Years later, Walt Whitman paid tribute to Lincoln’s resilience: “If there were nothing else of Abraham Lincoln for history to stamp him with, it is enough to send him with his wreath to the memory of all future time, that he endured that hour, that day, bitterer than gall—indeed a crucifixion day—that it did not conquer him—that he unflinchingly stemm’d it, and resolv’d to lift himself and the Union out of it.”298
Two days after the battle, Lincoln visited some troops in the field, accompanied by Seward, who had suggested the excursion. En route they encountered Colonel William T. Sherman, commander of a brigade that had taken 300 casualties in the fight. When the colonel asked if they intended to inspect his camps, Lincoln said: “Yes; we heard that you had got over the big scare, and we thought we would come over and see the ‘boys.’ ” At Lincoln’s invitation, Sherman joined them, and as they rode along, the colonel “discovered that Mr. Lincoln was full of feeling, and wanted to encourage” the troops. Sherman requested that he “please discourage all cheering, noise, or any sort of confusion,” for they had had “enough of it before Bull Run to ruin any set of men,” and that what they needed “were cool, thoughtful, hard-fighting soldiers—no more hurrahing, no more humbug.” Lincoln good-naturedly took the suggestion.
Upon reaching one of the camps, Lincoln, according to Sherman, “made one of the neatest, best, and most feeling addresses I ever listened to, referring to our late disaster at Bull Run, the high duties that still devolved on us, and the brighter days yet to come. At one or two points the soldiers began to cheer, but he promptly checked them, saying: ‘Don’t cheer, boys. I confess I rather like it myself, but Colonel Sherman here says it is not military; and I guess we had better defer to his opinion.’ ” In concluding, “he explained that, as President, he was commander-in-chief; that he was resolved that the soldiers should have every thing that the law allowed; and he called on one and all to appeal to him personally in case they were wronged. The effect of this speech was excellent.”
As they passed by more camps, the president complimented Sherman “for the order, cleanliness, and discipline, that he observed.” Seward and Lincoln remarked “that it was the first bright moment they had experienced since the battle.”
At Fort Corcoran, Lincoln repeated to the troops the talk he had given earlier, including his suggestion that they complain to him if “they were wronged.” One officer availed himself of this invitation, saying: “Mr. President, I have a cause of grievance. This morning I went to speak to Colonel Sherman, and he threatened to shoot me.”
Lincoln replied, “Threatened to shoot you?”
“Yes, sir, he threatened to shoot me.”
The president fixed the complainant with his gaze and remarked in a loud stage-whisper: “Well, if I were you, and he threatened to shoot, I would not trust him, for I believe he would do it.” The fellow turned around and slunk off to the accompaniment of laughter from the troops.
As the small party drove on, Sherman explained why he had threatened the officer. Lincoln remarked: “Of course I didn’t know any thing about it, but I thought you knew your own business best.” The colonel thanked him for that expression of confidence and observed that the president’s remarks would help maintain discipline in the regiment.299
At another camp, a solider complained to the president that Sherman had treated the men badly, forcing them to vacate a cozy barn in the midst of a rainstorm. Lincoln replied: “Well, boys, I have a great deal of respect for Colonel Sherman, and if he turned you out of the barn I have no doubt it was for some good purpose; I presume he thought you would feel better if you went to work to forget your troubles.”300
That same day, Lincoln sketched a new military plan, calling for swift implementation of the blockade; further drilling and instruction of troops at Fort Monroe; holding on to Baltimore “with a gentle, but firm, and certain hand;” bolstering Patterson’s forces in the Shenandoah Valley; leaving troops in western Virginia under the command of McClellan; making Missouri more of a priority and encouraging Frémont to be more active there; reorganizing the forces that had retreated from Manassas; swiftly discharging the ninety-day enlistees who were unwilling to serve longer; and bringing forward the new volunteer forces rapidly and stationing them along the Potomac. Once these goals were reached, Union forces would advance on three fronts: (1) in Virginia, take Strasburg and Manassas Junction, (2) keep open lines from Washington to Manassas and from Harper’s Ferry to Strasburg, and (3) then launch simultaneous campaigns against Memphis and East Tennessee.301
