Gone fishin’
I'm up to my knees in the rushing waters of history right now. Once I climb out, dry off, and have a reviving shot of whiskey or three, I'll be back in here in the Margins with new stories. I promise.
Was Prof. Bhaer A 48-er?
Unlike most of the women I know who grew up reading Little Women, I was never indignant that Jo March married Professor Bhaer instead of the adolescent golden boy, Laurie. That kiss in the rain under the umbrella defined romance for me. I was always firmly on Team Professor. And now I think I know why.* I suspect Professor Bhaer, Fritz to his friends, was a 48-er.**
As is so often the case with me, it's been a multi-step epiphany, spread over several years.
I took my first step toward this realization four or five years ago when My Own True Love and I visited my hometown Civil War battlefield, Wilson's Creek. Walking the self-guided tour at Wilson's Creek was a regular part of my childhood and adolescence, so I didn't expect to learn anything new. Silly me. In that visit I realized for the first time how many Germans took part in the battle. Not German-Americans. German immigrants. In fact, at least one unit was made up entirely of Germans who spoke no English. They had marched south from St. Louis into the sauna of a mid-South summer to fight with patriotic fervor for their adopted country. Interesting, I thought, then my attention was diverted by George Caleb Bingham's Order No. 11. The question of Germans in the Civil War slid into a back pocket in my brain.
Germans in the Civil War grabbed my attention again a couple of years later, when I was working on a book on the history of socialism*** and plunged into the revolutions of 1848--something I had only been peripherally aware of before. Sometimes called the "revolution of the intellectuals, the movement began on January 2, 1848, when Palermo, in Sicily, rose up against its ruler. Over the next four months, more than armed rebellions occurred across Europe, in France, Austria, Prussia and most of the smaller German and Italian states. There was no single revolutionary organization or movement. No coordination across national boundaries. In state after state, socialists, intellectuals, middle class professionals, the urban poor and the peasants united against absolutism and the remains of feudal privilege. In state after state, the revolutions failed, put down with varying levels of brutality by governments with no interest in participatory government. By 1849, not only had the revolutionary impulse been crushed, but the political situation in many countries was more repressive than it had been before the revolts.
Thousands of German revolutionaries fled to the United States in the last half of 1848. Most of them settled in the newly industrializing cities of the Midwest, where they profoundly shaped the culture of Milwaukee, Cincinnati and Ohio. A substantial minority settled in the Texas hill country. Others found work in the textile mills of New England. They opened small manufactories, established newspapers, and formed mutual-aid societies. As a group, they fit in well with the "benevolent empire" of reform associations dedicated to temperance, asylum and penal reform, women's rights, education, and, most important of all, abolition that stretched across the northern United States in the years before the civil war. Having lost their own fight for greater freedom in their home countries, they were for the most part fervent abolitionists. When the Civil War came they enlisted in disproportionate numbers to fight in what to their eyes was a simple fight for freedom.
And what, you may ask, does all that have to do with Professor Bhaer? Patience, children.
Recently, in the course of doing research for another book,**** I had the opportunity to read not only the description of the home life of one of the 48-ers who immigrated to America, but his letters to the woman he married. They paint an appealing picture of a domesticated revolutionary: a little house lovingly kept and simple pleasures shared with friends. The tone of the letters was sweet, playful--and very familiar. They nagged at me for a couple of days and then I got it--Professor Bhaer! Gustav von Olnhausen sounded exactly like Professor Bhaer! I was gobsmacked.
Once I've turned this manuscript in, I'm going back to Little Women to see if there are any hints that I'm right. That romantic kiss under the umbrella has nothing to do with it.
*To all my male readers who are glaring at their screen or giving baffled shrugs, trust me. History is about to begin.
**Not to be confused with the '49-ers of the California Gold Rush. Though now that I think about, I wonder if the United States was affected by the Hungry '40s in ways other than the flood of new immigrants? Anyone?
***Apologies for the blurt of self-promotion. But if I don't toot my own horn occasionally, who will?
****Details coming in a later blog post. Don't touch that dial!
Blown Away: The (Attempted) Mongol Invasion of Japan
Japan had expected the Mongol invasion for years.
