces, commanded by Fitz John Porter, comprised approximately 34,000 soldiers on the battlefield.

Lee’s perspective. After the indecisive Battle of Oak Grove and Lee’s attack on the Union right at Mechanicsville was repulsed with great losses, witnessed by his president, Lee might have been encouraged to proceed cautiously. However, Lee discerned a potential vulnerability, believing that a retreat following a battle that resulted in a Union victory indicated a strategic weakness. Seizing this opportunity, Lee initiated a formidable attack on Porter's isolated V Corps at Gaines' Mill, recognizing that Porter had retreated to that location and resolved to capitalize on the situation.

General Fitz John Porter and V Corps had been successful at Mechanicsville defending against Lee’s attack. In the pre-dawn hours of June 27th, McClellan issued a series of urgent directives to his commanders, instructing them to either relocate or abandon their supply trains and to retreat towards the James River, where they would establish a new supply base shielded by artillery support from naval gunboats. McClellan entrusted Porter, his most reliable subordinate, with the critical responsibility of maintaining the rearguard for the Federal army north of the Chickahominy River. Following these orders, Porter retreated eastward, securing a formidable position that overlooked Boatswain’s Swamp, a river boundary that was notably absent from Lee’s maps.

As Lee advanced, he encountered a well-fortified perimeter established by Porter’s forces. The Confederate commander launched renewed assaults, only to discover Union troops strategically positioned behind a stream that Lee had not expected to be present. Lee focused his efforts on the right flank of the Union Army, where General Porter and V Corps found themselves isolated on the northern bank of the Chickahominy River. While Richmond’s elite looked on, Confederate generals A. P. Hill and Richard S. Ewell charged up a steep hill, suffering horrific casualties. Despite Lee's commitment of all six divisions to frontal assaults, the attacks were poorly coordinated and initially failed to dislodge Porter’s men.

Longstreet directed four brigades against the Union left, while D. H. Hill and Richard Ewell also launched attacks across open terrain leading to the woods, brush, and swamps bordering the creek, all of which were met with fierce resistance. The situation shifted when Stonewall Jackson, arriving late and slow to engage, finally entered the fray. A massive frontal assault involving 32,000 men under A. P. Hill ensued, ultimately breaking the Union line. In the wake of this overwhelming offensive, Union commanders Slocum and Sykes were compelled to retreat, marking a significant turning point in the battle.

Gaines' Mill stands out as the sole battle that General Lee could genuinely regard as a tactical victory during the Seven Days Campaign, as the other encounters resulted in either defeats or draws. This battle is notable not only for its immediate outcome but also for its significant ramifications on subsequent military engagements throughout the Civil War. From a leadership perspective, Lee achieved success despite the Confederates' numerous unsuccessful assaults, culminating in a final, coordinated offensive that ultimately shattered the Union defenses.

General Lee undertook significant risks during this battle, notably by dividing his forces against a numerically superior opponent. He concentrated a substantial contingent to launch an assault on the Union's right flank at Gaines’ Mill while assigning a smaller group to defend Richmond and hold back McClellan’s remaining troops south of the Chickahominy River. This strategic division left Richmond vulnerable to potential Union attacks, particularly if McClellan had chosen to exploit this opportunity rather than retreat. A counteroffensive toward Richmond might have overwhelmed Lee’s fragmented forces, jeopardizing the Confederate capital.

Additionally, Lee ordered a large-scale frontal assault against the Union's fortified position on a ridge, which was well-defended by artillery and natural barriers. Such assaults are historically known for their high costs and challenges. The initial Confederate attacks resulted in significant casualties, and further attempts risked not only demoralizing his troops but also depleting his forces without achieving a breakthrough. Furthermore, Lee's strategy relied heavily on the timely arrival of Stonewall Jackson’s corps to strike the Union flank; however, delays due to fatigue and confusion left Lee's initial maneuvers unsupported. By committing nearly all available Confederate units to the battle at Gaines’ Mill, Lee left himself with few reserves to address unexpected developments, which could have severely weakened his army and compromised the defense of Richmond had the assault failed.

Despite the staunch resistance encountered, the Union lines eventually faltered, compelling General McClellan to withdraw across the Chickahominy River. Lee's victory might have been even larger were it not for Jackson's misdirected march and poor staff work. The major assault that Lee unleashed at 7 p.m. breaking the defense could have occurred three or four hours earlier, which would have put Porter in jeopardy, before the reinforcements arrived and obviating the benefit of the cover of darkness.

Lee’s gamble at Gaines’ Mill paid off. His aggressive tactics overwhelmed the Union defenses late in the day, forcing McClellan to retreat across the Chickahominy River and abandon his advance on Richmond. While costly, the victory demonstrated Lee’s willingness to take calculated risks to achieve strategic objectives, a hallmark of his leadership throughout the war.

John Bell Hood led the Texas Brigade that led the charge that broke the Union line near the Watt house. Hood himself survived unscathed, but over 400 men and most of the officers in the Texas Brigade were killed or wounded. He broke down and cried at the sight of the dead and dying men on the field. After inspecting the Union entrenchments, Maj. Gen Stonewall Jackson remarked, "The men who carried this position were truly soldiers indeed."

Jackson was late for a multitude of reasons. During the opening stages of the battle, his men were led down the wrong road, which resulted in an hour-long countermarch. Once on the right road, Jackson’s men encountered roadblocks and sharpshooter fire, which delayed his men even further. By the time Jackson arrived on the field, A.P. Hill’s men were already engaged with the Federals.

Porter had faced multiple waves of attacks and managed to maintain his position. Nevertheless, in order to sustain his defense, he required additional troops. The bulk of McClellan’s forces were stationed across the Chickahominy River, while Jackson’s division was lagging behind, having lost its way en route to the battlefield. After successfully repelling a series of Confederate offensives throughout the afternoon, Porter made a request for reinforcements. McClellan, albeit reluctantly, dispatched only Slocum’s division, which allowed Lee to effectively organize his attacks and finally bring Jackson into the fray. With 16 brigades, totaling approximately 32,000 men, Lee launched an assault against a similarly sized defensive force. As the evening progressed, Porter’s line began to falter, leading to a retreat towards the Chickahominy River.

By 7 p.m., Lee's entire Confederate contingent was assembled and ready to engage the Federal lines. The attack on June 27th, led by A.P. Hill, represented the largest offensive of the Civil War, with over 30,000 troops participating. This assault was nearly twice the size of Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg and exceeded Winfield S. Hancock’s attack at the Mule Shoe during the Battle of Spotsylvania, as well as the Confederate charge at the Battle of Franklin.

Despite having a numerical advantage overall, McClellan failed to provide adequate support to Porter during the conflict. While Lee focused nearly his entire army on Porter, McClellan left a significant portion of his forces inactive on the southern bank of the Chickahominy River, thereby missing a critical opportunity to strike at Richmond or Lee’s rear. By bolstering Porter with a substantial number of troops or initiating a simultaneous offensive across the river to target Lee’s left flank, McClellan could have altered the course of the battle and potentially delivered a decisive blow to Lee’s forces. He could have even opted to send a considerable contingent directly to threaten Richmond itself.

Lee’s victory at Gaines' Mill saved Richmond and the Confederacy in 1862.  V Corps had been defeated. Two entire Union regiments were surrounded and had to surrender. The tactical defeat led McClellan to retreat. He believed he was in a trap, caught between two rivers. He declared publicly that his campaign against Richmond was over. When General Grant was in almost the same position in 1864 after the Battle of Cold Harbor (the battlefield is almost adjacent), he did not let the opportunity slip away.

Garnett’s & Golding’s Farm (June 27–28, 1862)

While the battle at Gaines's Mill raged north of the Chickahominy River, the forces of Confederate General John B. Magruder conducted a reconnaissance in force that developed into a minor attack against the Union line south of the river at Garnett's Farm. To escape an artillery crossfire, the Federal defenders from Maj. Gen. Samuel P. Heintzelman’s III Corps refused their line along the river.

The Confederates attacked again near Golding’s Farm on the morning of June 28 but were easily repulsed. These "fixing" actions heightened the fear in the Union high command that an all-out attack would be launched against them south of the river. The action at the Garnett and Golding farms accomplished little beyond convincing McClellan that he was being attacked from both sides of the Chickahominy. McClellan had decided to retreat to his base at the eastern end of the Peninsula on the James River. He called it a “change of base”, but for him, the campaign was over.

Magruder once again employed a ruse of making a lot of noise and marching his men in circles conspicuously to convince McClellan that he had a lot more men than he did. He was clever to recognize that something so simple could be so successful. General Magruder’s nickname was “Prince John” for his dramatic manner and his interest in the theater. His dress and attitude were flamboyant and intended for showmanship. He learned the value of deception in the Mexican War. He had goaded General Butler into attacking him at Big Bethel. He understood intuitively that when intelligence is lacking, commanders make decisions irrationally, and can be deceived by noise and shadows.

Brig Gen Robert Toombs, who had resigned as the Confederate Secretary of State due to his disagreements with the President, was ordered to create a diversion.  Instead, the movement turned into a sharp attack. Winfield Scott Hancock led the defense against the attack and stopped it cold.

The two farms were situated close to the Seven Pines battlefield, with Fair Oaks Station located just to the south. These farms can be found approximately a few miles roughly northwest relative to the train station, which lies south of the Chickahominy River. The strategic situation involved General Lee launching a vigorous assault on the Union's right flank in the north while merely feigning an attack on the Union's left. Despite this tactical deception, General McClellan chose to retreat, a decision that was particularly perplexing given the significant losses incurred to secure that territory initially.