When a delegation urged him to concentrate on attacking the Confederates farther south, say at Mobile or New Orleans, Lincoln said he was reminded of an Illinois farm couple whose daughter “had been troubled all her life with a ringing sound in her head, and they had spent a good deal of money in their efforts to cure her, but without success. One day a stranger in that part of the country was passing, and the farmer’s wife rushed out of the house and asked him if he was a doctor. He said yes. Then she told him what was the matter with her daughter and asked him if he could cure her. He replied that he could not get the disorder out of her system, but she might put a mustard plaster on her feet and draw the ringing from the top to the bottom.”302
To carry out his grand strategy, Lincoln summoned George B. McClellan from western Virginia, where his successes, though minor, had cheered the North. Ten days before the battle at Bull Run, the president anxiously awaited news from McClellan, who was closing in on the Confederates at Rich Mountain. Throughout the night of July 11–12, Schuyler Hamilton, an aide of General Scott’s, called repeatedly at the White House with news of the battle. Finally, around 4 A.M., he brought a telegram announcing a Union victory. Lincoln seemed vexed at being aroused, for he was wearing only a short red shirt which he felt compelled for modesty’s sake to hold down with both hands. Since he could not read the telegram without indecorously letting go of his shirt, Hamilton turned his back and handed the document over his shoulder to the embarrassed Lincoln. When Hamilton assured him that much evidence corroborated the good news from Rich Mountain, the president said “with a happy rhythm in his voice, a ripple of merriment and satisfaction, ‘Colonel, if you will come to me every night and every hour of every night, with just such telegrams as that, I will come out not only in my red shirt, but without any shirt at all. Tell General Scott so.’ ”303
Two days later, similar good news came from a follow-up engagement at Corrick’s Ford. In his western Virginia campaign, McClellan and his men had killed or captured 700 Confederates while suffering only two dozen casualties. No other Union commander had achieved anything like this success, small-scale though it was, so McClellan seemed a natural choice to replace McDowell. Prominent officers, he said, “assured him that McClellan possessed a very high order of military talent,” and, he added, “he did not think they could all be mistaken.”304
Lincoln went out of his way to console McDowell, whom he called “a good and loyal, though very unfortunate” officer who had to “drive the locomotive as he found it.” He told the general: “I have not lost a particle of confidence in you,” to which the insouciant McDowell replied: “I don’t see why you should, Mr. President.” He was demoted to division commander, while Robert Patterson was replaced by Nathaniel P. Banks shortly after Bull Run.305 When Patterson asked Lincoln for vindication, the president told him: “I have never found fault with or censured you; I have never been able to see that you could have done anything else than what you did do. Your hands were tied; you obeyed orders, and did your duty, and I am satisfied with your conduct.” Patterson recalled that these words were “said with a manner so frank, so candid, and so manly, as to secure my respect, confidence, and good will. I expressed to the President my great gratification with, and tendered my sincere thanks for, his fairness towards me, and his courtesy in hearing my case, and giving me some five hours of his time.” When Patterson requested a court-trial “in order to have a public approval of my conduct, and stop
the abuse daily lavished upon me,” Lincoln said (as the general recalled) that “he would cheerfully accede to any practicable measure to do me justice, but that I need not expect to escape abuse as long as I was of any importance or value to the community, adding that he received infinitely more abuse than I did, but he had ceased to regard it, and I must learn to do the same.”306 To placate the general, Lincoln promoted his son to brigadier over Cameron’s strenuous objections.
On July 27, McClellan officially took command of the Division of the Potomac, raising high Northern hopes. His presence in Washington “seems to inspire all with new courage and energy,” reported William O. Stoddard from the White House.307 The Young Napoleon, as General McClellan was called, would redeem the shameful defeat at Bull Run, whip the demoralized army into shape, and soon bring the war to a victorious close. Or so it was thought.
