CLOSE
Original image
Wikimedia Commons

8 Battles Fought After the War Ended

Original image
Wikimedia Commons

Before the technological revolution and the modern ease of instant communication, news of an armistice didn’t always travel as quickly as needed. In other cases, generals may have reached a resolution while soldiers on the outskirts of their territory disagreed. Here are a few examples of battles fought after the war ended. 

1. Battle of New Orleans

The Battle of New Orleans is often remembered as one of the most decisive American victories in the War of 1812. It’s also often remembered as an infamous battle-fought-after-the-war-ended, though the moniker is only half true. It’s true that the battle, which was fought on January 8, 1815, took place after the Treaty of Ghent was signed in Belgium on December 24, 1814, and even after the treaty had been ratified by the Prince Regent (the future King George IV). But President James Madison and the American Senate did not ratify the treaty until February 16, allowing the battle to assume an arguable level of tactical importance.

2. Battle of Prague

The Battle of Prague actually began before the end of the Thirty Years’ War. Most of Europe was enmeshed in a long, muddled conflict over major religious and political differences. While a delegation of representatives from various nations met in Münster and Osnabrück, a Swedish army laid siege to Prague.

Both the peace talks and the battle dragged on for months. The diplomatic proceedings led to a series of treaties, known as the Peace of Westphalia, which changed European political boundaries and solidified a continental acknowledgment of certain religious freedoms. Though the Swedish delegates signed the Treaty of Osnabrück on October 24, 1648, ending hostilities with the Holy Roman Empire and its allies, Swedish forces fought for another eight days before word reached Prague on November 1.

3. Pontiac’s Rebellion

Pontiac’s Rebellion was not a single battle. Rather, it was a continuation of the Seven Years’ War (1754-1763). The conflict raged worldwide, but in the North American theater, French colonists found themselves outnumbered against the British. They recruited heavily for reinforcements from Native American groups who held grievances against British colonists. When the war ended and France ceded much of its former territory to Britain, the policies of colonial governors troubled local Native American tribes. Warriors from across the Great Lakes and neighboring regions joined together to force the British out of their territory, led by Ottawa leader Chief Pontiac.

The hostilities escalated over a period of sixteen months and led to a series of negotiations from 1764 to 1766. In one of the conflict’s more disturbing moments, British soldiers are reported to have given the Native Americans blankets contaminated with smallpox in an attempt to infect them with the disease. Tragically, many of them did die of smallpox, though whether or not the outbreak can be traced to the infected blankets is inconclusive. 

4. Fort Bowyer

The attack on Fort Bowyer is lesser known and less celebrated than its predecessor at New Orleans, perhaps in part because it was an American defeat. After being routed by Andrew Jackson’s troops at Chalmette Plantation outside New Orleans, a British contingent of at least 3000 troops sailed east and settled on a stockade fortification on the lip of Mobile Bay. They besieged the fort until its commander surrendered on February 11, 1815, but the victory was short lived. A few days after the British assumed control, word of the Treaty of Ghent finally trickled south, and Fort Bowyer was returned to American forces.

5. Battle of Palmito Ranch

Although Robert E. Lee surrendered his army at Appomattox on April 9, 1865, and newly appointed President Johnson declared an official end to hostilities on May 10, the American Civil War lingered in Texas. Near the Gulf port of Los Brazos de Santiago, along the Rio Grande, Union and Confederate forces clashed for roughly 24 hours during May 12 and 13, 1865. Strangely, the battle interrupted a standing peace in Texas. Earlier in the year, the opposing sides had acknowledged the futility of continued fighting and assumed an informal peace.

Even stranger, this late skirmish may have included international forces. Though historical records remain inconclusive, shots from the Mexican side were reported during the battle, potentially from Mexican forces with a vested interest in Confederate trade or even from members of the French Foreign Legion stationed along the border. 

6. CSS Shenandoah

This Confederate ship captured or sank 38 Union merchant vessels during its active deployment, which lasted six months after Lee’s surrender. Because reliable news was hard to come by on the open sea, the captain and crew of the Shenandoah were not confident that the Confederacy had collapsed and continued to chase Union ships across the Pacific. During the summer months, the ship sunk or captured 21 vessels, including 11 Union whalers in sub-Arctic waters in a span of seven hours, thereby situating the last shots of the American Civil War somewhere among the Aleutian Islands. 

