CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We Are Fighting for Existence”
A new year arrived with the chief executive signaling confidence. On January 1, 1864, he and his wife hosted an afternoon reception at the White House, with aides “in full fig, swords and sashes” serving as ushers for the guests, both military and civilian, including members of Congress. The large numbers in attendance left their mark on the president and first lady. Davis’s right arm became “stiff with the New Year’s shaking” and Varina’s “hand tender to the touch.” Two and a half weeks later, the Davises announced they would receive at the Executive Mansion every Tuesday between 8 and 10 p.m. With the final session of the First Congress still sitting, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen filled the public rooms of the house to find a cordial president greeting guests and introducing Varina to those unknown to her. The political motive behind these galas became evident when Davis discontinued them a month after they began, timing that coincided with the adjournment of Congress.1
Even with his active social and political calendar, President Davis’s thoughts never strayed far from his fighting men. On February 10 he penned a public letter to “Soldiers of the Armies of the Confederate States” that was issued as a general order and carried in newspapers. He began by congratulating them for their “many noble triumphs” achieved in the “long and bloody war” gripping the nation. Special gratitude went to those who could have left the service upon expiration of their enlistments, but who instead “heeded the call only of your suffering country.” Although as president he could not share “your dangers, your sufferings, and your privations in the field,” he assured them, “with pride and affection my heart has accompanied you in every march; with solicitude it has sought to minister to your every want; with exultation it has marked your every heroic achievement.”
Turning to the anticipated spring campaign, the commander in chief expressed confidence in his soldiers. “Your resolution needed nothing to fortify it.” In the coming arduous battles the Confederates, with ranks rebuilt and superb leadership, could defeat an enemy become less “formidable” because of exhaustion. Evincing no doubt, Davis reiterated his vision of the Confederacy: “Assured success awaits us in our holy struggle for liberty and independence, and for the preservation of all that renders life desirable to honorable men.” His closing called on God to protect “the citizen-defenders of the homes, the liberties, and the altars of the Confederacy.”2
But the Federal juggernaut aimed at Davis’s stalwart troopers was not exhausted. The Union had in the field its most powerful force yet, which outnumbered Confederate defenders by more than two to one. Equally as important, momentous changes had occurred in the Union command structure. In late winter President Lincoln promoted to lieutenant general Ulysses S. Grant, the first to hold that regular rank since George Washington, and placed the victor at Vicksburg and Chattanooga in command of all Union armies. Grant went east to set up his headquarters with the Army of the Potomac and direct its operations against the most successful Confederate general, Robert E. Lee. He turned over his old command to Major General William T. Sherman, with instructions to carry the fight to the Army of Tennessee, then at Dalton, some ninety miles north of Atlanta. Although Atlanta was not the chief goal of Sherman’s campaign, it became a great political and psychological prize. Defending the city was central for the Confederates because it was a railway hub and the gateway to central Georgia, Alabama, and South Carolina. General Grant intended an all-out offensive all along the far-flung battle lines.3
To meet this powerful enemy, the Confederate command had both an old and a new look. In Virginia, Lee began his third campaign season as the resolute guardian of his native state and the Confederacy’s eastern flank. Even though the Army of Northern Virginia had been augmented by James Longstreet’s return from his futile foray in East Tennessee, its 60,000 men equaled no more than 60 percent of its foe’s. Lee and his men faced a severe test.
The new faces belonged to veteran soldiers in different assignments. President Davis ordered General Braxton Bragg to Richmond as his military adviser, or personal chief of staff, a position not occupied since Lee’s departure in June 1862. Here Bragg’s talent for organization might best be utilized. He would have little impact on the eastern theater, for Davis and Lee were so close, but he brought with him intimate knowledge of the Army of Tennessee, whose new commander had not enjoyed the best relations with the president. Davis could only hope that with the major field army he had been wanting, Joseph Johnston would display the military ability that so many believed in, including the president.