The rationale behind McClellan's retreat is difficult to comprehend, as he had several more advantageous alternatives available for a potential repositioning. The retreat necessitated the movement of not only his infantry but also a considerable amount of artillery, including 16 siege guns, along with 3,800 wagons and over 2,500 cattle. Viable options for alternative bases included White House Landing and West Point, advancing towards Fort Monroe, or maintaining his position on the right while planning an offensive against Richmond. Opting to move south across the Peninsula towards the James River not only represented a strategically weak choice but also posed logistical challenges due to the limited road access in that direction, providing Lee with the opportunity to launch an attack on McClellan's rear guard.

Battle of Savage’s Station (June 29, 1862)

McClellan's over-reactions during the encounters at Mechanicsville and Golding's Farm, which, were not classified as defeats yet prompted withdrawals, captured Lee's attention. Recognizing a potential opportunity to destroy McClellan's entire army, Lee formulated a comprehensive plan for pursuit. It is important to highlight that this approach was notably aggressive; he could have simply declared victory without further action. However, Lee was in the hunt of a more significant objective.

To execute his strategy, Lee dispatched the divisions of James Longstreet, A. P. Hill, and Theophilus H. Holmes to the southeast, positioning them to target McClellan's left flank. He instructed Stonewall Jackson, who was leading his division, along with the divisions of D. H. Hill and Brigadier General William H. C. Whiting, to repair a bridge over the Chickahominy River and subsequently launch an attack on McClellan's forces from the north. Additionally, Lee commanded Brigadier General John B. Magruder to advance his division along the Richmond and York River Railroad to engage McClellan's rearguard.

As McClellan found himself in a full retreat, he left behind a rearguard consisting of three corps: Brigadier General Edwin V. Sumner’s 2nd Corps, Brigadier General Samuel P. Heintzelman’s 3rd Corps, and Brigadier General William B. Franklin’s 6th Corps, stationed near Savage’s Station. Interestingly, McClellan did not designate an overall commander to oversee the operations of his rearguard, which could have provided a more coordinated defense during this critical battle.

Savage’s Station was a stop on the Richmond and York River Railroad, acting as a depot for McClellan’s supply lines. This location also hosted a Union field hospital, where medical personnel attended to approximately 2,500 soldiers who had sustained injuries during the Battle of Gaines’ Mill. As Magruder’s division advanced eastward along the railway, the Federal forces were engaged in preparations for evacuation, systematically destroying any supplies that could potentially benefit the Confederates.

On June 29, at 9 a.m., Magruder initiated combat with Sumner at Orchard Station, located two miles west of Savage’s Station. Although Sumner's forces outnumbered the Confederates by a margin of 26,000 to 14,000, Magruder anticipated reinforcements from Jackson on his left flank and Huger’s division on his right. However, Jackson failed to arrive on time, having misunderstood his orders and remained positioned north of the Chickahominy River, while Huger was not present on Magruder’s right as expected.

Concerned that his outnumbered troops might be vulnerable to a Federal assault, Magruder sought additional support. In response, General Lee provided him with two brigades from Huger’s division, stipulating that these reinforcements would need to be returned if no attack occurred by 2 p.m. As the designated time arrived and elapsed without incident, Magruder was compelled to send back the additional forces. Confronted with the challenging situation of engaging a significantly larger enemy contingent, he opted to delay his offensive until 5 p.m.

There were rumors regarding Magruder's potential consumption of alcohol, largely stemming from his distinctive character, although substantial evidence to support these claims is lacking. At this critical juncture, he issued a series of perplexing orders for an assault, which may have been influenced by morphine administered to alleviate severe indigestion. This possible impairment in judgment led to the issuance of unclear and hesitant commands, resulting in less than half of his available troops participating in the subsequent confrontation.

With no overall commander in charge of the federal rear guard, Heintzelman decided that two divisions were enough to hold off Magruder and unilaterally marched his men south to join the main army, without informing Sumner or Franklin. After learning of Heintzelman’s departure, Sumner’s directives proved even more cautious than Magruder’s. When Magruder finally attacked, Sumner deployed only ten of his twenty-six regiments during the engagement.

After several hours of intense fighting, the engagement concluded around 9 p.m. as darkness fell and violent thunderstorms erupted. While the combat was fierce at times, the outcome remained ambiguous. The Confederates incurred approximately 450 casualties, whereas the Federals faced nearly 900 losses; however, General Magruder was unable to dislodge General Sumner from his position.

That evening, General Lee sent a dispatch to Magruder expressing his disappointment regarding the lack of progress made in pursuing the enemy: “GENERAL, I regret much that you have made so little progress today in pursuit of the enemy. In order to reap the fruits of our victory the pursuit should be most vigorous. I must urge you, then, again to press on his rear rapidly and steadily. We must lose no time, or he will escape us entirely.” Despite Lee's insistence, Sumner managed to evade capture. Anticipating the arrival of Jackson during the night, McClellan instructed Sumner to withdraw from Savage’s Station, leaving behind 2,500 soldiers and medical personnel at the Union field hospital. By noon the following day, the majority of McClellan’s army had successfully crossed the White Oak Swamp, thereby eluding Lee’s encirclement.

Battle of Glendale (June 30, 1862) & Frayser’s Farm or White Oak Swamp

Following the defeat of the Union V Corps at Gaines’ Mill on June 27, General McClellan made the strategic decision to abandon his campaign aimed at capturing Richmond. He directed his forces southward toward the James River, seeking refuge and resupply from the naval vessels stationed there. Meanwhile, General Lee recognized McClellan's retreat and perceived an opportunity for a significantly larger victory.

On June 30, three divisions of Confederate troops converged on the retreating Union army at the crossroads near Glendale. Major Generals James Longstreet and A. P. Hill initiated assaults both north and south of Long Bridge Road, targeting the V Corps Pennsylvania Reserves division commanded by Brigadier General George A. McCall. In response, the II Corps division under Brigadier General John Sedgwick, along with the III Corps divisions led by Brigadier Generals Phil Kearny and Joseph Hooker, moved to reinforce McCall. Despite their efforts, Longstreet and Hill managed to momentarily breach the Federal line and capture McCall.

Lee attempted to orchestrate a coordinated strike against the Union rear as McClellan's forces retreated toward the James River. However, the Confederate forces suffered from a lack of coordination once again. Longstreet, in particular, deployed his troops in a fragmented manner rather than as a unified assault. Huger was expected to be part of one of four attacking columns aimed at the Union lines, traveling along the Charles City Road with William Mahone in the lead. Unfortunately, they encountered a blockade of felled trees just two miles away. Although the obstruction could have been cleared within a few hours, Mahone proposed the construction of a two-mile parallel road through the woods. This decision ultimately prolonged their advance, as the Union army continued to fell more trees along the route, preventing Huger from reaching the intended position.

Maj. Generals James Longstreet and A. P. Hill successfully breached the Federal defenses, leading to the rout of the Pennsylvania Reserve division along with other brigades. Their advance brought them close to the Frayser farm, which is situated near the residence of R. H. Nelson. In response, Union forces, commanded by Brig. Generals Joseph Hooker and Phillip Kearny, launched counterattacks that effectively safeguarded the Union's line of retreat along the Willis Church Road. By nightfall, the Federals managed to maintain control over this critical route, which provided access to the remainder of the Union army, allowing them to withdraw to a more defensible position at Malvern Hill.

In terms of troop strength, the Confederates had a slight numerical advantage over the Union forces, with approximately 45,000 soldiers compared to 40,000. The casualty figures were nearly equal, with both sides suffering around 3,700 losses. This engagement, like many others, ended inconclusively, with the Union army narrowly averting a potential disaster.

At Glendale, General Lee's strategic ambitions faltered. General Magruder spent the day maneuvering in the rear of the Confederate Army without engaging in the attack. Meanwhile, General Jackson remained north of the White Oak Swamp, preoccupied with a futile artillery exchange with the Army of the Potomac's VI Corps. Despite the discovery of viable fords by some of his officers, Jackson's inaction during the intense fighting nearby left Longstreet and A. P. Hill's divisions to shoulder the primary burden of the battle. Although their initial assaults succeeded in breaching General George McCall's division and even capturing McCall himself, Union forces under Generals Hooker, Kearny, and Sedgwick managed to halt their advance. The fierce combat, characterized by hand-to-hand encounters, continued until darkness descended, ultimately preventing Longstreet and Hill from seizing the crucial crossroads and allowing McClellan’s army to maintain a strong defensive position against Lee’s disorganized attacks.

While the battle was tactically inconclusive, it represented a strategic victory for the Federal forces. General Lee was unable to fulfill his goal of obstructing the Federal retreat and significantly damaging or annihilating McClellan's army. In contrast, despite suffering substantial losses, the Federal troops successfully repelled the Confederate attacks, enabling the majority of the Army of the Potomac to safely navigate through and establish strong defensive positions at Malvern Hill.

McClellan's absence from the battlefield was once again evident, as he delegated the management of the conflict to his subordinates. During the Battle of Glendale he remained five miles away, positioned behind Malvern Hill, lacking telegraphic communication and too far to effectively direct his forces. His focus appeared to be on retreating to the James River, which ultimately represented a lost opportunity for the Union. A more assertive approach at Glendale could have dealt a significant blow to Lee's army and possibly curtailed the Confederate pursuit. General Porter assumed the role of the de facto field commander during this engagement.

Malvern Hill (July 1, 1862)

On July 1, 1862, after enduring six days of intense combat, the Army of the Potomac made its way to the James River. With confidence bolstered by the presence of nearby naval gunboats, Major General George McClellan's forces established a position on Malvern Hill, situated one mile from the river at an elevation of 130 feet. McClellan took decisive action by fortifying the hilltop with artillery batteries to protect the open fields below, while strategically positioning his infantry with the V Corps on the western slope and the III and IV Corps on the eastern side, ensuring a robust reserve in the rear. Confederate General Robert E. Lee aimed to weaken the Union defenses through a sustained artillery barrage prior to launching an infantry assault. At approximately 1:00 p.m., both armies commenced an artillery exchange, which ultimately proved to be largely ineffective.