On August 2, 1865, the Shenandoah encountered a British barque and learned that the war was over. In response, the ship sailed south around Cape Horn and north to Liverpool, where it finally made its formal surrender on November 7, 1865. However, officers and crewmembers were unable to return to the United States for years to avoid prosecution for piracy.

7. Onoda’s Perseverance

Hiroo Onoda’s orders were clear: to protect the Philippine island of Lubang from enemy attack and not to surrender under any circumstances. He followed these orders diligently, and was still doing so 29 years after World War II ended. Onoda and three other soldiers survived and refused to surrender to an Allied occupation of the island beginning in 1945, and they hid in the mountains for the next three decades, engaging in guerrilla activities with local officials. Immediately after the war’s conclusion and again in 1952, leaflets were airdropped over the mountains to let Onoda’s men know that the war was over, but they concluded that the news was an Allied trick and refused to capitulate. 

In 1974, after Onoda’s three comrades had either surrendered or been killed and Onoda himself presumed dead, a Japanese college student backpacked through the area and discovered Onoda. Still skeptical and loyal to his orders, Onoda refused to surrender until his former commanding officer issued the command. Major Yoshimi Taniguchi, who was currently working as a bookseller, flew to the Philippines and formally relieved Onoda of duty. 

Though perhaps the most famous Japanese holdout, Onoda was not the only one or even the last to be found. Shoichi Yokoi was discovered in Guam in 1972, and Teruo Nakamura was discovered in Indonesia nine months after Onoda’s release.

8. Battle for Castle Itter

Five days after Hitler committed suicide in his Berlin bunker, anti-Nazi German soldiers joined American forces to defend an Austrian castle against the 17th Waffen-SS Panzergrenadier division. The castle, a satellite prison of the Dachau concentration camp, housed prominent French prisoners during the Nazi occupation.

In a review of Stephen Harding’s novelistic account of the conflict, The Daily Beast’s Andrew Roberts suggests that the strange battle is perfect fodder for Hollywood: the event is both the only known example of American forces defending a medieval castle, and of significant American and German forces fighting together during World War II. However, this untimely battle was not the last of the war; the Georgian uprising on Texel continued for another 15 days.

A war’s end often ushers in a complicated period. Unresolved tensions from one war will lead to another—as between both World Wars—or mines and other displaced weaponry may cause casualties years after the fact (as in the Balkans and Sri Lanka). In other cases, treaties fail to satisfy the involved parties, and guerrilla hostilities continue, as they have along the border between India and Pakistan. History is riddled with examples of battles that continue long after the war has ended. 

Original image
iStock
arrow
Weird
Watch Plastic Skeletons Being Made in a 1960s Factory
Original image
iStock

The making of human teaching skeletons used to be a grisly affair, involving the manipulation of fresh—or not-so-fresh—corpses. But as this video from British Pathé shows, by the 1960s it was a relatively benign craft involving molded plastic and high temperatures, not meat cleavers and maggots.

The video, accented by groan-worthy puns and jaunty music, goes inside a factory in Surrey that produces plastic skeletons, brains, and other organs for use in hospitals and medical schools. The sterile surroundings marked a shift in skeleton production; as the video notes, teaching skeletons had long come from the Middle East, until countries started clamping down on exporting human remains. Before that, human skeletons in Britain and the United States were often produced with a little help from grave-robbers, known as the Resurrection Men. After being dissected in anatomical classes at medical schools, the stolen corpses were often de-fleshed and transformed into objects for study. The theft of these purloined bodies, by the way, started several of America's first riots. Far better they be made out of plastic.

Original image
iStock
arrow
History
Assault, Robbery, and Murder: The Dark History of "Bedsheet Ghosts"
Original image
iStock

Wearing his finest black outfit, Francis Smith stared nervously at the three judges in London’s main criminal courthouse. A mild-mannered excise tax collector, Smith had no known criminal history and certainly no intention to become the centerpiece of one of 19th century England’s most unusual murder trials. But a week earlier, Smith had made a criminally foolish mistake: He had shot and killed what he believed to be a ghost.

