A Disease in the Public Mind

by Thomas Fleming

  Lee soon had an army gathered around Manassas, a railroad junction about twenty miles from Washington. Another army defended the western counties in what is now the state of West Virginia. A third army, commanded by Joseph Johnston, was positioned between them at the head of the Shenandoah Valley, ready to assist either army or defend this vital area of the state.

  Lee had no difficulty raising men. Nor did recruiters in other Confederate states. Although only 6 percent of Southerners owned slaves, the people of the South lived in a society with immense numbers of blacks in their midst. Albert Gallatin Brown, a former governor of Mississippi, explained why these nonslaveholders were ready and even eager to fight. They assumed that the goal of the “Black Republicans” was the emancipation of the South’s four million slaves. If that happened, “the Negro would intrude into [their] presence.” Blacks would insist on living on terms “of perfect social equality . . . His son shall marry the white man’s daughter and the white man’s daughter his son.” If the nonslaveholder rejected these terms, “then will commence a war of races such as marked the history of San Domingo.”11

  There it was again: Thomas Jefferson’s nightmare.

  • • •

  In Washington, DC, the New York Tribune arrived at the White House every day with ON TO RICHMOND above the day’s news. President Lincoln began to feel the mounting political heat generated by Charles Dana’s war cry. Letters poured in, and congressmen and senators wondered aloud what Lincoln was going to do with the army he was assembling.

  Twenty miles away across the Potomac River, Brigadier General Pierre G. T. Beauregard, the man who had seized Fort Sumter, commanded the Confederate army around the rail junction at Manassas. A turgid creek named Bull Run (sometimes called a river) added a defensive barrier. Beauregard had issued an exhortation to Virginians: “A reckless and unprincipled tyrant has invaded your soil. Abraham Lincoln, regardless of all moral, legal and constitutional restraints, has thrown his Abolition hosts among you . . . All rules of civilized warfare are abandoned . . . Your honor and that of your wives and daughters are involved in this momentous contest.”

  Here was Thomas Jefferson’s nightmare as a Confederate war cry. The General apparently thought there was no need to reiterate “Santo Domingo.” Portraying the Union Army as would-be rapists said more than enough.

  General Scott urged President Lincoln to avoid a war of conquest, which would leave “fifteen devastated provinces” in the reunited nation and would require an army in their midst “for generations.” Instead, he proposed that they blockade southern ports and seize control of the Mississippi River to suffocate the rebellion. Newspapers dismissed the idea as an “Anaconda Plan” that would take years to succeed. The Republican voters of the North wanted action. The ninety-day volunteers would soon be going home.

  Stocky Brigadier General Irvin McDowell, the West Pointer in command of the Washington, DC, army, joined General Scott in urging caution. As professional soldiers they viewed the ninety-day volunteers as worse than useless. McDowell warned he might defeat Beauregard’s force but he did not have enough men to capture Richmond. President Lincoln, thinking politically as well as militarily, replied, “You are green, it is true. But they are green also.” Lincoln hoped a shattering defeat might demolish the rebels’ overconfidence and end the war without desolating the South.

  McDowell drew up a promising battle plan. He would pretend a frontal assault on Beauregard’s army and outflank him with a ten-thousand-man column that would overwhelm the Confederate left wing and throw the rebels into a panic. Crucial to the success of the plan was preventing the Confederate army in the Shenandoah Valley commanded by Brigadier General Johnson from reinforcing Beauregard. Another Union army, led by Brigadier General Robert Patterson, was assigned the task of attacking—or at least menacing—Johnston to keep him out of the battle. The president gave the plan his approval, and General Scott added a reluctant nod.

  From the start, things went wrong. McDowell’s army was supposed to march on July 8. That was two weeks before most of the ninety-day enlistments would expire. But a shortage of supply wagons delayed them for another eight days. By that time, the ninety-day men were thinking about home, and two of the regiments, who were among the first to respond to Lincoln’s call, refused to march and headed for the railroad station.

  Meanwhile, General Patterson, a sixty-nine-year-old veteran of the War of 1812, wildly overestimated the size of Johnston’s army and declined to attack it. He stayed so far away that Johnston concluded he was free to reinforce Beauregard anytime he pleased.

