By contrast, the mood was somber in much of Western Virginia. Private John Cammack heard few cheers while mustering at his county seat of Clarksburg, Harrison County. Cammack's “Harrison Rifles” shared the town with a company of Union recruits. Old friends and neighbors were now forced to choose sides. To avoid conflict, they drilled at the courthouse on alternate days, locking their weapons in the county jail at night.
“One of the most remarkable things that I have ever known of occurred there,” recalled Cammack of his departure. “The Union Companies came around, most of them willing to talk and such expressions as these could be heard; ‘Well Tom, you're going South I see. Well, goodbye, I guess the next time I see you will be in battle.’ ‘So long, you'll catch the devil when we do get to fighting, alright, all right.'…Many of the men shook hands with their foes and sometimes there were kindly expressions of good bye.”110
Most Southerners could hardly have imagined it. The adoring citizens of Richmond followed Confederate troops everywhere; “fair maidens” waved and solicited uniform buttons as souvenirs. “Such requests could not be refused,” avowed a gallant volunteer. “So far was it carried that some of our uniforms were quite disfigured before we reached our destination.”111
The pageantry climaxed with the presentation of banners. John Worsham of the Twenty-first Virginia recalled the drama: “Quite a stir was created in camp one day by the announcement that a flag would be presented to Company B. This was a very handsome silk flag. Made by the ladies of Baltimore, it ‘ran the blockade’ into Richmond and was presented to the company by President Jefferson Davis. He made one of his brilliant speeches in the presence of the regiment and a large number of visitors from Richmond, most of them ladies. The occasion passed off with great enthusiasm.” Bestowal of a flag on Sam Watkins's First Tennessee Infantry “fairly ma[d]e our hair stand on end with intense patriotism, and we wanted to march right off and whip twenty Yankees.”112
” We are anxious to meet the foe,” wrote a Virginia Confederate, “for we have them to whip, and the sooner we do it, the sooner we will be able to return to the dear loved ones at home.”
Sixteen-year-old Marcus Toney left for war to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” “I was too young to be leaving a girl behind me,” he recalled, “so I marched out with a light step and joyous heart, not dreaming of the shock of battle…. I looked to the right as we were passing the girls, and saw tears gathering in many eyes.”113
In the meantime, Northern volunteers rushed to President Lincoln's call. It seemed everyone wanted to be a soldier, to posture heroically and be adored. Recruiting progressed with marvelous “rapidity and ease.” Speeches and patriotic music roused large crowds until prospects bolted forward at the call, “Who will come up and sign the roll?” Billy Davis, a diminutive twenty-three-year-old dry goods clerk from Hopewell, Indiana, recalled his enlistment: “I know that I felt a trembling sensation when writing my name. Don't believe I ever felt so attached to the old flag as I do today.”
Like the Confederates, they were citizen-soldiers. Prominent men organized the regiments and were elected to command. “Hosts of charlatans and incompetents were thus put into responsible places at the beginning,” recalled General Jacob Cox of Ohio, “but the sifting work went on fast after the troops were once in the field.”114
The states of Ohio and Indiana provided most of the Federals bound for Western Virginia in 1861. Governor Oliver P. Morton of Indiana was no less active than Ohio's Dennison in organizing troops. The first enlistments were for three months. Most expected to be home in a few weeks, covered with glory, for it was “only a breakfast job.”115
Love of country compelled many to enlist. To Billy Davis of Indiana, the “all absorbing question” was “shall this union, this government of the people, live or perish.” An Ohio Buckeye spoke for most in his belief that “no State had a right to secede…and that the Union must and shall be preserved.” Some enrolled for monetary reasons—the pay for an infantry private started at thirteen dollars a month, not an insubstantial sum. A few were motivated by the abolition of slavery. Others were lured by that most compelling of incentives: “If a fellow wants to go with a Girl now he had better enlist,” swore one Indiana Hoosier. “The girls sing ‘I am Bound to be a Soldier's Wife or Die an Old Maid.'”116
Immigrants joined the Union army in great numbers. Notable were the Germans of Cincinnati, Ohio. Many had soldiered in Europe or trained in the paramilitary Turner Society. Turners flourished in a large German quarter of Cincinnati known as “over the Rhine.” During an immense gathering there on April 17, 1861, attorney Johann Stallo brought the crowd to its feet with a pledge of loyalty to the Stars and Stripes. An all-German regiment was proposed.