The spectators inside the courthouse sat hushed as the prosecutor and a cross-examiner questioned about half a dozen eyewitnesses. Each person had seen Smith in the village of Hammersmith (now a part of London) the night of the crime, or they had previously seen the ghost that Smith was zealously hunting. One such eyewitness, William Girdler, the village night-watchman and Smith’s ghost-hunting partner, had not only seen the white-sheeted specter lurking across the street—he had chased it.

“When you pursued it,” the cross-examiner asked, “how did it escape?”

“Slipped the sheet or table-cloth off, and then got it over his head,” Girdler responded. “It was just as if his head was in a bag.”

“How long had the neighborhood been alarmed with its appearance?”

“About six weeks or two months.”

“Was the alarm great and general?”

“Yes, very great.”

“Had considerable mischief happened from it?”

“Many people were very much frightened.”

Girdler was telling the truth. The people of Hammersmith had reported seeing a ghost for weeks now, and they were terrified: The specter was verifiably violent. It assaulted men and women, and during its two month campaign of harassment and intimidation, it had successfully evaded capture. Rumors swirled that it could manifest from graves in an instant, and sink back into the mud just as quickly. At the time, the magazine Kirby’s Wonderful and Scientific Museum reported that the ghost was “so clever and nimble in its retreats, that they could never be traced.”

When Ann Millwood took the stand, the cross-examiner asked if she was familiar with these reports.

The Hammersmith Ghost.
The Hammersmith ghost

“Yes, I heard great talk of it,” Millwood explained, “that sometimes it appeared in a white sheet, and sometimes in a calf-skin dress, with horns on its head, and glass eyes.” That wasn’t all. The ghost also reportedly took the shape of Napoleon Bonaparte; other accounts said that its eyes radiated like glow-worms and that it breathed fire.

It must have been incredibly difficult for Millwood to describe the ghost’s appearance, especially in front of a public audience. The ghoul she characterized looked nothing like her late brother Thomas, the young man whom Francis Smith had mistakenly murdered.

 
 

In 19th century Britain, seeing a ghost—at least, a person dressed up as one—was not uncommon. Ghost impersonating was something of a fad, with churchyards and cobblestoned alleyways regularly plagued by pranksters, louts, and other sheet-wearing hoaxsters who were up to no good.

Historian Owen Davies tracks the origin of ghost impersonators in his wide-ranging book, The Haunted: A Social History of Ghosts, tracing the first reports of fake ghosts to the Reformation, when critics of Catholicism accused the Church of impersonating the dead to convert doubters. (According to one account by the reformer Erasmus, a priest once fastened candles to a cast of crabs and released them in a dark graveyard in hopes of imitating the lost, wandering souls of purgatory.)

But for most ghost impersonators, candle-strapped crustaceans were unnecessary; all you needed was a white sheet. Up until the 19th century, the bodies of the poor weren’t buried in coffins but simply wrapped in fabric—sometimes the sheet of the deathbed—which would be knotted at the head and feet. Ghost impersonators adopted the white sheet as their de facto wardrobe as early as 1584, when Reginald Scott, a member of parliament and witchcraft aficionado, wrote that, “one knave in a white sheet hath cozened [that is, deceived] and abused many thousands that way.” It’s from this practice that the trope of a white-sheeted ghost originated.

Seventeenth and 18th century Britain are sprinkled with accounts of phony phantoms. Take Thomas Wilmot, a famed crook and highwayman who once disguised himself as a spirit to steal money. (His appearance—chalked-up skin and a sheet-bound head—sent a table of gamblers scrambling for an exit. Wilmot pocketed the cash they left on the table.) And by the 1760s, so many white-sheeted pranksters were prowling in cemeteries that annoyed citizens were paying bounties to get rid of them. According to the Annual Register, one ghost in southern Westminster “struck such terror into the credulous inhabitants thereabouts, that those who could not be brought to believe it a ghost, entered into a subscription, to give five guineas to the person, who would seize him.”