Over four hours, a series of miscalculations in strategy and communication led to three unsuccessful frontal assaults by Lee's forces, which charged across open terrain without the support of Confederate artillery. This approach, characterized by direct infantry attacks against well-fortified Union positions, proved ineffective in the context of modern warfare, where artillery and rifled weapons had transformed combat dynamics.

As Lee directed his infantry to advance, the attacks lacked proper coordination, resulting in staggered assaults that faltered before reaching the hill's summit. The initial charge was led by General Lewis Armistead, who found his forces immobilized midway up the hill. Following this, General Magruder launched an attack with his division, which included brigade leader General Barksdale. Initially hesitant due to the perceived ineffectiveness of the artillery fire, D.H. Hill delayed his support for two hours before finally ordering his men to engage in five separate, uncoordinated attacks.

The Union's defensive position was formidable, featuring nearly one hundred artillery pieces strategically positioned along the plateau's summit, with an additional 150 guns held in reserve, complemented by three infantry divisions prepared for combat. In contrast, the Confederate forces were only able to concentrate a maximum of 15 artillery pieces on each flank, which were swiftly neutralized by the Union's superior artillery. The lack of effective communication and ambiguous orders among the Confederate ranks led to devastating losses. The effectiveness of the Federal artillery proved to be the pivotal element in the conflict, successfully repelling every Confederate assault and securing a tactical victory for the Union.

About 55,000 soldiers took part on each side, employing more than two hundred pieces of artillery and three warships. The battle resulted in over 5,600 casualties for the Confederates, representing approximately 10% of their forces, while the Union experienced about 3000 casualties. D.H. Hill, witnessing the devastation, expressed his dismay by stating that the events on the battlefield resembled murder rather than warfare. Surveying the carnage on the bloody field, he remarked disgustedly, “it was not war, it was murder.”

During the Battle of Malvern Hill, General McClellan was on a gunboat, the USS Galena, which at one point was ten miles away, down the James River. His distance rendered him incapable of effectively managing the battle, leading to criticism during the 1864 presidential campaign, where editorial cartoons mocked his preference for the safety of the vessel while conflict raged nearby. Consequently, the responsibility for commanding the army fell to Brigadier General Fitz John Porter, the commander of the V Corps.

Brig Gen Henry Hunt, emerged as the pivotal figure in this confrontation. Colonel Hunt was on McClellan's staff at Malvern Hill and is credited for the gun placement at Malvern Hill. Lt. Col. Webb probably assisted him. Hunt played a crucial and decisive role through his masterful use of artillery. Though not a frontline combat commander in the traditional sense, his contributions at Malvern Hill were pivotal to the Union victory. Hunt selected and arranged about 250 Union cannons on high ground at Malvern Hill, using the terrain to his advantage. He deployed 40 pieces of artillery along the ridge by Willis Church road, covering every direction the Confederates would attack. He established overlapping fields of fire and positioned batteries so they could mutually support one another and repel infantry assaults. He insisted on fire discipline, ordering that cannons only fire at optimal range and at designated targets, not in an uncontrolled barrage. This preserved ammunition and ensured maximum effectiveness during Confederate charges.. While the Union gunboats contributed somewhat, it was Hunt’s artillery placement that resulted in victory. General Lee proceeded with his assaults without conducting a thorough reconnaissance of the enemy's defenses. Undertaking such an assessment would have necessitated at least a half-hour journey to the front lines. Aware that this was his final opportunity to confront McClellan, Lee relied heavily on the intelligence provided by his subordinates, which historians believe may have underestimated the fortifications.

The engagement at Malvern Hill was a definitive victory for the Union forces. Following multiple failed attempts to penetrate the Union defenses, General Lee decided to cease further attacks as darkness descended, effectively concluding the battle. Simultaneously, McClellan directed his troops to retreat toward Harrison’s Landing along the James River, thereby marking the conclusion of the Peninsula Campaign and the Seven Days Battles.

Summary & Implications

“I, Philip Kearny, an old soldier, enter my solemn protest against this order for retreat. We ought instead of retreating should follow up the enemy and take Richmond. And in full view of all responsible for such declaration, I say to you all, such an order can only be prompted by cowardice or treason.”

When General Lee assumed leadership of the Army of Northern Virginia following the wounding of General Joseph E. Johnston, the Union army was perilously close to Richmond, just four miles away. Lee successfully repelled Union forces, preventing their advance toward Richmond,. The defeat for the Union in the Peninsular Campaign not only delayed their victory for two years but also resulted in the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives.

Over a single week, Lee orchestrated a series of daily engagements in a rapid campaign. Employing a strategy he would later replicate, he audaciously split his smaller army to launch attacks at multiple locations, compelling McClellan to retreat from Richmond and back down the peninsula. The ambitious campaign of the so-called 'Young Napoleon' ultimately faltered, while Lee's actions preserved Richmond. McClellan's forces remained at Harrison’s Landing for several weeks, ultimately returning to Washington with little to show for their efforts.

The Seven Days had produced unimaginable carnage. It had been the bloodiest week in American history up to that time, producing more than 34,000 casualties (19,000 Confederate, 15,000 Union). The reversal of fortune represented the first significant turning point in the conflict. For nearly a year, the Union forces, particularly in the Western Theater, had advanced with seemingly unstoppable momentum toward victory, and had even reached the outskirts of Richmond. As news circulated, both Americans and international observers began to form expectations about the war's conclusion, with The New York Times suggesting that hostilities might cease by Independence Day.

However, the events of June 1862 revealed that the Confederate cause had merely been waiting for a leader of exceptional skill to change its trajectory. The emergence of such leadership altered the dynamics of the war, demonstrating that the outcome was far from predetermined. The initial confidence in a swift Union victory was challenged, as the realities of warfare unfolded, reshaping the perceptions and strategies of both sides in the ongoing conflict.

While McClellan’s army performed well tactically in several engagements, particularly at Mechanicsville and Glendale, his reluctance to act decisively and his fixation on retreating to a secure position cost him the chance to gain ground at any of the Seven Days Battles. A more aggressive commander might have turned one or more of these battles into a decisive Union victory, potentially ending the Peninsula Campaign on favorable terms. McClellan had opportunities to achieve significant victories, but his cautious approach and mismanagement of certain engagements prevented him from capitalizing on these moments.

The retreat made Lincoln so angry that he suspended McClellan from command of all the armies, leaving him only the Army of the Potomac. McClellan blamed the War Department, Lincoln, and the Secretary of Defense for his defeats. McClellan distanced himself from his defeat. During the last engagements of the Seven Days, he boarded a gunboat on the James River, watching events from afar and letting one of his corps commanders, Fitz-John Porter, lead the fighting. Typically, McClellan blamed others for the setback. He bitterly wrote to Stanton: ‘If I am to save this army, it will be no thanks to you or any other person in Washington. You have sacrificed this army.’

Although Lee deserves the accolades he has received as a master tactician for taking an aggressive stance with a smaller force to ward off a much larger one, the military reality is that all of these fights were essentially draws; one was a Rebel victory, at least two more of a Union victory. And the losses were staggering. General Lee did not yet have his subordinates in control. At this stage of the war, no one had the experience or expertise needed to coordinate complex offensives, especially in an army with a brigade-centered structure. That was about to change.

Nevertheless, Robert E. Lee’s decision to adopt an aggressive approach during the Seven Days Battles was informed by a combination of strategic insight, intelligence, and a keen understanding of his opponent. Lee calculated that aggressiveness would succeed. He recognized that George B. McClellan was a cautious and risk-averse commander. McClellan’s hesitation to act decisively during the Peninsula Campaign gave Lee confidence that an aggressive strategy could unnerve and outmaneuver him. Lee understood that McClellan was more likely to retreat than to respond with bold counterattacks.

Confederate Intelligence also played a role. Lee had access to information that revealed McClellan’s slow movements and defensive mindset. Confederate cavalry commander J.E.B. Stuart’s famous ride around McClellan’s army in mid-June 1862 provided valuable reconnaissance, showing that McClellan’s flanks were exposed and his forces were spread thin. Lee believed that McClellan would not expect an offensive campaign from a Confederate army that was perceived as outnumbered and on the defensive. By taking the initiative, Lee hoped to disrupt McClellan’s plans and seize the psychological advantage. Lee understood the importance of logistics to McClellan’s campaign. By attacking his supply lines, he threatened the entire army beyond a large battle, compelling McClellan to abandon his advance on Richmond.

Aftermath

General Kearny would be killed later that year at the Battle of Chantilly.

General Hancock emerged as an essential figure, significantly influencing the Union's triumphs at both Gettysburg and the Overland Campaign. In 1880, he sought the presidency as the Democratic Party's nominee but was narrowly defeated by James Garfield, another former Union general, with a margin of just 39,000 votes out of a total of 8.9 million cast.

Robert Rodes participated in the battles of South Mountain and Antietam, later playing a pivotal role at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg before being killed at Third Winchester. He is often regarded as one of the most promising Confederate major generals whose potential was not fully realized, having received his training at VMI rather than West Point, which was favored by President Davis.

Benjamin Huger was deemed too old for command and pushed out, to the trans-Mississippi. His failures to appear in a timely way were interpreted as a lack of initiative.

General Magruder was banished to command in the far west. Lee had no tolerance for anyone who couldn’t control himself, and flamboyance would seem to be the antithesis of General Lee. Histories of the war often assert that Magruder was prone to drunkenness on duty and that his actions at Savage’s Station allowed a large portion of the AoP to escape. There isn’t much documentation of his being inebriated, and as the narrative suggests, there were plenty of mistakes made by just about everyone involved in this battle. He spent the remainder of the war administering the District of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona and the Department of Arkansas; in his tenure, Magruder lifted the naval blockade over Galveston and recaptured the city in 1863. After surrendering the Trans-Mississippi Department in June 1865, Magruder fled to Mexico. He worked in an administrative role under Emperor Maximillian I before returning to the United States in 1867.

