Reveille in Washington

by Margaret Leech

  Mr. Seward, still exuding confidence, said that the national crisis would be over in three months; but Washington scented danger. Of the soldiers brought to the city for the count of the electoral vote, scarcely more than half remained. General Scott was expecting reinforcements, but, as the fleet set out for Fort Sumter, he began to fear that they might come too late. In order to furnish guards for the public buildings, the President called out ten companies of the District militia.

  There was a stir of excitement, as the men assembled at their armories to be inspected by Colonel Stone. The muster-in of six companies began immediately in the yard in front of the War Department. Some of the bystanders urged the militia not to take the oath of allegiance to the Government, and only one company proved ready to do so. Out of thirty volunteers who presented themselves in the reorganized National Rifles, eighteen promptly resigned. About twenty men of the Washington Light Infantry refused to be sworn in. Seventeen members of the Potomac Light Infantry of Georgetown left the ranks when required to take the oath. As they marched back to their armory, some persons hissed them, but other residents of the Washington suburb applauded the dissenters and hissed the loyal soldiers. District troopers, however, serenaded General Scott at his lodgings in the evening. Scott made them a little speech about “rallying round,” and “dying gloriously” and “old flag of our country“; and the band played “Yankee Doodle.” On the suggestion of Mr. Seward, who was dining with the General, “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “Hail, Columbia” were also rendered, before Scott and his guests sat down to Cruchet’s excellent dinner, with wines from France, Spain and Madeira.

  The muster-in had been initiated with an arbitrary abruptness that would have startled a more patriotic town. The nation was not at war. The militiamen, assembled on a half-hour’s notice, had been left in ignorance of the length or the character of the service expected of them. Many of the men had refused to take the oath because of fear that they were to be sent outside the District. Things went better on the second day of the enrollment, when the citizens understood that they had been called out for guard duty. Major Irvin McDowell, the Assistant Adjutant General, explained that their services would be required within the District limits, and that the enlistment period was for three months only. Half-a-dozen rifle companies promptly swore allegiance, and the Washington Rifles took the oath so heartily that unionist spectators around the War Department fence broke into applause.

  Squads of militia were placed on nightly duty at the public buildings, while United States cavalry pickets were stationed at the Long Bridge, at the Navy Yard and Rock Creek bridges, and at other approaches to Washington. One of the most important points outside the city limits was the Chain Bridge, which spanned the Potomac three miles above Georgetown. In spite of its old-fashioned name, it was a strong wooden structure, resting on piers of masonry. It connected Washington with the Virginia turnpike which led by way of Leesburg to Harper’s Ferry.

  The administration, in great anxiety, awaited news from Charleston. The unceasing tramp of the office seekers’ feet in the White House corridor was beginning to get on Mr. Lincoln’s nerves. Senator Douglas imparted to Mr. Welles his positive knowledge that the rebels would fire on Fort Sumter. On Friday, April 12, Washington heard that General Beauregard had demanded the surrender of the fort, and that Major Anderson had refused. Next day, the headlines proclaimed that the bombardment of Fort Sumter had started on the preceding day. Newspaper offices were raided, and the presses could not supply the demand. Late in the evening, the Star posted on its bulletin board the dispatch which told that the fort had surrendered. All day Sunday, in the big hotels and on the street corners, people gathered to discuss the news. There was some skepticism about its reliability. Many held the opinion that the report had been put out to affect the decision of Virginia. On Monday, the President’s proclamation was published, calling out seventy-five thousand militia for three months.

  Suddenly, it was impossible to deprecate or parry the crisis any longer. Civil war was upon the nation. The bonfire kindled by the politicians had lighted a great blaze of rebellion. Washington looked anxiously toward the heights beyond the Long Bridge.