These pranks had consequences. In 1792, a ghost impersonator in Essex spooked a farm-worker steering a wagon; the horses jumped, the driver tumbled, and his leg was crushed by one of the wagon’s wheels. He died from his injuries. Twelve years later, soldiers in London’s St. James’s Park spotted the specter of a headless woman, an event that authorities took very seriously, if only because it was distracting—and reportedly harming—its security guards. In the 1830s, a ghost impersonator was tried for manslaughter because he literally frightened an 81-year-old woman to death.

It was dangerous for the so-called ghosts, too. In 1844, six men chased a ghost impersonator and beat him so badly that he had to visit the hospital. In 1888, a mob of 50 villagers—all armed with sticks—surrounded a “ghost” and only released him after he agreed to donate money to a local infirmary. (Some ghost-busts startled investigators for other reasons: Davies writes that, in 1834, an investigation of an unoccupied haunted house revealed “nothing more than some boisterous love-makers.”)

Like many other pastimes in 19th century Britain, ghost impersonating was a gendered activity: Women, especially young female servants, were often restricted to mimicking poltergeist activity indoors—rapping on doors, moving furniture, throwing rocks at windows—while the sheet-wearing hijinks were reserved for young men who, far too often, had scuzzy intentions.

Most accounts of ghost impersonating, both modern and historical, gloss over the fact that men often used their ghostly cover to intimidate, harass, sexually assault, and even rape women. In his precise and critical account of ghost impersonators, Spirits of an Industrial Age, the historian Jacob Middleton argues that ghost impersonating was not only the domain of juvenile pranksters, but also that of sexual predators. This was made most painfully clear during the 1830s, the height of hauntings by “Spring-Heeled Jack.”

Spring-Heeled Jack.
Spring-Heeled Jack
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Every day, London’s women had to contend not only with the persistent threat of cads and street harassers, but also with men the press dubbed “Monsters,” menaces who stalked, grabbed, groped, slashed, and stabbed women in the breasts and buttocks. These criminals were piquerists, people who took sexual pleasure in piercing the skin of women, and a spate of attacks in the 1780s put all of London at unease. In the early 1800s, these boors started to take cover by dressing as ghosts. Spring-Heeled Jack, called a “monster in human form,” was among them: Hiding in alleyways after sunset, he would seek lone women, knock on their doors, and attempt to tear away their clothes with hooks. Thanks to London’s sensationalist press, tales of Spring-Heeled Jack would bloat into urban legend.

But even before Spring-Heeled Jack, on a normal evening, the women of Hammersmith were justified in feeling worried about stepping outside after dark. Organized police forces were a relatively new idea in Great Britain, and solitary neighborhoods such as Hammersmith were protected by little more than a roving constable or watchman. Reports of the Hammersmith ghost intensified that anxiety. (The community's men weren’t much help. As the Morning Post reported, “[The ghost] was seen on Monday evening last pursuing a woman, who shrieked dreadfully. Although there were four male passengers in the stage coach, which passed at the time, not one durst venture to the rescue of the distressed female.”) It wasn’t until weeks of attacks that bands of locals, their bellies sloshing with ale supplied by the nearest public house, began taking to the streets to stop the menace.

It was at the intersection of these two sad facts that the tragedy at Hammersmith unfolded: Francis Smith went out on January 3, 1804 to catch a ghost, while Thomas Millwood went out to ensure that his wife, who was walking home alone in the dark, did not meet one.

 
 

Thomas Millwood was told he resembled the Hammersmith ghost. A bricklayer, Millwood wore a white jacket, white trousers, and a white apron, an ensemble that scared a carriage-riding couple one dark Saturday night. When the passerby exclaimed to his wife, “There goes the ghost!” Millwood turned and uncorked a few colorful and unprintable words, asking if the man wanted “a punch in the head.”

After the incident, a family member named Phoebe Fullbrooke implored Millwood to change his wardrobe at night. “Your clothes look white,” she said. “Pray do put on your great coat, that you may not run any danger.” Millwood mumbled something about how he hoped the town’s vigilantes would catch the ghost, but he neglected the advice and continued walking home in his white work clothes.

A few nights later, Francis Smith and William Girdler went ghost hunting.

