WAR FOR THE UNION.
On the 4th of March, 1861, when Abraham Lincoln took the inaugural oath in front of the National Capitol, his footprints upon the marble marked the great and terrible epoch in the history of our government. The scene was imbued with a grandeur undiscovered and without acknowledgment from the thousands and thousands of freemen who crowded and surged like an ocean at his feet.
An old man, bowed both by responsibility and years, stood by his side, then and there to render up his august position over a great country, at the very moment struggling with the first throes of civil war. How weary he had become, and how gladly he laid down the burden of his power, no heart save his own can tell. But the darkness and the thunders of coming strife followed alike James Buchanan in his retirement and Abraham Lincoln into the thorny splendors of the White House. Solemn and very sad were these two men as they stood for a brief space before the people. The splendor of power brought no happiness either in the giving or receiving. No two men upon the face of the earth ever stood before a people in an attitude so imposing, so fraught with terrible events. When they shook hands peace veiled her face, and, shuddering, shrunk away into the shadows which have darkened around her closer and thicker, till she is now buried so deep beneath the gathered death-palls that no one can tell where she is hidden. For months and even years she had been threatened by factions, disturbed by reckless speech and still more reckless pens, but now, behind all these, warcries swelled, and bayonets glistened in the distance, bloodless as yet, but threatening storms of crimson rain.
There, upon the verge of this coming tempest, the two Presidents parted, one for the solitude of a peaceful home, the other outward bound into the wild turmoil of contesting thoughts and heroic deeds. As I have said, no one fully realized the coming terror, or thought how easy a thing it is for a war of passions to verge into a war of blood. Still the signs of the last three months had been painfully ominous. The strife of opinions and clash of factions, which had been waxing deeper and stronger between the North and the South, concentrated after Lincoln’s election, and the heart of the nation was almost rent in twain before he took the inaugural oath. When he stood up, the central figure of the imposing picture presented to the nation on the fourth of March, a southern government had already been organized at Montgomery, and Jefferson Davis had been sworn in as its president, while the men who had abandoned their seats in the United States Senate now held place in the Confederate Cabinet.
Between the time of President Lincoln’s election and his inauguration, five States had followed the lead of South Carolina and declared themselves out of the Union. One by one the representatives of these States had left Congress, some in sullen silence, others eloquent with passion and sophistry.
The nation saw all this, but would not comprehend the imminence of its danger. At a New England dinner, given in New York, December 22d, 1860, one of the most astute statesmen of the country had prophesied, in words that amounted to a promise, that sixty days would be sufficient time in which to tranquilize all this turbulent discontent, and the people believed him; but the sixty days had long since passed, and instead of peace a Confederate government had planted itself on the Alabama river; secession flags floated over more than one of our forts, and another fort in Charleston harbor had only been preserved by the forethought and bravery of Major Anderson, who was then engirdled by hostile batteries, and half-starving from lack of supplies. In the North also the spirit of sedition was abroad. Southern travellers still lingered in our great cities, and conspiracies grew up like nightshade in the dark—conspiracies that threatened not only the government, but the very life of its elected President.
Even on his way to the Capitol Lincoln had been called from his bed at Harrisburg and hurried forward to Washington in the night, thus, without a shadow of doubt, escaping the assassination that awaited him in Baltimore. Still so blind were the people, and so resolute to believe that nothing serious could result from a rebellion that had been preceded by so much bravado, that even the President’s preservation from the death prepared for him was taken up by the press and echoed by the people as a clever joke, calculated to bring out a Scotch cap and long cloak in strong relief, but of doubtful origin. Yet the absolute danger in this case might have been demonstrated to a certainty had any one possessing authority cared to investigate the facts. But the nation had not yet recovered from the excitement of a popular election, and everything was submerged in the wild rush of politicians that always follows close on an inauguration.
In this whirlpool of political turmoil rebellion had time to grow and thrive in its southern strongholds, for its imminence could not be forced upon the cool consideration of a people whose traditions had so long been those of prosperous peace. The idea of a civil war, in which thousands on thousands of brave Americans would redden the soil but just denuded of its primeval timber, was an idea so horrible that the most iron-hearted man failed to recognize it as a possibility. That the revolt of these Southern States would in less than a year fill the whole length and breadth of the land with widows and orphans—that American brothers could ever be brought to stand face to face in mortal strife as they have done—that women, so lately looked on with love and reverence, should grow coarse and fiendish from a scent of kindred blood, mocking at the dead and sending victims into a death-snare by their smiles, alas! alas! who could have foreseen it? The very angels of Heaven must have turned away from the suggestion in unbelief.