Although Johnston was glad to have an army, he did not arrive in Dalton with a different attitude toward Davis. During the fall of 1863 and on into 1864, he whined incessantly about anyone’s believing he bore any responsibility for Vicksburg. He viewed his new command as vindication and a triumph over the president, but he still mistrusted Davis. With one colleague he shared his conviction that “Mr. Davis will not place me in any position where there is any chance or possibility of success.” As the astute Mary Chesnut perceived, Johnston’s “hatred of Jeff Davis amounts to a religion. With him it colors all things.” “Being such a good hater,” she observed, “it is a pity he had not elected to hate somebody else than the president of our country.”4
A major reason for Johnston’s continuing venomous view of Davis was his close relationship with Louis Wigfall. The rabidly anti-Davis senator kept telling the general that the president hated him and that he should never trust the commander in chief. Wigfall described Davis as a man who, to gratify his personal likes and dislikes, would “sacrifice everything except personal popularity & power.” Wigfall even confided, “We have fears for the future unless he can be controlled.” A close friend and confidant filling letters with such sentiments only exacerbated the prickly and self-appointed martyr’s propensity to think the worst of Davis. This deep-seated attitude did not augur well for future relations.5
At the outset Johnston and Davis disagreed fundamentally over military operations. Johnston understood he had to rebuild morale and confidence in the Army of Tennessee, and he worked effectively to do so. Recognizing the terrible cost of the internal squabbling, he asserted, “if I were President, I’d distribute the generals of this army over the Confederacy.” The conflict with Richmond came over what to do with the army. Davis urged Johnston to go on the offensive, or at least to plan for such a move. He even sent a personal emissary, Brigadier General William N. Pendleton, formerly Johnston’s chief of artillery, to confer with Johnston and convey the presidential view. Secretary of War James Seddon and General Bragg also explained to Johnston what was desired and promised to provide all possible assistance. Responding to the president, Johnston expressed serious misgivings about undertaking any such operation. In addition, in early April he sent Colonel Benjamin Ewell from his staff to Richmond to present personally his views. Meeting with Bragg first and then the president, Colonel Ewell emphasized Johnston’s shortages in men and transportation. Both Bragg and Davis acknowledged Johnston’s needs and declared they would do what they could, but they said Lee too was outnumbered and made clear the severe limits of available resources. Davis pressed his desire for an offensive. His detailed knowledge of the Army of Tennessee impressed Ewell, as did his “affability and courtesy” during the discussion. Despite the harmony of this conference, it changed no minds.6
The president still wanted and expected his general to strike, but Johnston thought only in defensive terms. Davis overestimated the capability of the Army of Tennessee, which like its counterpart in Virginia confronted a stronger foe. Even though its ranks increased between December and May to 60,000, including the return of Leonidas Polk, along with some 14,000 troops from eastern Mississippi, as well as units from Mobile and South Carolina, Sherman counted nearly 100,000. The numbers were not so central, however, as Johnston’s basic mind-set. For him in the spring of 1864, as in 1863 and 1862, no offensive movements could be underta
ken unless everything was just right. Of course, that condition never obtained, and Johnston would never risk his army or his reputation. On a letter to Bragg in which Johnston stated firmly he would have to await the enemy’s initiative, the president noted: “read with disappointment.”7
The great Federal onslaught commenced in May. On the fifth, Grant slammed into Lee on almost the same ground that had witnessed Chancellorsville a year earlier. For two days the antagonists fought bitterly in what became known as the Battle of the Wilderness. Grant could not break Lee, but neither could Lee drive Grant back. For a full month following the Wilderness, the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia grappled in blood-soaked combat that ended literally at the gates of Richmond on the fields of the Seven Days. Whenever he could, Lee struck at Grant, but none of his thrusts succeeded. His flank attacks no longer stung with the fury of those he had mounted in 1862 and 1863. Between May 5 and June 4 the casualties reached appalling levels: about 25,000 Confederates and 50,000 Federals.