The rolls were filled in a single day. One young recruit remembered his enlistment: “A justice of the peace…swore us in at once. He wrote my good German name with heart-rending mistakes. Only the first letter and the last were right; all others wrong. I pointed out the flaw to him. He answered calmly: ‘That doesn't matter a bit! You are sworn and registered by that name, and it will be yours until you are mustered out of the service again.”
The Germans elected Johann Stallo's law partner Robert McCook as their colonel. One of a large Ohio family of military distinction known as the “Fighting McCooks,” he was the lone Anglo-American in the regiment. Modestly styling himself the “clerk for a thousand Dutchmen,” McCook took command of a regiment of Germans fighting for the Union—the Ninth Ohio Volunteer Infantry.117
Loved ones stitched clothing, socks, and quilts for the Northern volunteers prior to tearful departures. Friends presented Billy Davis with a pocket revolver, admonishing that he might “get into close quarters and need it.” Davis and a comrade visited a portrait studio to have their “ambrotype taken.” Posed sternly before the camera with a Bible in one hand, a revolver or Bowie knife in the other, they represented any number of soldiers, North or South.
Finally, the Union recruits boarded trains for a camp of instruction. The destination for many Hoosiers was Camp Morton in Indianapolis, and for many of the Buckeyes, Camps Dennison and Harrison near Cincinnati. Every stop created pandemonium. An Ohio volunteer watched citizens swarming the depot “with hot coffee, cigars, cider, and it appeared they could not do enough for us…. When we left the ladies were at all the windows and on the houses…waving handkerchiefs and huzzahing. I never saw such a time and all along the road it is the same.”
Ebenezer Hannaford of the Sixth Ohio Infantry recalled a bevy of young ladies who entered the trains and “adroitly managed to let the cars carry them off. Despite their protestations, it was easy to see that the girls were happy as little birds. Of course the good-by and kissing part of the programme was repeated ad libitum.” Gushed a comrade, “Hurrah! who wouldn't be a soldier?”118
Recruits were given a physical on the Indianapolis state fairgrounds at Camp Morton. Doctors scrutinized the teeth; soldiers needed them to tear open the paper cartridges used in loading a musket. Lack of a single front tooth caused a member of Billy Davis's regiment to be sent home. Davis himself was nearly rejected as undersized, but most were sworn into United States service.
An Indiana volunteer thought the schedule in camp was “bound up pretty tight…we have to toe the mark.” Reveille was at five o'clock, and the order of the day was drill. “After breakfast we went out and drilled, or tried to,” wrote Billy Davis. “The Sergeants took out squads and drilled, while the officers studied. They do almost as well as the officers, we are all as awkward as can be.” Strapping farm youths accustomed to the plow sometimes found the terms “right” and “left” incomprehensible—for them it was necessary to substitute the familiar commands for steering oxen: “gee” and “haw.”119
In contrast, Germans of the Ninth Ohio Regiment drilled under an exacting Prussian drillmaster who barked commands in their native tongue. A Cincinnati newspaper reported what everyone at Camp Dennison knew about the Germans: “Training incessant
ly, exploiting boundless tenacity, they have already achieved extraordinary precision and skill. An old English-speaking officer said recently that the Ninth is one of the best regiments he had ever seen.”120
Living quarters varied. Some of the Hoosiers at Camp Morton slept in animal stalls on the fairgrounds or in tents. At Ohio's Camp Dennison, the wooden shanties constructed by William Rosecrans underwent dramatic improvement. Ebenezer Hannaford wrote how they were “transformed into the likeness of pleasant country cottages, by means of lattice-work porches, cornices of various patterns, pigeon-houses, and similar ornamentation.” Nearly every dwelling had a distinctive sign, with titles like the “Astor House,” the “Major Anderson,” “Stars and Stripes,” “Barnum's Museum,” or the “Canary Bird Nest.”121