In 1266, Kublai Khan, the new Mongol emperor of China, sent envoys to Japan with a letter addressed to the "King of Japan"--a title guaranteed to offend the Japanese emperor. The letter itself was equally unpalatable. The Great Khan "invited" Japan to send envoys to the Mongol court in order to establish friendly relations between the two states--code for the tributary relationship China habitually imposed on its neighbors. The letter ended with an implicit threat: "Nobody would wish to resort to arms." Both the largely symbolic imperial court at Kyoto and the military government at Kamakura, which had controlled Japan since the late twelfth century, chose to ignore the khan's overtures.
For several years Kublai Khan was distracted by more immediate concerns: subduing the newly conquered province of Korea and his war against the Song dynasty of southern China. It was 1274 before the Mongol emperor turned his attention to Japan once more. On November 2, a fleet of 900 ships sailed from Korea with over 40,000 men, including Chinese, Jurchen, and Korean soldiers and a corps of 5,000 Mongolian horsemen. The invasion forces landed first at the islands of Tsushima and Iki, where the local samurai were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their attackers.
With the intervening islands secured, the Mongols moved on to the Japanese mainland, landing at Hakata Bay on November 19. The Japanese were waiting for them, alerted by the news from Tsushima and Iki. When the Mongols landed, the twelve-year-old grandson of the Japanese commander-in-chief fired the shot that was the traditional opening in a samurai battle: a signaling arrow with a perforated wooden head that whistled as it flew to draw the attention of the gods to the deeds of bravery about to be performed. The Mongols responded with raucous laughter.
It was an omen of how the day's battle would proceed. Both armies depended on their archers, but their fighting styles were dramatically different. The Japanese were accustomed to fighting in small-group or individual combat, seeking out worthy opponents by shouting a verbal challenge. They fired single arrows aimed at specific targets. The Mongols advanced in tightly knit formations and fired their arrows in huge volleys. Their movements were accompanied by roaring drums and gongs, which frightened the Japanese horses and made them difficult to control. When the Mongol forces pulled back, they fired paper bombs and iron balls that exploded at the samurais’ feet--something the Japanese had not seen before.
Seriously outnumbered and baffled by the invaders' tactics, the Japanese were not able to hold the beaches. By nightfall, they had retreated several miles inland. Instead of pressing forward, the Mongolian forces returned to their ships for the night. A successful attack the next day seemed inevitable, but that evening an unseasonable storm struck the Mongol fleet, dashing its ships against the rocks. With their ships smashed and about one-third of their force dead, the Mongols withdrew. The Japanese hailed the storm as a divine wind (kamikaze), sent by the gods to protect them.
Seven years later, Kublai Khan tried again. The Mongols launched a two-pronged attack against Japan, with a combined fleet of almost 4,000 ships and 140,000 men. The Eastern Army sailed from Korea on May 22; the Southern Army sailed from southern China on July 5. The two fleets were to meet at Iki and proceed together against mainland Japan. The Eastern Army subdued Tsushima and Iki in early June. Instead of waiting for the Southern Army to arrive, they moved on to Hakata Bay.
Japan had used the intervening years to build earth and stone fortifications along the coast of Hakata Bay. When the Mongols arrived, Japanese defenders repulsed the attack from a secure position behind the defensive walls. When the Mongols retreated, the Japanese took the war to them, using small boats to attack the Mongosl at night. After a week of fierce fighting, the Eastern Army retreated to Iki Island to await the arrival of the Southern Army.
The two Mongol forces rendezvoused in early August. On the evening of August 12, the Japanese attacked, using the "little ships" tactic that had been successful before. The Mongols responded by linking their ships together to create a defensive platform. The battle continued through the night. At dawn, the exhausted Japanese retreated, expecting a decisive attack and the subsequent invasion of the mainland. Instead the Mongol ships, still linked together, were caught in a typhoon that dashed the ships against each other and the shore. When the typhoon subsided, the surviving ships headed out to sea, leaving thousands of stranded soldiers behind them to be massacred by the Japanese.
Japanese chroniclers cited the winds as proof that the gods themselves protected the island. The idea of "divine winds" (kamikaze) that protected Japan against invasion remained an important element in Japanese political mythology as late as the Second World War.