24
Sitzkrieg
The Phony War
(August 1861–January 1862)
In the wake of the ignominious defeat at Bull Run, a prominent journalist spoke for many when he confided to a colleague, “I am feeling bad—very bad. The Manassas disaster broke me down in a measure, but I could get over this—could understand it, and extract something good from it, were it not that I am wanting in Confidence in the Administration,” which “either does not comprehend the magnitude of this rebellion; or they don’t know, or don’t want to learn, how to put it down.” It could not “be suppressed by kindness; that’s clear—and yet Mr Lincoln seems to think it can.” The Republican Party, he lamented, “has gone up—and I only hope that our country, through the imbecility or cowardice, or treachery of her rulers, may not follow. We want a firm and able Administration, with a great and determined National policy, vigorously executed.” He feared that another Bull Run “blunder and all would be lost. The people now more than half disgusted would then be wholly demoralized.”1
Lincoln shared that fear. In early December, Benjamin Brown French, the commissioner of public buildings, asked him why the army had made no serious advance since July. The president replied: “If I were sure of victory we would have one at once, but we cannot stand a defeat, & we must be certain of victory before we strike.”2 In September, when a Philadelphian expressed to Lincoln the hope that troops would soon march against Richmond and stated “that those who had subscribed money, &c., had a right to look for some such demonstration,” Lincoln quietly gazed at him and asked: “Will you tell us the route to take to Richmond? We tried it at Manassas, and found it like Jordan.”3
Equally convinced that no attack should be made until victory seemed certain was the commander Lincoln had placed in charge of the army, George B. McClellan. The general hesitated to commit his forces, which he had splendidly trained and equipped. For half a year the Civil War resembled what World War II in Europe would become during the fall and winter of 1939–1940: a sitzkrieg (sitting war) instead of a blitzkrieg (lightning war). While the North grew exasperated with McClellan, the president bore with his timidity month after month after month. Lincoln’s patience was legendary but, as McClellan would eventually discover, finite.
From August 1861 to March 1862, the press regularly reported “all quiet on the Potomac.” At first, it was a simple statement of fact; eventually, it came to express derision for McClellan’s inactivity. In September, Lincoln asked the telegraph operator at the War Department, “what news?” When the reply came: “Good news, because none,” the president remarked: “Ah! my young friend, that rule don’t always hold good, for a fisherman don’t consider it good luck when he can’t get a bite.”4 McClellan was getting no bites.
McClellan to the Rescue
The vain, arrogant, 34-year-old McClellan shared the Northern public’s view that he was a savior. Shortly after arriving in Washington, he told his wife: “I find myself in a new & strange position here—Presdt, Cabinet, Genl Scott & all deferring to me—by some strange operation of magic I seem to have become the power of the land. I almost think that were I to win some small success now I could become Dictator or anything else that might please me—but nothing of that kind would please me—therefore I won’t be Dictator. Admirable self denial!” After visiting the senate, which showered him with congratulations, he mused: “All tell me that I am held responsible for the fate of the Nation & that all its resources shall be placed at my disposal. It is an immense task that I have on my hands, but I believe I can accomplish it.” Boastfully he reported that in Richmond it was said “that there was only one man they feared & that was McClellan.” With unconscious irony he insisted that “I am not spoiled by my unexpected & new position—I feel sure that God will give me the strength & wisdom to preserve this great nation. … I feel that God has placed a great work in my hands.”5
The general’s cockiness was understandable, for he had been a high-achieving wunderkind, having finished second in the class of 1846 at West Point, served creditably in the Mexican War, led a prestigious commission to observe the Crimean War, invented a saddle that became standard cavalry issue, and become the president of a railroad after quitting the service in 1857. Shortly after the fall of Sumter, he had received command of Ohio’s militia, attaining the rank of major general in the regular army (second only to Scott) in May 1861 and commanding the sole Union force that won victories in the early months of the Civil War. Failure was unknown to this Young Napoleon, which was unfortunate, for he could have profited from that painful experience as Lincoln, U. S. Grant, and other successful leaders in the war had done. Instead, his head swelled all too easily, and he developed a paradoxical amalgam of timidity and overconfidence. His chest also tended to swell, especially when issuing proclamations to his troops like one dated May 25: “Soldiers! I have heard that there was danger here. I have come to place myself at your head and to share it with you.”6
While Lincoln and his constituents rejoiced at the triumph of Union arms in western Virginia, in fact McClellan had exhibited qualities there that boded ill. He ungenerously took credit due others, unfairly chastised subordinates, showed indecisiveness at key points, failed to follow up on his victories, made repeated promises that he did not honor, was tardy and irresolute on the battlefield, showed a lack of initiative, and tended to whine unjustly about insufficient support. McClellan had devised an admirable strategy, but its success owed far more to his brigadier generals than to himself. These many shortcomings were overlooked partly because he won and partly because he was a skillful self-promoter, writing vainglorious dispatches that exaggerated his accomplishments.