  Roger Pryor had been a true prophet. The guns that battered Sumter swept Virginia into the Confederacy; but neither he nor any man could have foretold that, in less than an hour by Shrewsbury clock, they would arouse the North. The flag that fluttered earthward in defeat sent the men of the loyal States thronging to the recruiting offices. There was a hearty clamor of bells and bands and cheers. People ran into the streets with a strange new look on their faces—a kind of desperate joy, as if they were relieved to feel passionately again. It had not been so when South Carolina guns fired on the Star of the West, nor when in State after seceded State other forts had been seized by the rebels. In the same fervor and exaltation and unreason, it would not be so again in that war.

  From sixteen States, telegrams and letters flooded into Washington, offering men, money, arms. The volunteers far exceeded the number called by the President. Six border slave States sent angry refusals, and one of these was Virginia. A hesitant reply came from Governor Hicks of Maryland. He was a Union man of the stamp of Mr. Buchanan, patriotic but timid; and his State, split into warring factions, was a microcosm of the national problem. Some Marylanders employed in the Government departments had moved into town because they feared trouble. Like the Baltimore gangs, the Maryland militia companies were secessionist.

  The boundaries of the District were lines traced in the soil of Maryland, and Virginia’s relation to Washington by bridge and ferry was nearly as close. The Potomac, the water route to the capital, was bordered by the territory of both States. Baltimore was the terminus of the two great railroads from the North, one from Philadelphia, the other from Harrisburg; while at the Relay House, eight miles south of Baltimore, the railroad from the Ohio River and the West formed a junction with the Washington line. Washington, dependent on Maryland and Virginia for its communications with the rest of the country, was the scene of no enthusiastic demonstrations for war. Even the unionist population faced the outbreak of hostilities with doubt and reserve.

  In the eyes of the North, Washington was a cherished symbol of the nation’s power, to be held and defended at all costs. To the South, the capital was a great prize whose capture would enhance the prestige of the rebellious government, and surely bring it recognition by foreign powers. The Confederate Secretary of War publicly boasted that before the first of May the Stars and Bars would float over the dome of the Federal Capitol. Richmond secessionists were panting for the attack, and the Enquirer called on Virginia volunteers to be ready to join the march of a Southern army on Washington. The confidence of the disloyal residents of the capital increased the impression that the danger was imminent and acute.

  On Monday morning, two important Pennsylvania Republicans, Governor Curtin and Mr. McClure, anxiously questioned General Scott in the course of a conference at the White House. Scott acknowledged that the capital was not defensible, and that Beauregard commanded a large army; but he insisted that Washington was not in danger and could not be taken, and both Curtin and McClure came to the conclusion that the General was in his dotage. While they talked, Mr. Lincoln sat twirling his spectacles. He quaintly remarked that it seemed to him that, if he were Beauregard, he would take Washington. From the windows of the President’s office, a sloop of war, on which General Scott set great value, could be seen making a solitary little cruise between Alexandria and the Long Bridge.

  The defense of Washington, in spite of the British invasion of 1814, was not a subject which had been studied by Army engineers, who were versed in the topography of the environs of Paris and other European capitals. The city, sprawling in its marshy valley, covered too wide an area to be easily defended, and no natural features in its vicinity were well adapted to fortifications. One neglected fort, twelve miles down the river, was the only protection that had been devised for Washington. The reliance of
the city was on man power.

  Massachusetts, the only Northern State that was fully prepared for the crisis, was promptly sending four regiments, under the command of Benjamin F. Butler, brigadier-general of militia, and three had been ordered direct to Washington. Two companies of weary regulars had come in from Texas before the fall of Sumter, and at least one more was soon expected. Pending the arrival of reinforcements, more citizen soldiers were called out in the District. Every day the muster-in proceeded in the yard of the War Department. The National Rifles had been hustling for new recruits, and, purged for a second time, this company was sworn into the service. The chiefs of the Treasury bureaus met to organize a regiment of clerks and messengers. Office seekers were routed out of their hotel rooms to listen to fiery speeches from two veterans of the Mexican War: Cassius M. Clay, a picturesque Kentuckian who had had vice-presidential aspirations, and General James H. Lane, Kansas border fighter and senator-elect. In a pinch, these strangers in Washington would at least prove dependably loyal—they were Republicans, to a man.