D.H. Hill served with distinction in these battles; however, his temperament did not align with that of General Lee. Consequently, he was assigned the task of defending Richmond during the forthcoming campaign. Following the incident known as the Lost Order at Antietam and the death of his brother-in-law, Jackson, at Chancellorsville, Hill found himself once again stationed in Richmond for the Pennsylvania Campaign before being reassigned to General Bragg in the Western Theater. This pattern of leaving behind those he could not rely on was characteristic of Lee's approach to commanders he deemed untrustworthy.

The performance of Stonewall Jackson during the Seven Days battles was notably poor. He arrived late at Savage's Station and failed to utilize fording sites to cross White Oak Swamp Creek at Glendale, instead spending hours attempting to reconstruct a bridge. This miscalculation resulted in a limited contribution to the campaign, as he was relegated to an ineffective artillery exchange and missed a critical chance to make a decisive impact. His absence left A.P. Hill and Longstreet to fend for themselves in their assaults. The great Stonewall Jackson was essentially a non-factor in this particular campaign.

Longstreet, in the Peninsula Campaign, had operational command of over half the Confederate Army, but his efforts had a mixed impact, with great successes and failures. Longstreet’s biggest contribution in the Peninsula was to help General Johnston conduct a sound retrograde back toward Richmond, and try to improve the organization and command and control of the only brigade centric Confederate army in a time when both sides were still learning how to put together effective units and then fight them together. When Lee took over some of this had been done, and Longstreet helped Lee to reach a good divisional structure.

As the command structure evolved, Longstreet and Jackson were formally appointed as Lee's immediate subordinates, serving as Corps commanders, while A.P. Hill's reputation significantly improved in Lee's eyes. The centralization of command proved to be an effective strategy for managing an army with a smaller staff. These adjustments in leadership would mark a period of remarkable success for Lee's army over the next eleven months, ultimately leading to some of General Lee's most notable achievements on the battlefield.

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References

·       Matthew Spruill, Decisions of the Seven Days. Knoxville, University of Tennessee Press, 2021.

·       https://www.battlefields.org/learn/civil-war/battles/gaines-mill

·       https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/10-facts-battle-gaines-mill

·       https://www.americanhistorycentral.com/entries/seven-days-battles/

·       https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/seven-days-battles

·       https://www.historynet.com/details-bridging-the-chickahominy-river.htm 

·       https://apps.dtic.mil/sti/pdfs/AD1116765.pdf

·       https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/seven-days-battles

·       https://www.americanhistorycentral.com/entries/battle-of-oak-grove/

·       https://www.americanhistorycentral.com/entries/battle-of-savages-station/

·       https://encyclopediavirginia.org/entries/gainess-mill-battle-of/

·       James M McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom. Oxford University Press, 1988.

·       Shelby Foote, The Civil War: A Narrative. Volumes 1-3. Random House, 1963.

·       Crenshaw, Doug. Richmond Shall Not Be Given Up: The Seven Days' Battles, June 25–July 1, 1862.Emerging Civil War Series. El Dorado Hills, CA: Savas Beatie, 2017.

Sleeping with the Bomb: The Unsettled Legacy of the SS Richard Montgomery

It lies just beneath the surface—literally and figuratively. A rusting American Liberty ship, broken-backed and quietly corroding off the coast of Kent and Essex, barely three miles from Sheerness. To many in the southeast of England, the name Richard Montgomery is familiar, even faintly iconic. Its skeletal masts still protrude from the Thames Estuary at low tide like a warning, or a forgotten monument. But beneath those masts lies something altogether more sobering: over 1,400 tons of unexploded ordnance. The wreck is a wartime time capsule that, by all reasonable estimates, has the potential to unleash the largest non-nuclear explosion on British soil since the Second World War.

Richard Clements explains.

The wreck of the SS Richard Montgomery. Source: Christine Matthews, available here.

The story of the SS Richard Montgomery has never truly gone away. Locals have lived in its shadow for decades. Teenagers are warned off from daring swims. Journalists periodically revisit it. The government monitors it. Yet in recent months, the Richard Montgomery has once again found its way into headlines. With new sonar scans, rising concerns over corrosion, and questions about how long inaction can remain the official policy, this long-silent threat has begun to murmur again.

A Wartime Wreck with a Dangerous Cargo

The SS Richard Montgomery was built in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1943—one of over 2,700 Liberty ships constructed at speed to fuel the Allied war effort. She arrived in the Thames Estuary in August 1944, destined to join a larger convoy headed for Cherbourg, where her cargo—thousands of tons of munitions—was to support operations in liberated France. At the time, the estuary’s Great Nore Anchorage near Sheerness served as a gathering point for vessels awaiting safe passage.

While anchored there, the Montgomery’s mooring reportedly dragged or failed, and the vessel drifted onto a shallow sandbank known as Sheerness Middle Sand. Grounded and listing, the ship’s structural integrity was compromised. Efforts to refloat her proved unsuccessful. Salvage teams began offloading the munitions, but before the operation could be completed, the ship’s hull split amidships.

An estimated 6,000 tons of ordnance had been on board. Roughly half was safely removed. The remainder—some 1,400 tons by official estimates—remains inside the forward holds to this day. The cargo includes high explosive bombs, anti-tank devices, and aerial munitions, many of which have become unstable with time. A wartime manifest is believed to exist, though details have often been redacted in public summaries. Over the years, surveys have confirmed the presence of explosive material, but exact specifications are rarely disclosed in full.

The wreck was declared a dangerous site, and further salvage was ruled out for fear that disturbing the remaining cargo could trigger an explosion. Instead, the area was marked with buoys, designated an exclusion zone, and subjected to regular monitoring—a policy that has continued into the 21st century.

Living with the Risk

For most residents of coastal Kent and Essex, the Richard Montgomery is less a mystery than a fact of life—an ever-present silhouette on the horizon. Its masts, protruding from the water like the ribs of a fossilized beast, have been visible for generations. Schoolchildren grow up hearing about it. Locals give it a wide berth. And yet, for something that holds such destructive potential, it remains curiously normalized.

Signs near the shoreline warn of exclusion zones. Maritime charts mark the wreck with bright symbols. Navigation buoys flash their silent signals to passing vessels. But on land, conversation about the ship is often casual. It has become, over time, one of those shared local oddities—like a long-standing crack in the pavement or a tree that leans the wrong way. Everyone knows it’s there. Most choose not to think about it too much.

The British government has kept a close, if quiet, eye on the wreck. Annual surveys by the Maritime and Coastguard Agency check for structural shifts. A Department for Transport report in 2022 reiterated that the risk of explosion remains low so long as the site is left undisturbed. But concerns do resurface. In 2020, the Ministry of Defence released footage from a sonar scan showing the ship’s hull deteriorating, fueling public speculation.

There have been no shortage of ideas over the years—from controlled detonation to encasing the wreck in concrete. None have gained traction. Each option, it seems, carries greater risk than simply leaving it alone. Successive governments have opted for cautious monitoring rather than intervention, a decision often criticized as kicking the can down the road. Yet the wreck persists, and so does the uneasy status quo.

For those who live nearby, this balance between familiarity and latent danger is strangely British in character. Not quite forgotten, not quite feared, the Richard Montgomery remains part of the local backdrop. As one long-time resident in Sheerness once quipped to a reporter, “If it hasn’t gone up by now, it probably won’t—will it?”

Back in the Headlines

After decades of relative obscurity, the Richard Montgomery has once again captured national attention. In early June 2025, Kent Online confirmed new flight restrictions imposed over the wreck—pilots are now prohibited from flying below 13,100 feet within a one-nautical-mile radius, following expert advice aimed at further reducing risk. This no-fly rule, in effect until further notice, applies to all aircraft except emergency or coastguard flights.

The news wasn’t confined to regional outlets. National broadcasters followed with commentary on broader safety concerns, describing the wreck as “a forgotten time bomb” in one headline. Security experts noted that the estuary’s proximity to major shipping lanes—used by LNG carriers and container ships—heightens concerns not only of accidental detonation but also of potential sabotage.

Despite the growing attention, subsequent government statements have maintained a cautious posture. The Department for Transport confirmed that structural deterioration is ongoing, but insisted the risk remains low provided the site remains undisturbed. Meanwhile, maritime exclusion zones are still enforced and the wreck continues to be monitored by the Maritime and Coastguard Agency.

Managing a Legacy: Proposals and Precautions

Over the decades, a variety of solutions have been considered for the Richard Montgomery. Options have ranged from full ordnance removal to structural reinforcement or burial in concrete. However, none have been pursued—primarily because the danger of disturbing the wreck is considered greater than leaving it alone.

The Maritime & Coastguard Agency, the Department for Transport, and the Ministry of Defence have stuck to a policy of passive containment. The site is clearly marked and monitored, with exclusion zones for shipping and—as of June 2025—a no‑fly zone prohibiting aircraft below 13,100 feet within a one‑nautical‑mile radius.

The remaining cargo, estimated at around 1,400 tons of high explosives including bombs of various sizes and white phosphorus smoke devices, remains buried in the forward holds beneath silt and collapsed steel. As long as the wreck remains undisturbed, the official assessment describes the threat as low, though not negligible.

While public imagination often oscillates between a catastrophic detonation and a safe cleanup, reality demands nuance. These wrecks are treated more like dormant geological faults—stable under current conditions but potentially volatile if tampered with.

Lessons from the Deep: The SS Kielce Case

A comparable cautionary example comes from the English Channel, with the Polish freighter SS Kielce. The Kielce sank in 1946, carrying munitions when it collided with another ship off Folkestone. The wreck settled in some 90 feet of water—well over twice the depth of the Richard Montgomery, which lies at approximately 50 feet.