Through these sanguinary weeks Davis and Lee were in constant communication. As he had always done, Lee kept the president regularly informed, at times daily, about his operations and intentions. In response, Davis strove to provide the men and material Lee needed. He even ordered General Pierre Beauregard to come with his organized brigades from the Carolinas to Virginia and direct operations south of the James River. As Federal cavalry raids arrived practically at the outskirts of Richmond, Davis himself directed troop movements that helped thwart the enemy. He kept Lee posted on these activities.8
In Georgia, the situation was simultaneously the same and quite different. In the face of Sherman’s advance into the rough, sub-mountainous terrain of North Georgia, which began on May 7, Joseph Johnston fell back constantly, relinquishing defensive position after defensive position. He never seriously attempted to strike Sherman. In contrast to Virginia, little heavy fighting occurred, for Sherman, unlike Grant, did not regularly attack his opponent. He preferred flanking movements that Johnston always met with retreat. Only at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain on June 27 did Sherman make a Grant-like assault, which Johnston bloodily repulsed. By July 9 Johnston had fallen back all the way to the southern bank of the Chattahoochee River, only ten miles from Atlanta.
During this campaign Johnston did not alter his practices. He provided little operational information to his superiors in Richmond. Numerous messages flowed from the Army of Tennessee to the War Department, but they consisted overwhelmingly of routine administrative matters. Johnston did not divulge his plans. Still, however tight-lipped he remained, there did exist an informal conduit extending from his headquarters to Richmond through Lieutenant General John B. Hood, a hard-charging, combat-scarred veteran of the Army of Northern Virginia and Chickamauga, recently promoted to corps command. During the winter of 1863–64, while in Richmond convalescing from the amputation of his left leg at Chickamauga, Hood spent time with both Jefferson and Varina Davis on informal and social occasions. Always an aggressive fighter, he talked to Davis about the need for an offensive course in Georgia. With confidence in Hood’s combat prowess, Davis made him a lieutenant general and assigned him to the Army of Tennessee. Hood departed from Richmond in the president’s favor. Delighted to have Hood, in spite of his maimed arm from Gettysburg as well as an absent leg, Johnston welcomed his new corps commander in his tent almost every day. He was unaware that Hood regularly wrote to Bragg about Johnston’s defensive outlook. Surely Hood’s conduct was unprofessional, but the administration shared responsibility, for neither Bragg, Seddon, nor the president ever alerted Johnston about Hood’s backdoor dispatches. Although Johnston’s secrecy frustrated the War Department and Davis, Hood’s information increased concern that Johnston never intended to fight his army.9
While Confederate armies gave ground in Virginia and Georgia, the distant Trans-Mississippi became more and more the domain of General Edmund Kirby Smith. Promoted to full general in February, Smith also exercised increased civil authority. President Davis understood that neither he nor his administration could directly control policy in what became known as “Kirby Smithdom.” In late April he wrote General Smith: “As far as the constitution permits, full authority has been given to you to administer to the wants of your Dept., civil as well as military.” To procure desperately needed supplies and weapons, Smith organized an agency to collect, even to the point of impressment, and dispose of cotton, chiefly in Mexico. Despite speculation, problems with currency, and opposition by private owners of cotton, this program did furnish many necessities. On the military front, Confederate forces halted two Federal advances, one coming southward from Little Rock, the other moving up the Red River in Louisiana. This military success had limited impact, for the Trans-Mississippi remained strategically isolated and could not fundamentally affect events east of the great river.10
As his armies confronted Grant’s spring offensives, the commander in chief was enmeshed in a complicated political world. Accounts of war weariness and even reluctance to continue the struggle reached his desk. As early as the summer of 1863, Davis was told by men he knew and trusted that “the Cause is in its last agonies, and will soon expire, never, never, to be revived.” A close ally in the Confederate Senate disclosed that traveling across much of the country had left him with “a feeling of despondency.” “The day I ever dreaded has come,” he wrote, “the enthusiasm of the masses of the people is dead!” Davis read that citizens felt “the keen calamities of the present” and wanted relief. He saw reports that military setbacks had left many with “a chilling apprehension” about the future.