  Once McDowell marched from Washington, speed was essential. But his amateur soldiers, each carrying fifty pounds of equipment in the hot July sun, took three days to cover twenty miles. The Confederates repeatedly blocked the road with felled trees that had to be chopped up and dragged away. Another distraction was the way some soldiers wandered off to steal chickens and other edible animals from nearby farms, and in some cases loot the houses. They apparently felt slave owners could be abused with impunity. General McDowell issued a stern prohibition against this misconduct. Meanwhile, General Johnston was transferring his army to Beauregard’s command on a railroad that ran day and night.

  On July 21, a scorchingly hot, sultry day, the battle began. So confident were the Republican politicians of a victory that they turned the clash into a spectator sport. Senators Wade of Ohio, Chandler of Michigan, Wilson of Massachusetts, Trumbull of Illinois, and Grimes of Iowa rushed from the capital, accompanied by a swarm of congressmen. Many brought along wives and/or lady friends in holiday crinoline gowns, while servants lugged picnic baskets and wine coolers and water jugs up a hill about two miles from the battlefield. It was going to be such rare sport, watching the cowardly slaveholders scamper for the horizon, or plead piteously for mercy if captured. John Brown was about to be avenged, justified, and glorified. The politicians might even have sung his song as the guns began to thunder.

  In spite of the confusion and delays, General McDowell stuck to his battle plan. General Beauregard had arrayed his army along the south bank of Bull Run, with nine out of ten brigades on his right flank, positioned to defend the railroad junction, which he assumed McDowell would make his prime objective. The conqueror of Fort Sumter had a plan of his own—a frontal assault on McDowell’s left flank.

  As the sun rose, Beauregard got a rude surprise. Starting at two a.m. McDowell had led his ten-thousand-man column on a six-mile march to an undefended ford across Bull Run and hurled his brigades at Beauregard’s under-strength left flank. As rifles cracked and cannon boomed, the Confederate commander rushed two brigades to reinforce the lone brigade falling back before this onslaught. At first the Confederates gave ground grudgingly. But when they grasped McDowell’s numerical advantage, panic sent several regiments fleeing to the rear.

  On their hill, Republican senators and congressmen danced with glee. Those who had brought along spyglasses could see little but figures shrouded by clouds of gunsmoke. But messengers from the battlefield rushed to telegraph the good news to the White House. Exultant reporters did likewise to their waiting newspapers. If only John Brown were alive to see this fulfillment of his life’s work!

  The celebration was premature. Generals Beauregard and Johnston had joined the defenders of the collapsing flank with more reinforcements. For much of the afternoon, the two armies attacked and counterattacked on and around Henry House Hill. Mrs. Henry, a widow, had refused to leave her house. Before the day ended she would be killed by an exploding shell.12

  Much of the fighting was uncoordinated. At one point when a Union brigade surged forward, out of the Confederate line burst a regiment of horsemen led by an officer wearing an exotic plumed hat. It was Jeb Stuart, the West Pointer who had tried to persuade John Brown to surrender at Harpers Ferry. His horsemen shattered the charging Union infantry, cutting men down by the dozen with their murderous sabers.

  Another climactic moment made a hero of Thomas Jackson, the tacitu
rn soldier whom Robert E. Lee had put in charge of Harpers Ferry. He led a fresh brigade from General Johnston’s army onto Henry House Hill as a South Carolina brigade broke and ran for the rear. Their general pointed up the hill and shouted, “Rally behind the Virginians! There is Jackson standing like a stone wall!” Minutes later the general went down with a bullet in his heart. Jackson’s brigade met the oncoming Union assault with astounding courage and discipline. Henceforth they were known as “the Stonewall Brigade” and their leader became the soon-legendary general, “Stonewall” Jackson.13

  As the afternoon waned, the Union army began to falter. Men who had been marching and fighting since two a.m. reached the limit of their stamina. Nothing contributes more to battlefield panic than exhaustion. At first individuals, then whole companies, began stumbling out of the battle. At four p.m. the Confederates received crucial reinforcements. The last brigade from General Johnston’s army debarked from their train and charged into the gunsmoke, shouting a bloodcurdling combination of a wail and a scream. It was the first appearance of another legend—the rebel yell—which would symbolize the South’s defiance for the next four sanguinary years.