In 1967, efforts to dismantle the Kielce ended badly. The Folkestone Salvage Company placed demolition charges on the hull and inadvertently detonated remaining munitions. The blast created a crater in the seabed over 150 feet long, 67 feet wide, and 20 feet deep. It registered as a magnitude 4.5 seismic event—detected across Europe and North America—and shattered windows and roofs in Folkestone, several miles away.

It is worth noting that despite its deeper waters and lower explosive payload, the Kielce explosion still caused significant damage. In contrast, the Richard Montgomery sits in shallower water—its masts still visible above the low tide—and holds far more ordnance. Its proximity to densely populated areas and strategic infrastructure such as Sheerness docks and Thames shipping lanes makes its situation uniquely sensitive.

The Kielce disaster remains a sobering historical precedent. It underlines the unpredictable dangers of attempting salvage operations on munitions-laden wrecks, and supports the reasoning behind official efforts to keep the Montgomery undisturbed.

Conclusion – Between Memory and Responsibility

The SS Richard Montgomery is more than a rusting wreck—it is a persistent testament to wartime legacies and the decisions we make to contain them. Its silhouetted masts serve as a stark reminder that beneath the Thames isn’t just history, but latent danger.

The Kielce incident teaches us that intervention—even cautious, professional intervention—can have unintended consequences. That wreck lay deeper and held fewer explosives than the Montgomery, yet when disturbed, its blast shook communities and created seismic ripples around the world.

The Thames wreck lies closer to shore, holding much more volatile material. It is not merely passive decay; it is a hazard managed by surveillance, exclusion zones, and measured restraint. While erosion and rust continue their slow work, the official approach remains surveillance—not removal.

In the end, the Richard Montgomery reveals much about our relationship with the past. It sits—watched, measured, contained—but unresolved. An explosive time capsule in shallow water, it tests the limits of prudence. As history recedes into memory, this wreck stands as a powerful symbol of the care and caution we must exercise in the aftermath of war.

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References

Daily Express. “Warning over UK ‘Time Bomb’ Ship Loaded with 1,400 Tons of Explosives.” Daily Express Online, June 2025.

Department for Transport. Annual Report on the Condition of the SS Richard Montgomery Wreck Site. London: UK Government Publications, 2022.

Kent Online. “New No-Fly Zone Introduced over Richard Montgomery Wreck.” KentOnline, June 4, 2025.

Maritime and Coastguard Agency. Wreck Monitoring Report: SS Richard Montgomery, 2023.

Smith, Roger. “The Kielce Explosion of 1967: Lessons from a Wartime Wreck.” Maritime Historical Review, Vol. 11, No. 2, 1998.

BBC News Archive. “Underwater Blast Rocks Channel: Wreck Detonates during Salvage.” BBC News, July 1967.

Folkestone Salvage Company Records. “Case File: SS Kielce,” National Archives Reference FS/1967/072.

The History and Development of the Ballista

Throughout ancient military history, the ingenuity of engineers often turned the tide of empires. Among the most fearsome weapons conceived by the minds of Hellenistic and Roman engineers was the ballista, a mechanical marvel that hurled death with frightening accuracy across ancient battlefields and siege lines. Part crossbow, part artillery piece, the ballista became one of the most iconic weapons of ancient warfare, capable of instilling dread and exacting destruction. Yet despite its power, it was not always the decisive weapon its inventors hoped it would be.

Terry Bailey explains.

A depiction of a ballista being loaded and drawn. By Pearson Scott Foresman, available here.

Origins: A Greek invention with a Roman evolution

The ballista traces its origins to the Greek engineers of the 4th century BCE, who were inspired by the tension-based power of the gastraphetes, an early handheld crossbow. Engineers under Dionysius I of Syracuse, a powerful Greek tyrant, began to scale up this concept, producing larger torsion-powered engines capable of launching heavy bolts and stones. These machines employed twisted skeins of sinew or hair to store immense energy, an innovation that marked a leap from basic tension weapons to sophisticated torsion artillery.

When Alexander the Great set out on his campaigns, his engineers brought ballistae along, using them for siege operations and battlefield support. But it was the Romans, renowned for adopting and refining enemy technology, who truly unlocked the weapon's potential. By the 1st century BCE, the ballista was a regular component of Roman military engineering, appearing in battles and sieges. Roman versions, often mounted on carts or towers, featured improved accuracy and range, thanks to meticulous craftsmanship and standardization.

Design and capabilities

Unlike the catapult, which lobbed projectiles in an arc, the ballista was a direct-fire weapon, hurling iron-tipped bolts or stones along a flat trajectory. Large ballistae could fire bolts over 300 meters with frightening precision, capable of piercing armor, shields, or targeting small groups of soldiers. The torsion springs, made from animal sinew or hair, stored immense energy, while the twin arms and a winched mechanism allowed for repeated loading.

Its precision made it a favored weapon for picking off high-value targets: enemy officers, sentries, siege engineers, or even towers and battlements. In defensive roles, ballistae were stationed on fortifications to snipe advancing attackers or disrupt siege machinery.

Decisive use in warfare

The ballista proved its worth in siege warfare, where accuracy was key. During Julius Caesar's siege of Avaricum in 52 BCE, ballistae were employed to clear Gallic defenders from their walls while Roman sappers and ladders advanced. Their psychological impact was immense, defenders were struck down from great distances, often without warning. A more dramatic example comes from the siege of Jerusalem in 70 CE, during the First Jewish–Roman War. Roman ballistae, according to Josephus, rained bolts and stones into the city, causing widespread destruction and panic. The sheer power and range of the machines contributed to breaching Jerusalem's formidable walls and demoralizing its defenders. Ballistae were also used effectively in field battles, albeit more sparingly due to their weight and setup time. In battlefield support, smaller versions known as scorpiones were deployed among Roman legions. These could be quickly assembled and fired over the heads of advancing infantry, targeting enemy troops or cavalry at a distance.

Where the Ballista fell short

Despite its power, the ballista was not a miracle weapon. It had several limitations that restricted its use in mobile, fast-paced warfare.

During the Battle of Carrhae in 53 BCE, where Roman forces under Crassus faced the nimble Parthian cavalry, ballistae and other siege engines proved ineffective. The light horse archers and cataphracts simply stayed out of range, constantly moving, and avoiding the predictable trajectories of Roman artillery. Crassus' legions were outmaneuvered, their static weapons offering no meaningful advantage against such fluid tactics.

Similarly, in the Battle of Teutoburg Forest in 9 CE, the dense terrain and ambush conditions rendered Roman artillery useless. The ballistae, cumbersome and requiring clear lines of fire, were a poor fit for forested ambushes where speed and maneuverability were vital.

Even in sieges, their setup time, dependency on trained engineers, and the need for consistent maintenance meant that if a campaign moved too fast, or the engineers were killed, ballistae could become logistical burdens.

Legacy and influence

While gunpowder eventually rendered torsion weapons obsolete, the ballista's influence is unmistakable. The principles behind its engineering—torsion power, precision targeting, and mechanical leverage continued to inform later developments in artillery. Medieval engineers, for instance, developed the springald, a similar torsion-based machine used for castle defense.

Today, reconstructed ballistae can be seen in museums and experimental archaeology sites, where modern tests confirm their devastating accuracy. More than just siege engines, they represent the sophisticated understanding of mechanics and materials achieved by ancient civilizations.

A weapon of precision, not versatility

The ballista was a triumph of ancient engineering, a precision weapon that excelled in static or siege-based warfare. When used in the right conditions, open siege fields, fortified positions, could be devastatingly effective. But in fast-moving or uneven terrain, its limitations became apparent. Unlike the sword or the bow, it was not a universal weapon, but a specialized tool in the ancient arsenal. Still, the ballista's legacy endures as a symbol of military ingenuity, a machine that combined the mechanical genius of the ancient world with the brutal realities of war. It remains a testament to how the ancients solved the eternal challenge of delivering lethal force at a distance, long before the age of gunpowder or rockets.

Conclusion

Needless to say, within ancient warfare the ballista occupies a unique position, not merely as a weapon of destruction, but as a profound expression of mechanical sophistication and tactical nuance. Unlike many of its battlefield contemporaries, the ballista was not designed for indiscriminate slaughter or rapid assaults; it was crafted to do one thing with relentless efficiency: strike with precision. This made it a formidable instrument in the measured and calculated operations of siege warfare, where distance, targeting, and psychological impact could determine the outcome before walls were even breached.

The story of the ballista is also the story of how science and strategy converged in the ancient world. It embodies the early fusion of mathematics, material science, and practical engineering, demonstrating how human intellect could transform raw physical forces, torsion, leverage, and elasticity, into an organized repeatable system for projecting power across space. From the experimental machines of Hellenistic Greece to the standardized arsenals of the Roman legions, the ballista represents a milestone in the evolution of long-range warfare.

However, the ballista's legacy is not simply technical. It underscores a fundamental truth of military history: no weapon, no matter how sophisticated, is infallible outside the context for which it was designed. The same machine that could shatter fortress walls and terrify garrisons proved powerless against nomadic horsemen or guerrilla ambushes in dense forests. This tension between potential and practicality ultimately shaped its role on the battlefield. The ballista was never a silver bullet, but in the hands of disciplined engineers and tacticians, it became a scalpel—deadly, deliberate, and exacting.

Today, the ballista endures not just in museum reconstructions or historical texts, but as a symbol of a deeper heritage. It reminds us that the ancients were not merely warriors, but thinkers and builders, people who saw war not only as a contest of strength, but as a challenge of problem-solving and innovation. In every sinew-wound skein and grooved bolt channel lies a fragment of that ancient ingenuity, echoing a time when wood, iron, and intellect converged to project power with terrifying precision.