Compelled by reports of the ghost’s violence, the men carried firearms. Hammersmith’s spirit had choked a man and the village swirled with rumors that it had even attacked a pregnant woman who later died of shock. According to one report, the apparition caused “so much alarm, that every superstitious person in that neighborhood had been filled with the most powerful apprehensions.” But superstitions mattered little. Ghost or not, there was undoubtedly a public menace in Hammersmith, and people wanted it gone. A bounty of 10 pounds would be awarded to anybody who caught it.

A depiction of Francis Smith hunting the Hammersmith ghost in 'The Newgate Calendar.'
A depiction of Francis Smith hunting the Hammersmith ghost in The Newgate Calendar.
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

That same night, Thomas Millwood stopped at his father’s house and began chatting with his sister Ann. Sometime between 10 and 11 p.m., she suggested he leave and escort his wife, who was still in town, back home. “You had better go,” Ann said. “It is dangerous for your wife to come home by herself.” Millwood agreed and stepped outside, wearing his white bricklayer’s clothes. He didn’t know that he was walking down the same unlit lane as Francis Smith, shotgun in tow.

When Smith spotted the white figure gliding in his direction, he lifted his fowling piece to his shoulder and yelled, “Damn you, who are you? Stand, else I’ll shoot you.” The air stood silent. He yelled a second time and stared down the barrel. Not hearing any response, Smith fired.

Millwood’s sister heard the gunshot and screamed for Thomas, but, like Smith, she heard no response. She later found her brother lying face up on the dirt lane, his face stained black with gunpowder, his white clothes stained red.

 
 

The Caledonian Mercury reported the sad news later that week: “We have to announce to the public an event, in some of its circumstances so ludicrous, but in its result so dreadful, that we fear if the reader should even laugh with one side of his mouth, he must of necessity cry with the other.”

The moment the smell of spent gunpowder hit his nose, Smith knew he’d made a mistake. Millwood had been killed instantly; the shot entered his lower left jaw and exited through the back of his neck. Smith barged into the White Hart pub in visible distress, possibly in shock, and waited to be arrested. One week later, he stood trial at London’s Old Bailey courthouse. The jury deliberated for 45 minutes before returning with a conviction of manslaughter.

The three judges rejected the sentence.

“The Court have no hesitation whatever with regard to the law,” Justice Rooke exclaimed, “and therefore the verdict must be—‘Guilty of Murder’ or ‘a total acquittal from want to evidence.’” In other words, the jury could not be wishy-washy. Smith was either guilty of murder, or not guilty of murder—the jury needed to decide.

Within minutes, Smith was convicted of murder. He was sentenced to hang the next Monday; his body would be dissected in the name of science.

Reports of Smith’s trial were lurid. As the Newgate Calendar tells it, “When the dreadful word ‘Guilty!’ was pronounced [Smith] sank into a state of stupefaction exceeding despair.” His feelings were likely intensified by the admission of John Graham, a Hammersmith shoemaker who days earlier admitted to starting the Hammersmith ghost hoax. (Graham began impersonating the specter to scare his apprentices, who he complained were filling his children’s heads with nonsense about ghosts. Unfortunately, his prank appears to have inspired violent copycats to engage in what the Caledonian Mercury called “weak, perhaps wicked frolic.”)

In the end, Smith would be lucky. His sentence was sent to His Majesty King George III, who not only delayed the execution but eventually granted Smith a full pardon.

The Hammersmith ghost trial, however, would haunt England’s legal system for almost another two centuries. Smith’s case would remain a philosophical head-scratcher: If somebody commits an act of violence in an effort to stop a crime from occurring—only to realize later that they were mistaken and that no crime was being committed—is that person still justified in using violence? Or are they the criminal? British law would not be make room for this gray area until the 1980s.

Meanwhile, the tragedy in Hammersmith failed to deter England’s many ghost impersonators. Pranksters and creeps alike continued wearing bedsheets in dark cemeteries and alleyways for almost another century. In fact, the ghost of 1803 and 1804 would not be the last specter to haunt the village of Hammersmith. Two decades later, a ghost would return. But this time, villagers whispered rumors that this haunting was real, caused by the angry soul of a white-clad bricklayer named Thomas Millwood.

SECTIONS

arrow
LIVE SMARTER
More from mental floss studios