But simultaneously with these bleak missives he received word of renewed commitment by Confederate citizens. In certain instances, military reverses had even stimulated patriotism. “Success or utter annihilation is the stern resolve of the people here,” wrote an old Mississippi associate. Heartened, Davis showed no signs of wavering from his course. To the initial session of the Second Congress, which convened in early May, the president repeated his conviction about his cause and its citizens. Confederate armies, he declared, “still oppose with unshaken front a formidable barrier to the progress of the invader, and our generals, armies, and people are animated by cheerful confidence.”11
Davis knew, however, that his political opponents continued to cry out against him and his war policies. Two measures passed by the final session of the First Congress stepped up the drumbeat that despotism trampled upon liberty: the new Conscription Law, which extended eligible ages from seventeen to fifty, curtailed exemptions, and authorized the War Department to detail men to jobs it deemed critical; and the statute granting the president the power to suspend the writ of habeas corpus for six months, with governing conditions spelled out. Critics of these measures repeated their warning that principles such as personal liberty and states’ rights were too precious to restrict, much less sacrifice, even for political independence. In contrast, President Davis and his supporters reiterated that the struggle for independence took precedence, for Confederate failure would mean slavery.12
Although individual opponents were scattered across the shrinking Confederacy, the most potent opposition to Davis and his vigorous war program arose in two states, Georgia and North Carolina. There the chorus propounding personal liberty and states’ rights blended ideological purity with political self-interest. In Georgia, Governor Joseph Brown had long cloaked his anti-Davis stance in the mantle of states’ rights. Claiming the sacred rights of Georgia to be under siege, he tried to remove from the reach of conscription all state civil and military officials. He also denounced the power to suspend the writ of habeas corpus as emblematic of the most heinous tyranny. In addition, he wanted the legislature to take a strong stand against this dangerous, usurping central government. Yet in his clamor against Davis and Confederate power, Brown never made any class appeal by calling on the poor to refuse to fight a rich man’s war. Neither did he ever urge the creation of an anti-administration party. Br
own’s chief concern was Brown’s power. He strove to maintain as much control as possible over affairs within Georgia borders, but he was a realist who understood the danger posed by Federal invasion.
In the spring of 1864, Governor Brown secured an articulate ally, Vice President Stephens. An ideologue totally dedicated to his own conception of personal liberty and states’ rights, Stephens now broke publicly with the administration. Because of illness as well as dissatisfaction with policy, the vice president did not go to Richmond for the final session of the First Congress, but he did write a long letter to Davis detailing his views of how the Confederacy should fight the war. In this epistle he took exception to the president’s position, which he termed “execrable.” He wanted no conscription, no impressment, no suspension of the writ of habeas corpus. The positive action of Congress in these areas pushed Stephens into open opposition, a course that Davis never tried to block with soothing words or flattering overtures. In a lengthy address before the Georgia legislature in mid-March, Stephens denounced the Davis administration as the embodiment of tyranny; the escape from oppression in 1861 had ended up in the dungeon of despotism.13
The vice president and his close collaborators, his younger brother Linton and close friend Robert Toombs, lived in their own world, with room for neither war nor invasion. It was as if the entire Confederacy replicated the pastoral quiet of their central Georgia home. They acted as if the spring of 1864 simply continued the spring of 1861, without Fort Sumter and three years of bloody warfare. Consumed by their personal visions of the political holy grail and a growing hatred for Davis personally, they spoke of popular liberty, the rights of Georgia, and even a settlement with the Union that would leave slavery intact.
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