The ballista may have faded from the battlefields of history, overtaken by gunpowder and steel, but its principles live on in every weapon designed to strike with speed, force, and accuracy. It is a relic of the past, yes, but also a harbinger of modern ballistics and the timeless human pursuit of mastering distance through technology. In the ballista, the ancient world built not only a weapon, but a legacy, living on in our use of the word ballistics.

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Extensive notes:

Etymology of Ballista

The term ballista originates from the Greek word βαλλίστρα (ballistra) or βαλλιστής (ballistēs), which is rooted in the verb βάλλειν (ballein), meaning "to throw" or "to hurl." This ancient linguistic root reflects the fundamental purpose of the ballista as a siege engine designed to launch projectiles with force and accuracy.

The Romans adopted the word into Latin as ballista (plural: ballistae), retaining both the term and the machine's essential function. Over time, the word passed into various European languages, preserving its association with military technology and the act of launching objects over distance.

The plural form, ballistae, follows classical Latin grammatical rules, where nouns ending in -a in the singular (and belonging to the first declension) typically take -ae in the plural. Thus, a single device, (ballista) or multiple devices or generalization as ballistae when describing these formidable war machines. This classical inflection is still used today in academic and historical contexts when referring to ancient artillery.

The etymology of ballista is directly connected to the modern term ballistics, the scientific study of projectiles in motion. The link lies in the shared Greek root ballein, emphasizing motion through the act of throwing. In contemporary usage, ballistics encompasses the analysis of trajectories, propulsion, and impact, fields of study that have evolved from the principles underlying ancient weaponry like the ballista.

Thus, while modern ballistics deals with bullets, rockets, and missiles, its conceptual ancestry can be traced back to ancient engineers and their mastery of mechanical launch devices, making the ballista a distant but significant precursor to the science of modern projectile motion.

Construction of the ballista

The basic construction of the ballista was a sophisticated blend of wood, sinew, and iron, designed to maximize torsion power and precision. At its core, the ballista was essentially a giant, torsion-powered crossbow with two arms mounted horizontally on a robust wooden frame. These arms were connected to tightly wound skeins, bundles of twisted sinew or animal tendons that acted like springs. When the arms were pulled back with a winch and released, the stored energy in the twisted cords would propel the projectile forward at high speed.

The main frame, often constructed from oak or other durable hardwoods, supported a pair of vertical posts with holes through which the skeins were threaded. The throwing arms made of wood reinforced with metal passed through these skeins, and their rotation was restricted to build up torque. A sliding carriage or track (known as a cheiroballistra in some Roman versions) held the projectile either a large bolt or a stone and guided it forward along a groove during the release.

A ratcheted winch and trigger mechanism allowed operators to pull back the throwing arms with considerable force and hold them securely until the moment of firing. Some versions featured metal fittings and tension-adjusting mechanisms, enabling fine control over the torque for improved accuracy and power. To protect against the massive stresses of repeated firing, many ballistae had reinforced joints and bronze or iron brackets at pressure points.

Despite its complex appearance, the ballista's construction was a masterpiece of ancient engineering, combining mechanical leverage, elasticity, and tension. Its components could be broken down and transported by carts, then reassembled in the field by trained Roman engineers, a testament to its thoughtful and modular design.

Gastraphetes

The gastraphetes, (γαστραφέτης), meaning "belly-bow" in Ancient Greek, was an early form of crossbow and a remarkable precursor to later torsion-powered artillery like the ballista. Invented sometime in the 5th century BCE, possibly by engineers in the city of Syracuse or by the famed Greek polymath Ctesibius of Alexandria, the gastraphetes represents a crucial step in the evolution of ancient projectile weaponry. Unlike later torsion-based designs, it relied entirely on mechanical tension in a bow made from composite materials rather than sinew-powered skeins.

What set the gastraphetes apart was its method of operation. The weapon was propped against the user's belly, (hence the name), to stabilize it while a slider mechanism was pushed downward to cock the bowstring. This innovative design allowed the user to exert far greater force than was possible with a hand-drawn bow, resulting in significantly increased projectile power. The device featured a stock or groove along which a heavy arrow or bolt could be placed, and a catch mechanism allowed the user to release the bolt with controlled precision.

The gastraphetes was primarily a siege weapon, not typically used by individual soldiers in open battle. It was most famously described by the engineer Heron of Alexandria, (Ἥρων ὁ Ἀλεξανδρεύς), in his works on mechanics, and it likely saw use in warfare before the rise of more sophisticated torsion-powered artillery. Though eventually overshadowed by ballistae and catapults, the gastraphetes laid the groundwork for mechanical shooting devices in both Greek and later Roman military arsenals, making it one of the earliest examples of man-portable mechanical artillery in Western military history.

Scorpiones

The scorpio (plural scorpiones) was a small yet deadly piece of Roman artillery that served as a critical component of siege warfare and battlefield tactics during the height of the Roman Empire. Derived from earlier Greek torsion-powered technology, the scorpio functioned much like a large crossbow and was designed to launch bolts or stones with great force and accuracy. Its name, Latin for "scorpion", likely referred to the weapon's stinging, sudden strike and perhaps its claw-like arms, which drew back the projectile.

Scorpiones were typically powered by twisted sinew or hair ropes, which stored torsional energy. When the weapon was loaded and the arms drawn back, this energy was released to propel a long iron-tipped bolt or small stone at high velocity. While the scorpio was not as massive or as destructive as larger siege engines like ballistae or onagers, it excelled in precision and speed. Roman legionaries used them for sharpshooting from defensive walls or on the battlefield to pick off enemy officers or disrupt tight formations.

Compact and relatively portable, the scorpio could be operated by a team of just a few men, making it highly versatile for both offensive and defensive operations. During Julius Caesar's campaigns, particularly in Gaul, scorpiones played an important role in fortifying Roman camps and repelling enemy assaults. In the imperial period, each legion was issued several scorpiones, and they were often mounted on wooden towers or fortified walls to provide overlapping fields of cover.

Though smaller than other siege engines, the psychological and tactical impact of the scorpio was considerable. A single well-placed shot could kill an enemy commander or punch through shields and armor, sowing confusion and fear. Over time, improvements in design and materials helped increase their range and reliability, securing the scorpio's place as a mainstay of Roman military engineering.

Springald

The springald was a medieval siege engine resembling a giant mechanical crossbow, designed primarily to launch bolts or stones over long distances. Developed in Europe during the 12th and 13th centuries, the springald was a descendant of earlier Roman torsion-powered artillery like the ballista. However, it was adapted for new battlefield requirements in medieval warfare. Unlike the ballista, which was often mounted horizontally, springalds were typically mounted vertically or at an angle and encased in a protective wooden frame, giving them a box-like appearance. This design allowed them to be used defensively from within castle towers and behind fortifications.

The power of the springald came from twisted skeins of sinew, hair, or rope known as torsion springs which stored energy when the weapon's arms were pulled back. Upon release, the arms would snap forward, hurling the projectile with considerable force. Though not as powerful or far-reaching as trebuchets or mangonels, springalds had a much faster reload time and greater accuracy when firing bolts, making them effective for defending gates, walls, and choke points against attacking forces. They were instrumental in countering enemy siege ladders, towers, or light infantry approaching too closely.

By the 15th century, with the rise of gunpowder and cannons, springalds became obsolete. However, they remain a fascinating example of the ingenuity of medieval engineers, who adapted ancient principles of torsion and leverage to meet the needs of their time. Reconstructed models and manuscript illustrations provide valuable insight into their construction and deployment, showing how medieval defenders sought a balance between rate of fire, accuracy, and destructive potential.

Remembering the Sorsa Era: A Golden Period for Social Democracy in Finland?

This September is a significant milestone in the history of Finnish democratic socialism; marking the 50th anniversary of the end of the first socialist-led coalition of Kalevi Sorsa. A journalist who went on to work for UNESCO and the Finnish foreign ministry on multiple occasions, while also going on to serve as Secretary and later Chairman of his own Social Democratic Party (SDP), Sorsa became prime minister following a general election held in Finland in 1972. Over the next three years, Sorsa presided over a truly transformative administration. Although circumstances led to his government’s premature collapse in 1975, Sorsa would go on to serve as prime minister again for three non-consecutive terms; in the process holding that position for a longer period than any of his predecessors.

Vittorio Trevitt explains.

Finnish politician Kalevi Sorsa in 1975. Source: http://www.finna.fi/Cover/Show?id=musketti.M012%3AHK7155%3A309-75-1&index=0&size=large&w=1200&h=1200
Image record page in Finna: musketti.M012%3AHK7155%3A309-75-1, Available here.

Despite the electoral victory achieved by the SDP, it failed to win enough seats to win majority representation in both the cabinet and in the legislature; a situation that remained unaltered during Sorsa’s subsequent premierships. The lack of socialist majorities in these two bodies, however, was no obstacle to radical social reform. What helped the SDP was the fact that the Centre Party, one its main coalition partners during the Sorsa years (though not always seeing eye to eyewith the Social Democrats), had a progressive outlook on social issues, advocating not only extensions to the welfare state but also the facilitation of rented housing, further educational opportunities and the utilisation of income policies in reducing inequalities. Additionally, the Liberal People’s Party and the Swedish People’s Party (two long-established groups that would become mainstays of various cabinets led by Sorsa) were advocates of activist, socially responsible government. Thanks to the intervention of the country’s president, a broad-based coalition comprising parties of differing philosophical persuasions was formed, with Sorsa at the helm. Thus marked the beginning of an age of reform that one could call “The Sorsa Era.”