  General Beauregard, sensing the shift in momentum, ordered the rest of his army to attack. McDowell’s army collapsed. The ninety-day men were among the first to flee as images of homes and parents, neighbors and sweethearts, shredded their nervous systems. They ran for the fords across Bull Run and kept running for most of the next twenty miles to Washington. They streamed past the horrified, disbelieving abolitionist politicians on the hill behind the battlefield without giving them so much as a glance.

  Some of the politicians rushed down to the road and exhorted them to stop. They called the running men cowards and swine and traitors. They begged them to remember the courage of John Brown. Some congressmen brandished pistols and threatened to shoot them. Not even the threat of sudden death slowed their pace.

  It dawned on the civilians and their lady friends that they, too, were in danger. Mounting their horses and climbing into their buggies and gigs, they abandoned their picnic baskets and joined the thousands of fugitives on the road. As the soldiers ran, they threw away hats, coats, blankets, guns, canteens. The road began to resemble a scene from a nightmare.

  The only glimpse of hope was a brigade commanded by an Ohio West Pointer named William Tecumseh Sherman. They retained their discipline and formed a rear guard that discouraged a Confederate pursuit. McDowell added fresh regiments from two brigades that had been guarding the opposite flank and had never entered the battle.

  On the other side of Bull Run, hundreds of Union soldiers surrendered while the rest of their army fled. Beauregard’s men looked at each other in amazement. Most of them were so exhausted by the heat of the day and the tension of the seesaw battle that they found it hard to believe they were victors. No one was more pleased than Confederate President Jefferson Davis. Unable to stand the suspense, he had taken a train from Richmond and rushed from the Manassas station to the battlefield. Along the way he met retreating Confederate regiments in panicky disarray and stragglers who told him the battle was lost. But General Johnston soon gave him the good news.

  The elated President urged a vigorous pursuit—perhaps even a capture of Washington, DC. But Generals Beauregard and Johnston both shook their heads. Their army was almost as disorganized as the fleeing unionists. Supplies and wagons to transport them were inadequate. Better to play it safe and let the newspapers shout the news of their glorious victory. Maybe it would convince the Yankees to accept a negotiated peace.14

  Unmentioned in the praise that was soon pouring from the southern presses was the man whose strategy had made the victory possible. It was General Robert E. Lee who had positioned the two Confederate armies so that they were linked by a rail line and could come to each other’s assistance if needed.

  • • •

  When the political spectators fleeing Bull Run reached Washington’s night-shrouded streets, some rushed to the White House to tell the President what they had seen. By that time, Lincoln knew the worst. His day had been an emotional roller coaster. Well into the afternoon, telegrams from the battlefield were optimistic, almost triumphant. The president decided he could end the day with a ride in his carriage with his wife and sons—something of a daily custom. While he was gone, Secretary of State Seward appeared at the White House, looking almost as frantic as the retreating soldiers. He had heard reports, perhaps from one of the fleeing senators who rode a fast horse, that “the battle is lost.”

  When the president returned, his two secretaries, John Hay and John G. Nicolay, told him of Seward’s visit. Lincoln rushed to army headquarters, where a clerk handed him a dispatch from a captain of the engineers: “The day is lost. Save Washington and the remnants of this army.” Lincoln showed it to General Scott, who said it was too soon to lose hope. The president decided to summon his cabinet for an emergency session. Then came a telegram from General McDowell: his army had disintegrated into a “confused mob.”15

  For the rest of the night and much of the following day, the remnants of McDowell’s shattered regiments reeled behind the forts that General Scott had constructed along the Potomac. Even more dismaying were wagons loaded with 1,154 wounded. Behind them on the battlefield they left 560 corpses. No one knew that Confederate losses almost equaled the Union’s toll. For the next few days, Lincoln had to endure an avalanche of criticism from newspaper editors, blaming everyone and everything for the disaster. Even the picnicking senators and congressmen and their lady friends shared in the obloquy. One critic claimed that the politicians had been among the first to run and communicated their panic to the soldiers.