  The Government had been assured that in a few days numerous militia regiments would arrive, and to all save professional soldiers militia meant an army. Even civilians, however, recognized the difficulty of finding competent officers of the higher grades. Among those who remained faithful, none save Scott and Wool had had command of a brigade. “What are we to do for generals?” Mr. Seward inquired of Scott.

  Half an hour’s ride away, in his pillared mansion on Arlington Heights, was a handsome officer for whose abilities Scott had an almost idolatrous admiration. Colonel Robert E. Lee, a man who believed secession to be revolution and anarchy, had been ordered to Washington from Texas in February. On his return home, he had paid his respects to General Scott, and the two Virginians had been closeted together for nearly three hours. Scott’s secretary, Keyes, felt certain that the General had offered to resign in favor of the younger officer. Keyes had observed that, after the interview, Scott had been silent and “painfully solemn“; and he also remembered Lee’s chill and formal evasion of an inquiry regarding Twiggs’s surrender.

  On the morning of Thursday, April 18, Lee again rode across the Long Bridge to Washington. He had appointments with old Mr. Blair and General Scott, and he went first to Montgomery Blair’s yellow house on Pennsylvania Avenue. At the instance of the President, the elder Blair that morning made Colonel Lee an unofficial offer of the command of the Federal army. Whether Lee hesitated to reply or at once gave a firm refusal, in the afternoon he rode for the last time from Washington to his home on Arlington Heights. Behind him, he left a city uneasy with rumors of the secession of Virginia. Militiamen were moving to their posts. Carts, laden with iron jars of cartridges and grapeshot, were distributing ammunition. Pickets, with bundles of hay on the high pommels of their saddles, galloped through the streets, their blue capes flying. In preparation for an attack, artillerymen manned guns at the Washington end of the bridge by which Colonel Lee crossed the Potomac. Captain William B. Franklin of the engineers, in charge of the construction work at the Treasury, was placed in command of that building. Guards were posted, and preparations made to transform the Treasury into a strongly defended citadel, flanked by the State Department and protected by an additional guard in the Riggs Bank building. The Capitol, Major Irvin McDowell commanding, was ready for an assault. Boards and stones and casks of cement blocked the doors and windows. Pictures and statues were covered with heavy planking. Firewood was stacked in the basement arches; and iron plates, intended for the dome, formed breastworks on the porticoes. In the wings, amid the anticipation of destruction, workmen still chipped at columns and tinkered with carvings.

  From group to group in the public rooms of Willard’s, the rumors spread that Virginians were marching on Washington. The mail train was late, and treason was feared in Baltimore. Half of the faces in the crowd at Willard’s were Southern; and, while loyal men loudly declared their sympathies, and impatiently asked, “Why don’t the troops come on?” there were many who stood apart, whispering or listening. The dependable boarders were assembled in the large hall adjoining Willard’s, and messengers were sent to bring in guests from the other hotels. They were divided into the Clay Battalion and the Frontier Guards, headed respectively by Cash Clay and Jim Lane, and were placed under the command of an Army officer—Mr. Lincoln’s friend, Major David Hunter. The two companies were motley groups of vigilantes rather than military organizations. Senator-elect Pomeroy of Kansas joined up with the applicants for office in the Frontier Guards. Among the Republican place seekers in the Clay Battalion was Count Adam Gurowski, a former Polish revolutionary leader, who was the author of several books and knew everyone of prominence in Washington. Gurowski had a snarling and cross-grained disposition, and one of his pet detestations was slavery. He gladly took an oath of fidelity, and signed a pledge to defend the capital. When these formalities had been completed, the men were supplied with muskets, and Major Hunter stationed Clay’s company at Willard’s, with orders to patrol the streets all night, while he took the Frontier Guards to the Executive Mansion.