Sorsa’s electoral successes can be seen in the wider context of a global trend towards socialism, in which certain developments witnessed left-wing parties enter government in several countries; many for the first time. In 1974, after Portugal’s long-established right-wing dictatorship came to a long-awaited end following a coup, the Portuguese colonies of Angola, São Tomé and Príncipe, Cape Verde, Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau became independent states with leftists at the head of these new, free nations. In Europe, an election held in Ireland in 1973 produced a coalition formed between Fine Gael and the social-democratic Labour Party, with the latter awarded cabinet posts related to social concerns that enabled it to realise important advances in social security in subsequent years. Five years later, an election in San Marino resulted in the formation of a socialist-communist governing alliance that would lead the principality for the next 13 years. “The Sorsa Era” was therefore not unique to Finland, but a reflection of international politics at that time.

Notable government

What was notable about Sorsa’s longevity was the fact that his SDP, unlike its counterparts in Norway, Sweden and Denmark, had failed to establish itself as the dominant force in national politics, with most governments that led Finland following its independence from the Russian Empire in the early Twentieth Century being of a liberal or conservative orientation. This did not mean, however, that the SDP remained a political outsider. In 1926, the SDP made a breakthrough when it formed a minority administration (albeit a temporary one), and nearly a decade later formed a key part of what was known as a “Red-Earth” ministry with liberal and agrarian-oriented figures. Lasting from 1937 to 1939, it was responsible for milestones in social legislation such as the introduction of comprehensive maternity aid, better dietary requirements for seamen, and wide-reaching pension coverage. After the Second World War, the SPD often provided positions in coalition cabinets, two of the most notable being the “Popular Front” cabinets from 1946-48 and from 1966-70 (the former communist-led and the latter SDP-led) which affected major reforms in areas like education,social security, occupational safety, and workers’ rights. The SDP also governed alone, first from 1948-50 and again from 1956-57. During these periods, it presided over notable undertakings in social policy. Amongst others, these included measures to improve accident insurance and combat TB (including free treatment for poorer patients), provide care for mentally disabled people, and facilitate employment opportunities. Sorsa’s terms enabled him to build on the record of past left-wing coalitions, leaving his own imprint on domestic policy in the process.

The legislative output of Sorsa’s first administration was considerable, with a broad array of reforms carried out that reflected the democratic socialist aspirations of his party. New pension benefits were introduced in cases of disablement together with farmers’ retirement and succession, while a greater number of people became entitled to financial support for housing. The innovative Day Care Act required municipalities to provide either childminders at home or day care facilities; effectively making childcare an integral part of the Finnish welfare state. Extra grants for children under the age of three were introduced, together with recompense (both monetary and in kind) in cases of wrongful arrest, detainment and criminal damage; the latter including the property in addition to the person involved. Guaranteed pay in cases of insolvency and bankruptcy was also enshrined into law, along with measures aimed at ensuring safe working conditions, while the replacement rate of supplementary private sector pensions was raised by a sizeable amount. Legislation was introduced providing for free trials and the establishment of local legal aid offices (aimed at ensuring that limited resources were not barriers to justice), together with compensation for farmers leaving their profession for a certain amount of time. Laws aimed at promoting exercise in open spaces, providing special treatment in intoxication cases, and establishing separate taxation of married partners were also passed; the latter of which helped more women to enter the workplace. Government spending also went through an expansionary phase, which rose by double-digits during Sorsa’s premiership.

Sorsa’s tenure, however, was cut short by gathering financial storms not of his own doing. Finland’s economy was battered by an international oil crisis, which contributed to a decision Sorsa made to stand down as prime minister in 1975. Two years later, however, Sorsa returned to the premiership with the Finnish economy in a parlous state, which the government successfully tackled by the application of measures designed to weather the financial storm. Symbolically, the policies pursued by the SDP-led government were shaped by the “Bad Sillanpää” programme adopted by the SDP in early 1977, which committed the party to more market-friendly policies as a means of strengthening the economy.

Social progress

The economic difficulties of this period, however, did not lead to social progress being neglected during Sorsa’s second term, which exhibited a similar reforming zeal to the first. Poorer pensioners became eligible for a special aid supplementwhile maternity leave was more than doubled and paid absence for fathers of newborn babies was established for the first time. An additional week of general paid leave was instituted, together with requirements of firms to not only set up health services in the workplace, but also for there to be negotiations between employers and workers or their representatives over matters that directly impacted staff, like dismissal. Laws intended to safeguard consumers and provide support services tailored to the needs of certain disabled people were also implemented.

In 1978, however, the cabinet fell; precipitated by division over financial policy. Sorsa regained the post of prime minister in 1982, but his new premiership faced a premature end due to internal cabinet opposition over a planned, significant rise in defence expenditure; with one of his coalition partners, the communist Finnish National Democratic League (SKDL), opposed to such a move. Although Sorsa made the SKDL leave the coalition, it was quickly replaced by a different party. Thus Sorsa came to lead his fourth and final administration; serving what would be his longest term in office. While some regressive decisions concerning the way pension increases are calculated were made, social policy for the most part was forward-looking during Sorsa’s last term. A compensation scheme for those afflicted by healthcare-associated injury and a universal income support benefit were established, together with a home care allowance for vulnerable groups and reforms to unemployment benefits that included higher levels of payment. A law aimed at putting a stop to gender discrimination was passed, together with measures designed to guarantee the safety of consumer goods, provide adequate shelter for those living with severe disabilities and those experiencing homelessness, and ensure supportive networks for those with issues concerning alcoholism and addiction. More people were also brought into compulsory pension insurance and a shared system of parental leave was inaugurated, together with a cash allowance for parents who stayed at home in place of daycare. This particular reform, which was promoted by the Cente Party, was a bone of contention for the SDP, who would only accept it if Centre agreed to greater public assistance for childcare.

1987 election

These accomplishments, however, did not translate into electoral success, with the SDP losing seats in a national election in 1987 and a new administration formed under the leadership of the centre-right National Coalition Party. Although the SDP maintained a degree of cabinet representation in what became known as the “red-blue” coalition, “The Sorsa Era” had finally drawn to a close.

Sorsa’s departure from the premiership did not spell the end of his involvement in public life, however. He went on to serve as Governor of the Bank of Finland, and back in the Nineties became involved in talks with employers and workers in an effort to hammer out an agreement between the two groups during a time when the country experienced a severe economic recession, with the former calling for an effective reduction in labour costs that trade unionists opposed (an agreement supported by the latter was eventually made). Sorsa also sought to become his party’s candidate for an upcoming presidential race, but despite his impressive credentials there was a clamouring for change within the SDP, with over six out of ten party members voting for a rival candidate; thus sadly ending Sorsa’s aspirations to one of the highest offices in the land.

Although Sorsa’s political career was at an end, the SDP has continued to play a prominent part in Finnish politics; participating in numerous cabinets to the present day. Since 2023, however, Finland has been led by a conservative ministry (which includes members of a radical right-wing party) that has pursued reactionary policies in regards to social security and asylum. Although the next election isn’t due until 2027, the SDP has consistently outperformed its rivals in countless polls for over a year, strongly suggesting a swing back to the Left if the SDP maintains its momentum. The legacy that “The Sorsa Era” left for Finland, with the many beneficial reforms and higher levels of social justice left in its wake, is one that a future SDP-led administration can use as a roadmap in leading Finland towards a brighter, fairer future. The memory of Kalevi Sorsa, who tragically passed away in 2004, should live on not only in the hearts and minds of Finnish social democrats today, but in their future actions as well.

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The 19th Century Odyssey of Japan’s Nakahama Manjirō

The Tokugawa period of Japan limited foreign trade beginning in the 17th century. For example, Chinese traders were restricted to the port of Nagasaki or through indirect routes like the Ryūkū Islands. Dutch traders also became the only Europeans allowed to enter Japan. Similarly, Japanese people were not permitted to go abroad. Those who resided in another country and returned to Japan could face the death penalty. These policies lasted for over 200 years. Yet, at least one Japanese person made it to the United States and back again during this time.

Michael Mirra explains.

Manjiro Nakahama.

Five Fishermen from Japan

On Japan’s island Shikoku, a 13-year-old boy named Manjirō lived in a village called Nakanohama (now part of the city Tosashimizu). His father had died when he was eight or nine years old. To support his mother and siblings, Manjirō got a job on a fishing expedition. The crew consisted of three brothers named Fudenojo (37), Jusuke (24), and Goemon (15), and their neighbor Toraemon (25). They set sail on January 5, 1841 in search of either bonito, mackerel, or tuna. The trip was expected to last only a few days.

A storm hit the five fishermen on the second or third day. They were about twenty miles from the coast of Japan. Fighting the wind while trying to make it back to land, their sculling oarlock broke off and soon their sculling oar broke in half. Propelling the boat was no longer in their control.

The boat was blown off course for three or four days and the fishermen ran out of provisions. Around January 13th, they finally spotted an island. It was the small and uninhabited Izu-Torishima (also known as “Bird Island”) a few hundred miles from the mainland. They were unable to find a beach to land the boat and decided to swim for it. Right before jumping in, a high wave overturned the boat and injured Jusuke’s leg, but all made it to land.

Manjirō turned 14 years old a couple of weeks later as the crew attempted to survive on the island. Fudenojo cared for Jusuke in their cave shelter while the others searched for food. Shellfish and seaweed could be gathered. Albatross were also plentiful until their migration season began in late April or early May. However, there was no spring water or edible plants on land.

A Ship from New England

On June 27th, a whaling ship appeared near the island. The John Howland had sailed from New Bedford, Massachusetts and was now sending two boats to the island in search of turtles to eat. As the boats approached, its members noticed Goemon, Manjirō, and Toraemon waving their clothes attached to sticks and shouting for help. The whalers could not understand anything that the trapped fishermen were saying, but recognized that they were distressed and hungry. All five castaways were taken aboard.