  Unhappiest of these believers in John-Brown-fabricated illusions of easy victory was Congressman Alfred Ely of New York. He had not run fast enough and would spend the next six months in a Richmond prison.

  Newspapers fanned the flames of war on both sides. James Gordon Bennett, while still damning Republicans at every opportunity, had committed the New York Herald to the defense of the Union. One of the paper’s correspondents described how rebel artillery had taken special pleasure in blasting groups of Union wounded, and “rebel fiends in human shape” bayoneted helpless dying men. Other rampaging rebels had amputated heads from Union corpses and kicked them around the battlefield like footballs. The newsman claimed these and other sadistic acts revealed what Southerners meant by their “boasted chivalry.” He was faking it, of course, hoping hatred would restore the North’s shattered morale.

  At the end of the week, President Lincoln received a letter from Horace Greeley, which began, “This is my seventh sleepless night.” He told Lincoln that “the gloom in this city [New York] is funereal—for our dead at Bull Run were many and they lie unburied yet. On every brow sits sullen scorching black despair.” Greeley did not care what the president did next, as long as it involved withdrawal from the war. Lincoln could disband the army, recognize the Southern Confederacy, or call for a national constitutional convention—the Tribune would support him. Greeley closed the letter, “Yours in the depth of bitterness.” Whether the latter word was directed at himself, or Lincoln, or Charles Dana (whom he would soon dismiss) was unclear.16

  Lincoln did not answer the erratic editor. Instead, the president requested and obtained from Congress the power to raise another 500,000 men. In Richmond, President Jefferson Davis asked the Confederate Congress to summon 400,000 men. Civil war—on a scale never foreseen or seldom imagined by anyone North or South—had begun.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Third Emancipation Proclamation

  In the summer of 1862, the Union cause seemed to be going nowhere. Two victories in the west made a hitherto unknown general named Ulysses Grant the hero of the moment. But a Confederate army attacked his army at Shiloh, Tennessee, and came close to inflicting a catastrophic defeat. A staggering 23,741 men were killed, wounded, or missing, making it the bloodiest clash ever fought on American soil. In the east, General
George McClellan, commanding an even larger Union army, was mired in mud and equally staggering casualties on the Yorktown Peninsula, still a long way from Richmond. Intimidated by General Robert E. Lee’s aggressive tactics, McClellan would soon retreat to Washington with his demoralized battalions.

  Horace Greeley sent President Lincoln a letter, which he published on the front page of the New York Tribune and titled “the Prayer of Twenty Millions.” Claiming he spoke for the entire population of the North, Greeley told the president that he was “strangely and disastrously remiss in the discharge of your official and imperative duty.” What was that duty? To do more to free the South’s slaves. “We have fought wolves with the devices of sheep,” Greeley cried. It was time to start fighting “slavery with liberty.”1

  Abraham Lincoln’s reply was succinct and candid. “My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or destroy slavery.” If he could save the Union without freeing a single slave, he would do it. If he had to free all the slaves first, he would do that. The preservation of the Union was his official duty, as president. It did not in any way modify his “oft-expressed personal wish that all men everywhere should be free.”2

  Behind these words lay a political no-mans-land that Lincoln had been traversing for a year. Four border states with tens of thousands of slaves Kentucky, Maryland, Missouri, and Delaware—had not seceded from the Union. Their politicians repeatedly warned Lincoln that any attack on slavery would turn their voters into Confederates, making the South too strong to defeat. Lincoln’s native state was especially important. “To lose Kentucky,” he told a friend, “is nearly the same as to lose the whole game.”

  Meanwhile, Lincoln refused to relinquish his search for a way to end the bloodshed by negotiation. The president invited politicians from these four border states to the White House and spent hours trying to persuade them to accept compensated emancipation to free their slaves. He told them that this policy would persuade other states with large numbers of Unionist voters such as North Carolina and Virginia to accept the same offer and quit the Confederacy. But the president got nowhere with these timid senators and congressmen. All of them hesitated to change what they called their “social arrangements.” Thomas Jefferson’s race war nightmare still infested their souls.3