162 years ago today a Union army was surprised at dawn, routed, and driven in panic for miles, and then, in one of the most dramatic reversals in American military history, its commander came galloping up from fifteen miles away, turned his fleeing men around, and by nightfall had won one of the great victories of the war. This is the Battle of Cedar Creek, and the story of Sheridan's Ride. The Confederate attack was a masterpiece. After the daring night march I described yesterday, Jubal Early's men came screaming out of the dawn fog on October 19 and smashed into the unsuspecting Union left. George Crook's corps was overrun in its camps, many men still asleep, and the surprise was so complete that the assault rolled up one Union position after another. By mid-morning Early had captured roughly 1,300 prisoners and 18 cannon, shattered a third of the Union army, and driven the whole force back several miles in confusion. It looked like a stunning, war-altering Confederate triumph. And then Early made a fateful decision. With the Union army reeling but not destroyed, and his own hungry, ragged men scattering to plunder the rich Union camps, he hesitated. Rather than press the final attack that might have finished the job, he reportedly declared that this was glory enough for one day, and let the momentum stall. His subordinate John Gordon, who wanted to drive on, later called it the fatal halt. Because the Union commander was coming. Philip Sheridan had spent the night in Winchester, about fifteen miles away, returning from Washington. That morning he heard the distant rumble of artillery, realized a battle was raging, and set off on what became legendary as Sheridan's Ride. He galloped south on his great black horse, Rienzi, and as he rode he met the tide of his own beaten, fleeing soldiers streaming to the rear. Instead of joining the retreat, he rode among them, waving his hat, shouting that they would be back in their camps by night, turning the panic around by sheer force of personality. Men cheered and turned and followed him back toward the front. His ride became so famous it was immortalized in a popular poem that schoolchildren memorized for generations. Sheridan reformed his shattered army, steadied the line, and in the afternoon launched a massive counterattack. The Union infantry surged forward and the powerful Union cavalry, under hard-chargers like Custer and Merritt, swept around the flanks. Early's outnumbered, scattered army, caught in the middle of its own incomplete victory, broke and then collapsed into a total rout. The Confederates fled in disorder, losing not only the guns they had captured that morning but most of their own artillery and wagons as well. A triumphant morning had become a catastrophic evening. Cedar Creek destroyed Early's Army of the Valley as an effective fighting force, for good. It secured the Shenandoah Valley permanently for the Union, ending the long story of that contested ground that ran through so many of these posts. And coming just weeks before the election, this spectacular come-from-behind victory, along with the fall of Atlanta, helped seal Abraham Lincoln's reelection and the Union's will to finish the war. Few single days contained such a complete reversal of fortune, from disaster to glory, as this one.

534 years ago today, a Genoese sailor most of Europe had written off as a crank changed the course of human history. Columbus spent nearly a decade begging for a ship. Portugal turned him down. Spain's royal experts turned him down. They weren't wrong that the Earth was round (everyone knew that). They thought he was wrong about the distance, and the voyage would kill everyone aboard. He kept coming back. In 1492, Ferdinand and Isabella finally said yes. What he got was three small wooden ships. The Santa María, the biggest, was roughly 60 feet long. The Niña was smaller than a lot of modern fishing boats. About 90 men crammed aboard. Only Columbus and a few officers had anything like a cabin. Everyone else slept on the open deck, in the wet, wherever they could find space between the cargo, the rigging, and each other. Food was hard biscuit, salted meat and fish, cheese, and wine. The water went bad in the casks. There was no rescue, no radio, no map of where they were going, because no map existed. Three days out from Spain, the Pinta's rudder broke loose. Columbus suspected the ship's owners had sabotaged it so they wouldn't have to go. They limped into the Canary Islands and spent a month on repairs. On September 6 they left the last known land behind and sailed west into nothing. It got stranger the farther they went. The compass needle started drifting away from the North Star, something none of them had seen before. They sailed into the Sargasso Sea, miles of floating weed, and men feared they'd get stuck in it. The wind blew steadily from the east, day after day, which pushed them along beautifully and terrified the crew, because if the wind only ever blew west, how would they ever sail home? On September 25, the Pinta's captain shouted that he saw land. The whole fleet dropped to their knees and sang the Gloria. By morning it was gone. Just clouds. Columbus kept two logs the whole way: a real one, and a fake one with shorter distances so the men wouldn't panic about how far from home they were. Funny enough, the fake one turned out to be closer to the truth. By early October they'd been out of sight of land longer than almost any European crew in history, and they were on the edge of mutiny. Columbus saw flocks of birds heading southwest, changed course to follow them, and held his men together a few more days. Then they started seeing signs: a green branch, a carved stick floating past. At 2 a.m. on October 12, a lookout on the Pinta saw moonlight on a white beach and yelled "Tierra! Tierra!" Getting home was almost worse. The Pinta's captain broke away on his own. On Christmas Eve, the Santa María ran aground off Hispaniola and was lost, and Columbus had to leave 39 men behind because there was no room for them on the little Niña. In February 1493, mid-Atlantic, a storm hit so hard Columbus was sure they'd sink. The crew drew lots to decide who would make a pilgrimage if God spared them. Columbus wrote out an account of the discovery, sealed it in wax, and threw it overboard in a barrel so the world would know what they'd found even if every man died. They lived. The storms drove them first to the Azores, where Portuguese authorities briefly arrested half his landing party, then into Lisbon. He finally reached Palos on March 15, 1493, more than seven months after he left. He crossed the Atlantic three more times. On his last voyage, stranded in Jamaica with his ships rotting and supplies running out, he used an astronomical almanac to predict the total lunar eclipse of February 29, 1504, and used it to convince the locals to keep feeding his men. Two years earlier, he'd warned the governor of Hispaniola a hurricane was coming. He was ignored, the treasure fleet sailed anyway, and most of it went to the bottom. Columbus's ships rode it out. Now think about what he'd actually done. The route he pioneered, riding the trade winds west and the westerlies back home, became the highway across the Atlantic for the next 300 years of sail. Within two years Spain and Portugal had literally divided the globe between them by treaty. Within 30, Magellan's expedition had sailed all the way around it. And the exchange that followed remade every dinner table on Earth. Potatoes, corn, tomatoes, chocolate, and peppers went east. Wheat, horses, cattle, and sugar went west. Italian food without tomatoes, Irish food without potatoes, and the American West without horses would all be unimaginable, and every one of them traces back to that voyage. Two halves of the planet that had been cut off from each other for thousands of years were joined, permanently, for better and for worse. He died in 1506 still believing he'd reached Asia. He never understood what he'd found. But the modern world starts on that beach. Happy Columbus Day!