From there, the John Howland sailed to the north Pacific in search of whales for oil and baleens. Unlike Japanese whalers, the Americans discarded the rest of the whale. Through attempted sign language and eventually learning some English words, the rescued fisherman were able to communicate with the whalers and were given chores aboard the ship. Manjirō was assigned to the crow’s nest to look for whales in the distance. He was successful at least once and was given a seaman’s cap as a reward from the ship’s captain, William H. Whitfield.

Heading east, the John Howland stopped at Oahu (then part of the independent Kingdom of Hawai’i ruled by Kamehameha III) on November 20th. It was still not known to the Americans where the fishermen were from. Whitfield brought them to a medical missionary, Dr. Gerrit P. Judd, who reasoned they were Japanese after showing them Japanese coins.

Arrangements were made for the fishermen to stay in Honolulu. However, Whitfield wished to take Manjirō with him to the United States. Accepting the offer, Manjirō left Oahu on December 1st. Whitfield renamed him “John Mung” with “John” coming from the ship’s name and “Mung” being a shortened version of Manjirō. The John Howland continued to hunt for whales and stopped in Guam in March of the following year before finally heading back to Massachusetts.

Life in America

It was on May 6, 1843 that the John Howland reached New Bedford. Whitfield led the now 16-year-old Manjirō to his home in the neighboring town of Fairhaven. Shortly afterward, Whitfield married his second wife, Albertina. The couple had become engaged before Whitfield’s whaling voyage. Whitfield’s first wife, Ruth, had died while he was at sea a few years earlier. The wedding to Albertina, however, was held at the home of Whitfield’s uncle in New York. He left Manjirō in the care of a friend named Eben Aiken until he returned. A teacher named Jane Allen also began tutoring Manjirō to prepare him for the upcoming school year.

Upon returning from the wedding, Whitfield bought a farm in the Sconticut Neck part of Fairhaven. Living there gave Manjirō the opportunity to learn how to ride a horse. Manjirō was then enrolled in the nearby Bartlett School where he studied math, navigation, and surveying. He went on to apprentice as a cooper–crafting and repairing barrels and casks–in New Bedford.

New Bedford was generally viewed as a place of acceptance partly because its people lived and worked with the inclusive whaling industry. It was also seen as a safe-haven for freed and escaped slaves–notably Frederick Douglass. Unfortunately, this sentiment was not always extended. Members of a Congregational church disapproved of Manjirō sitting in the Whitfield family pew. The Whitfields responded by joining a more accepting Unitarian church. Coincidentally, one of the Unitarian church’s members was Warren Delano Jr. who later spoke about Manjirō to his grandson, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The Journey Home

After he had turned 19 years old, Manjirō was asked to join a whaling ship by Ira Davis who had been the harpooner on the John Howland and was now the captain of the Franklin. On May 16, 1846, they took an eastern route to the Pacific via the Cape of Good Hope to avoid impacts of the Mexican-American War on the Cape Horn route.

Almost a year later, in March of 1847, the Franklin stopped in Guam. It was there that Manjirō wrote to Whitfield about the ship’s plans to sail to the Ryūkyū Islands, which were not yet annexed by Japan but an independent vassal state. He expressed hope at opening a whaling port there. The Franklin arrived in May and Manjirō acted as an interpreter. However, he was unable to understand their dialect and returned to the ship.

In October of 1848, the Franklin stopped in Honolulu and Manjirō was reunited with the castaway fishermen. Fudenojo had changed his name to Denzo to make it easier for the locals to pronounce. He and Goemon had recently come back from an unsuccessful attempt at returning to Japan. Toraemon was working as a carpenter. Sadly, Jusuke had died five years earlier.

The Franklin arrived back in New Bedford on September 23, 1849. The three year plus trip had earned Manjirō $350. At this time, news of gold in California reached him. There was no doubt that Manjirō missed his mother. If he made enough money in the gold industry then he could afford to take a passenger ship to the Pacific and maybe find his way back to Japan. Two months later, he took a job on the Stieglitz, which was carrying lumber to San Francisco.

Arriving in the spring of 1850, Majiro began looking for gold near Sacramento. He earned $600 in about seventy days. Heading back to San Francisco, he booked a passenger ticket to Honolulu on the Eliza Warwick, which left on September 17th.

Manjirō met with his old friends in Honolulu. Denzo and Goemon agreed to go with him back to Japan. Toraemon, however, wished to stay in Honolulu since he was successful as a carpenter and had married a local woman.

The next step was to purchase a small boat. A friend of Whitfield’s named Reverend C. Damon spread the story of the three fishermen hoping to return home and asked for donations. With his help, the fishermen bought a boat that they named the Adventurer.

Now the fishermen had to get the Adventurer close to Japan. To do this, they brought their small boat onto the Sarah Boyd, which was headed for China on December 17, 1850. As the Sarah Boyd passed the Ryūkyū Islands on its way to China, the three fishermen lowered the Adventurer into the water. They rowed home on February 2, 1851.

The Adventurer landed on Okinawa, which was controlled by the daimyō of the Satsuma Province on Kyūshū. The three fishermen were soon taken by Satsuma officials to the city of Naha for interrogation. In the meantime, they were put under house arrest.

After this period of interrogation, the fishermen were moved from Okinawa to Kyūshū–in the city of Kagoshima and then Nagasaki–to be interrogated by Tokugawa officials. They were finally set free in June of 1852 and made it to their respective homes in October.

Manjirō found his mother still alive. Although, she had long thought he had died. Their reunion lasted for three days, for Manjirō was called to the city of Kochi to teach English to samurai among others.

Japan-United States Relations

The following year, the American Commodore Matthew C. Perry arrived at the harbor of Uraga with four warships. He was carrying a letter from President Millard Fillmore that demanded Japan open its ports to the outside world. The shogunate ordered Manjirō to Edo (Uraga is located at the entrance of Edo Bay–now Tokyo Bay) to provide information on the United States. In response to his service, Manjirō was given samurai status at the end of the year. He then adopted a surname, Nakahama, after his home village. Japan signed the Treaty of Kanagawa with the United States on March 31, 1854 putting an end to its isolation.

Manjirō put his English language knowledge to other uses. In 1857, he translated Nathaniel Bowditch’s The New American Practical Navigator into Japanese. He also authored the first English text to be published in Japan, A Shortcut To Anglo-American Conversation, in 1859. Around this time, he taught English to future leading dramatist Fukuchi Gen’ichirō.

1859 saw a story similar to Manjirō, but with the roles reversed. An American named John Mercer Brooke was commanding a surveying expedition in the Pacific aboard the Fenimore Cooper. This time it was the Americans that were shipwrecked as a typhoon destroyed the ship off the coast of Yokohama.

Japan happened to be looking for an experienced navigator to help bring an embassy to San Francisco on its way to Washington, D.C. Brooke accepted the job at Japan’s request. He chose nine American crew members and the draftsman Edward Meyer Kern from the Fenimore Cooper to join him.

Brooke boarded the Kanrin-maru, a Dutch ship that had been purchased by Japan two years earlier for approximately $70,000. It escorted an American warship, the Powhatan, that carried the embassy. The Kanrin-maru, however, carried a samurai “Magistrate of Warships” named Kimura Toshitake. Should something happen to the Powhatan, it would be Kimura’s responsibility to represent Japan in Washington. The translator on the Kanrin-maru was Manjirō.

Apart from Manjirō, none of the Japanese crew members had been on a sea voyage before. The ship faced a storm right after leaving Yokohama. Together, Brooke and Manjirō taught the inexperienced crew how to manage their vessel. The ship’s captain, another samurai named Katsu Rinatarō, soon became ill from seasickness and delegated the running of the ship. Despite these trials, both ships made it to San Francisco safely on March 17, 1860.

Japan treated this voyage as a test of their naval capabilities. Katsu would go on to become the chief architect of the Imperial Japanese Navy, which was formally created in 1869.

A Return to Whaling

Japanese whaling soon evolved in two ways. First, whalers searched for new shore stations. This indirectly aided colonial expansion, so the government offered financial backing to whalers. Second, foreign whaling techniques were incorporated, which eventually influenced modern Japanese whaling. These two evolutions intertwined around Korea where Japan competed with Russia and where fin whales were so fast that they could only be caught by Norwegian whaling technology.

The city of Hakodate welcomed foreign whaling ships into its harbor so the Japanese could observe their techniques. Around 1862, Manjirō started an American-style whaling operation out of Hakodate. He went on to help the government bring whaling to the Ogasawara Islands (known as the Bonin Islands to the British). He had previously visited the islands on a whaling expedition after the government grew concerned that American, European, and Hawaiian colonizers–who had encroached on the territory in 1830–were getting more use from the whales than Japan. This expedition was ultimately shortened by a typhoon. Manjirō returned in 1863 for more whaling. However, Japan abandoned its plans for a few years due to expenses and pressure from foreign powers.

Manjirō was sent on another diplomatic mission that stopped in the United States and Europe in 1870. While docked in New York City, Manjirō took a train to Massachusetts where he visited Whitfield. His American homes, both Fairhaven and New Bedford, became sister cities with his native home, Tosashimizu, in 1987.

On a final note, a 21-year-old Herman Melville left New Bedford on the whaling ship Acushnet two days before Manjirō went fishing in 1841. This trip was the genesis for his novel Moby-Dick in which he wrote, “If that double-bolted land, Japan, is even to become hospitable, it is the whale-ship alone to whom the credit will be due; for already she is on the threshold.” Moby-Dick was published the same year that Manjirō returned to Japan.

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Works Cited

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“Herman Melville.” National Park Service, https://www.nps.gov/nebe/learn/historyculture/hermanmelville.htm. Accessed 10 June 2025.

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Yanaga, Chitoshi. “The First Japanese Embassy to the United States.” Pacific Historical Review, vol. 9, no. 2, 1940, pp. 113–38. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/3633080. Accessed 10 June 2025.

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