  At about seven in the evening a train drew into the depot, carrying one company of regulars from Minnesota and four hundred and sixty volunteers from Pennsylvania. A mob had hooted and stoned the soldiers, as they passed through Baltimore. The Washington Artillery of Pottsville had brought an old Negro, known as Nick Biddle, who was fond of tagging along on their outings. He had put on a uniform for this grand excursion, and blood still oozed from the rags around his head, where the stones of the rowdies had found a mark. Nick Biddle was the first casualty of the war to enter Washington. He told people that he was not afraid to fight, but he never wanted to go through Baltimore again.

  The Pennsylvanians marched to the Capitol to be reviewed by Major McDowell, and assigned to temporary quarters in the building, whose north wing was already occupied by a company of District militiamen. Despite the anxiety for the arrival of the volunteers, no preparations had been made for their reception. The two companies installed in the luxurious committee rooms of the north wing would willingly have exchanged Brussels carpets and marble washstands for a heartier meal than the sides of bacon which were presently served out in the basement. The chandeliers and furnace were hastily lighted in the unoccupied south wing, and the smell of broiling and frying meat was wafted through the Hall of Representatives. Pennsylvania had been prompt in its patriotism, but a hodgepodge of five companies, wanting in regimental organization and almost entirely unarmed, could give no immediate assistance to the capital. A member of one of the companies, Mr. James D. Gay, who happened to be in Washington on business, went to visit his friends, and then returned to Willard’s. In the office he met Captain Magruder, and, pulling him into the street, pointed to the lighted Capitol, and said that two thousand soldiers had arrived there, armed with Minié rifles. Mr. Gay wanted to do his part toward saving Washington, and he hoped that Prince John believed him.

  General Jim Lane, a bold Kansas ruffian, with “the sad, dim-eyed, bad-toothed face of a harlot,” strode into the East Room of the White House, brandishing his shiny new sword. Behind him marched his earnest and awkward following of jayhawkers and a few Easterners, in citizens’ dress, with muskets on their shoulders. In the blaze of the crystal chandeliers, ammunition boxes were opened, and cartridges distributed. Colonel Stone, when he came to inspect the District sentries who were posted every night around the mansion, was startled by the loud voices and the ringing of rammers in musket barrels which proceeded from the East Room; but he was assured by Mrs. Lincoln’s cousin, Captain Lockwood Todd, that it was all right. The Frontier Guards practiced drilling for a while, and then composed themselves to sleep on the velvet carpet, with Major Hunter beside them.

  It was quiet on the second floor of the White House, where Mr. Lincoln had retired early. John Hay was enjoying the excitement hugely. A pretty lady who called to see the President turned out, to Hay’s infinite delight, to be Jean M. Davenport, a
n actress who had been his idol in his “stage-struck salad days.” This lovely creature—once the object of Mr. Stanton’s admiration, in the interval between his two marriages—was now the wife of Colonel Frederick W. Lander, a civil engineer who had made important Government surveys in the West. She had a little tale to tell of an encounter with a swaggering young Virginian, who had vaguely boasted of a great, daredevil thing that was to be done within forty-eight hours. Mrs. Lander, blushing at the impropriety of her visit, although she was accompanied by an older and plainer lady, was fearful that Virginians were plotting to assassinate or capture Mr. Lincoln. John Hay went to his chief’s bedside, and told him the yarn. The President “quietly grinned.”

  During the evening, the Government received verification of the report that the Virginia convention, which had been deliberating in Richmond since mid-February, had adopted an ordinance of secession. Aside from the threat to the capital itself, the secession of Virginia endangered three points of consequence: Harper’s Ferry, with its arsenal and armory; the navy yard at Norfolk, with its ships and materials; and Fort Monroe, which guarded the entrance of Chesapeake Bay. The fort was of primary importance as a base for both military and naval operations. It had a small garrison, and General Scott had already ordered one of the four Massachusetts regiments to reinforce it. From the three remaining regiments, he had considered sparing one for the defense of Harper’s Ferry. On Friday morning, however, it was learned that the little Federal garrison, attacked by Virginia militia, had demolished the arsenal and burned the armory building.