Cooking details were formed, but the roads to Camps Dennison and Harrison were dotted with carriages, “protruding from which might be seen baskets and bottles, all filled with the good things of this life.” A special train accommodated visitors. Since “admission was open to all, and few came empty-handed, soldier-life at Camp Harrison became simply a kind of protracted picnic.” Roared an Irish volunteer overcome by the bounty, “If this be war, God grant we may niver have pace.”122
Liquid spirits were mostly forbidden. “They [are] not going to let the boys swair or drink any,” reported an Indiana volunteer. Testified an Ohio recruit, “We don't drink any beer here, or any drinks—only coffee and water.” Others hinted of more potent libations. “Canteens were furnished to day, are of tin covered by a coarse cloth,” noted Billy Davis. “Some of the boys think them good for Buttermilk, Cider or something stronger.” Davis's leather-bound journal reported that members of his regiment had gone to town one evening; “Some returned drunk, others are out.” The following day's entry: “At breakfast time the missing boys returned…. They are still drunk.”123
Punishment might include extra duty or time in the guardhouse. For stealing, insubordination, and other infractions, recruits would be shaved bald, marched through camp with a humiliating sign, chained to a log, or strapped to the wheel of a gun carriage. For dire offenses like murder, the soldier might face a firing squad or hanging.124
The Union volunteers of 1861 wore all manner of uniforms—from the gaudy, outlandish fezzes and bloomers of Zouaves to plain civilian garb. Ebenezer Hannaford's company of the Sixth Ohio Infantry wore a “distinctive pattern, in gray cloth,” bought with private contributions. The Seventh Indiana Regiment was in camp for nearly a month before they received uniforms. “The color is gray,” noted Billy Davis, “and quite neat when a fellow gets a fit, but such fortunate ones are few.”
There was no standard uniform color during the first months of war. “Militia gray” was popular in the North. Some Confederate troops wore blue. The familiar blue uniform did not become standard Union issue until 1862, a situation that led to tragic errors.125
Early Union volunteers often received the same arm as their enemy—antiquated muskets firing a huge .69 caliber ball. More than one groused that his weapon “had not been shot since the war with England.” A description of arms for the Fourteenth Indiana Infantry appeared in the Indianapolis Journal: “Over 200 men in the regiment are armed with percussion-locked muskets altered from the old fashioned flintlock and the remainder are provided with the latest pattern of smooth bore muskets.” Flanking companies and sharpshooters received the more accurate British Enfield rifles. “The Regiment took 120 rounds of ammunition for each man,” concluded the Journal, “sufficient quantity to do a vast amount of execution on the rebels.”126
General McClellan arrived to review the troops at Indianapolis, fanning rumors of departure for the seat of war. The excitement swelled as muskets were loaded and fired for the first time. Billy Davis lay on his bunk afterward with Bible in hand, lingering over the inscription by a young lady. “Friend Billy;” it read, “You go to fight for us, we will pray for you, may you fight bravely, and should you fall may you die happy.”127
CHAPTER 5
MCCLELLAN
EYES VIRGINIA
“I hope to secure Western Virginia to the Union.”
—George B. McClellan to Abraham Lincoln
A column of volunteers marched at the Wheeling Island fairgrounds. They were soldiers of Virginia, cast from a different mold. Scorned by their own state, these recruits drilled for Mr. Lincoln's army instead. They made up the First Virginia Volunteer Infantry—a United States regiment formed on Confederate soil.