On August 2, McClellan complied with the president’s request by submitting what he called “a carefully considered plan for conducting the war on a large scale” that would end hostilities “at one blow.” With 273,000 troops in his own army and an unspecified number in others, he proposed to take Richmond (which had become the Confederate capital on May 21), New Orleans, Charleston, Savannah, Montgomery, Pensacola, and Mobile and thus “crush out this rebellion in its very heart.” To his wife he predicted that he would “carry this thing on ‘En grand’ & crush the rebels in one campaign—I flatter myself that Beauregard has gained his last victory.”7 In its impracticality, this scheme resembled the “Kanawha plan” that McClellan, known as Little Mac, had months earlier submitted to General Scott, who rightly dismissed it as unfeasible. (That scheme envisioned 80,000 men marching from Ohio to Richmond, across two mountain ranges, with no rail or water lines to feed and supply such a force.)
If McClellan showed weakness as a strategist, he proved an exceptionally able organizer and administrator. In the late summer and throughout the fall, he industriously drilled, trained, supervised, and inspired the troops under his command, replacing unfit officers, and thus creating a disciplined, well-equipped army. He renamed his force, which had been called the Division of the Potomac, the Army of the Potomac (which included not only the Division of the Potomac but also the troops in the District of Columbia and those which Patterson had commanded in the Shenandoah Valle
y). His soldiers loved him, for he seemed to care deeply about their well-being, even if he did not live among them in camp but rather in a comfortable house near the Executive Mansion. His martial bearing and air of self-possession inspired respect. Henry W. Bellows of the U.S. Sanitary Commission, which was dedicated to promoting the welfare of soldiers, said in September that there “is an indefinable air of success about him and something of the ‘man of destiny.’ ” One of his brigadiers in the western Virginia campaign wrote that McClellan was personally “very charming” and that “his manner of doing business impressed every one with the belief that he knew what he was about.”8
McClellan enjoyed showing off his army at reviews, which Lincoln gladly attended, even when the temperature in Washington reached 100 degrees, causing many troops to pass out. At one review, as the multinational Thirty-ninth New York regiment, known as the “Garibaldi Guards,” marched by the platform on which the president and other dignitaries stood, each soldier removed from his hatband a small bouquet or a sprig of evergreen, which they tossed toward Lincoln, creating “a perfect shower of leaves and flowers.” Nicolay reported that this gesture “was unexpected and therefore strikingly novel and poetical.”9 Another observer, Samuel F. Du Pont, wrote his wife that his initial impression of the president was “that he was the ugliest man I had seen, for one looking so young. This wore off and he has a certain poise and air which are not unpleasant—if he had lived in the East, he might have been graceful.”10 Some soldiers, however, complained that Lincoln’s demeanor at reviews was too informal, that he talked with colleagues instead of paying full attention to the passing troops. A journalist who observed him shake hands with members of a New York regiment wrote that “I have seen nearly all of our great men, from Jackson down, go through the ‘pump-handle movement,’ but there certainly never was a man who could do it with the celerity and abandon of President Lincoln. He goes it with both hands, and hand over hand, very much as a sailor would climb a rope. What is to the satisfaction of all is, that he gives a good honest, hearty shake, as if he meant it.”11
Abraham Lincoln: A Life, Volume 2 Page 34