Although residents of Ohio and Pennsylvania swelled their ranks, a large number hailed from the Virginia panhandle. At least one company, the “Iron Guards,” came from the mills of Wheeling. These blue-collar Unionists did not look much like soldiers. They lacked uniforms and accouterments of any kind. The citizens of Wheeling had donated blankets, and each man clasped an old Springfield musket—courtesy of the state of Massachusetts—for the United States government was disinclined to send arms to Virginians.128
Colonel Benjamin Franklin Kelley led the First Virginia Volunteers. A native of New Hampshire, Kelley had spent much of his life in the Virginia panhandle. He was a tall and commanding fifty-four years of age, with rugged good looks, thick hair, shaggy brows, and a goatee. Kelley's erect carriage suggested a martial background; he was in fact a graduate of Vermont's celebrated Partridge Military Academy, and had once been an officer of Wheeling militia. He was employed as a freight agent for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad in Philadelphia when war broke out. A call by Virginia residents brought the patriotic Kelley back to Wheeling, and there he took command of a Union regiment unique in every way.129
Less than one hundred miles southeast, Confederate volunteers under Colonel George Porterfield gathered on the B&O Railroad at Fetterman, just outside of Grafton. The vital rail junction at Grafton gave Porterfield much concern. The town was poorly sited for defense, and its citizens were unsympathetic. Grafton was populated by immigrant Irish railroad laborers with little taste for secession. “I do not like the place,” grumbled a Confederate recruit. “No cheers greet us here; no secession banners wave.”130
Rumors of a plot to poison the Rebels swirled at Grafton. A bevy of young girls dressed in red, white, and blue were known to promenade there. Perhaps most repugnant of all was a large United States flag rippling over the main street. George Latham, temporary secretary of the Wheeling Convention, was responsible for that flag. Trading his pen for a sword, the twenty-nine-year-old attorney had raised a company of Union recruits known as the “Grafton Guards.” He awaited only the May 23 vote on secession to offer their services to Federal authorities in Wheeling.131
Taunted by Captain Latham's banner, some two hundred Confederate volunteers under Captain John A. Robinson of the “Letcher Guards” marched into Grafton on May 22 to remove it. Among them was John Cammack: “As we were moving onto the west end of town we heard a tremendous noise of shouting which we thought was joy at our coming. It was not. Nearly the whole population was out on the streets, but they were not cheering. They were shouting and cursing and abusing us dreadfully.”
Captain Robinson ordered two men to tear down the “damn rag.” An outraged Unionist hurled a chair, knocking the captain from his horse. Robinson arose in a huff, about to give the order to fire when he spied Latham's men—on rooftops, at windows, and in doorways with guns leveled—ready to pour out a deadly volley. The perplexed Confederates fell back. Latham's flag was untouched.
As if on cue, that pesky bevy of girls appeared, waving little Union flags as they serenaded the passing Rebels. Defiantly, Captain Robinson halted his men. The angry crowd hissed and jeered. “ We were held for about an hour on the platform of the old railroad hotel,” recalled a terrified John Cammack, “and it seemed to me we had an officer for about every six men and all of them begging the men not to shoot. Practically the whole town was out in the street above us cursing and calling us ugly names. I think that was about the longest hour I ever spent.”132
Bloodshed was averted�
�by a matter of hours.
That afternoon, two members of the Grafton Guards, Daniel Wilson and Thornsberry Bailey Brown, notified other Unionists in the area of Latham's imminent departure. Emboldened, Brown and Wilson returned by way of Confederate-occupied Fetterman. Near 9 P.M., they approached the intersection of the Northwestern Turnpike and the B & O Railroad on the edge of town.
“Halt,” cried a sentinel from the darkness. Brown and Wilson could make out three figures—Captain Robinson's Confederates. A second warning rang out. The pair drew close enough to recognize Daniel Knight, a well-known troublemaker. Brown had once disarmed him in an ugly altercation, and Knight had vowed revenge. The thought of Daniel Knight blocking access to a public highway infuriated Brown.
“Damn him, what right has he to stop us,” exclaimed Brown. He drew a revolver and fired—shearing the lobe from Knight's right ear. Knight staggered, leveled a flintlock musket, and discharged the contents into Brown's chest. Brown collapsed; blood poured from three gaping wounds near his heart. Wilson turned and fled.
Bailey Brown was dead—the first enlisted man in United States service to be killed by a Confederate soldier. His death on May 22, 1861, preceded by two days that of Union Colonel Elmer Ellsworth, the well-known Northern martyr shot down in Alexandria while removing a Confederate flag. Brown's bloodstained corpse was handed over to his friends and put on display at the Grafton Hotel. The event sparked a commotion. Hundreds came to view the fallen hero—and to vote in the long-awaited referendum on Virginia's Ordinance of Secession.133
Rebels at the Gate: Lee and McClellan on the Front Line of a Nation Divided Page 6