Never on the face of the earth has a war so terrible been waged on so little cause. The French Revolution—whose atrocities we have not yet emulated, thank God—was the frenzied outbreak of a nation trodden under foot and writhing in the grasp of tyranny such as no American ever dreamed of. If the people became fiends in their revenge, it was the outgrowth of fearful wrongs. But where is the man North or South in our land who had been subject to tyranny or aggression from its government when this war commenced?
No wonder the government looked upon the rebellion with forbearance. No wonder it waited for the sober second thought which it was hoped would bring its leaders back to the old flag, under which the contending parties might reason together. But no, the first step, which ever counts most fatally, was taken, and every footprint that followed it is now red with American blood.
A month passed. President Lincoln was in the White House, besieged by office-seekers almost as closely as Major Anderson was surrounded in Fort Sumter. Ambassadors, consuls, postmasters, collectors, and all the host of placemen that belong to the machinery of a great nation, made their camping ground in Washington, and their point of attack the White House. But amid all this excitement, great national events would force themselves into consideration. News that Jefferson Davis was mustering troops, and that rebellion was making steady strides in the disaffected States, broke through the turmoil of political struggles.
But the state of the country gave painful apprehension to men who stood aloof from the struggles for place going on at Washington, and those who had time for thought saw that the rebellion was making steady progression. The Border States—Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee and Missouri—with the non-slaveholding States verging upon them, had made a desperate effort to unite on some plan of pacification, but in vain. The border slave States, being in close neighborhood with the North, hesitated in joining the cotton States already in revolt. But disaffection was strong even there, and no great mind, either in Congress or out of it, had arisen strong enough to check the spirit of revolution. Before Lincoln’s inauguration Governor Letcher had declared that any attempt of the United States government to march troops across the State of Virginia, for the purpose of enforcing the Federal authority anywhere, would be considered “an invasion, which must be repelled by force.” Never was the government placed in a more humiliating position. President Buchanan was surrounded by advisers, many of whom were secretly implicated in the rebellion, and felt himself powerless to act in this emergency, while leading officers of the Federal government were daily making use of their high powers to consummate the designs of the conspirators.
Immediately after the act of secession of South Carolina, Governor Pickens had commenced the organization of an army. Commissioners had appeared in Washington to demand the surrender of the fortifications in Charleston harbor, and the recognition of the State as a distinct nationality. Castle Pinckney, Forts Moultrie and Sumter were the government fortifications in the harbor. Fort Moultrie was garrisoned by a small force, which had been reduced far below the ordinary peace complement, under the command of Major Anderson, a noble and brave man. On the night of December 26, in order to place his command in a more secure fortification, Major Anderson had removed his men and material to Fort Sumter, where, from its isolated position, he had nothing to fear, for a time at least, from the armed masses that were gathering about him. This movement, peaceable in itself, placed his little band in a position where it could inflict no injury on the inhabitants of Charleston. The city was thus placed beyond the range of his guns. But the movement was received with outbursts of indignation from the people of South Carolina.
The then Secretary of War, John B. Floyd, of Virginia, had promised the South Carolina seceders that everything in the harbor of Charleston should be left undisturbed. But of this promise both President Buchanan and Major Anderson were ignorant. In making a movement of signal importance, that resulted in a terrible inauguration of war, the Major had exercised an undoubted right, conferred by his position as an independent commander.
President Buchanan, when called upon to interfere, repudiated the pledge made by his Secretary, and peremptorily refused to sanction it in any way.
FORT SUMTER.
This threw the people of Charleston into a fever of indignation. The Charleston Courier denounced Major Anderson in the most cutting terms. “He has achieved,” said that journal, “the unenviable distinction of opening civil war between American citizens, by a gross breach of faith. He has, under counsel of a panic, deserted his post at Fort Moultrie, and by false pretexts has transferred his garrison and military stores to Fort Sumter.” The Mercury, still more imperative, insisted, “that it was due to South Carolina and good faith, that Major Anderson’s act should be repudiated by his government, and himself removed forthwith from Fort Sumter.”
Meantime Castle Pinckney and Fort Moultrie were occupied and garrisoned by the troops of South Carolina. The small guard left in charge of these posts by Major Anderson were disarmed and kept by force from joining their commander.
That day the Palmetto flag was hoisted over the Custom House and Post Office of Charleston. That day, also, Captain L. N. Costa, commander of the revenue cutter William Aiken, betrayed his government and delivered his vessel over to the State authorities, carrying with him a majority of his men.
These proceedings at Fort Sumter resulted in the withdrawal of John B. Floyd, of Virginia, from Mr. Buchanan’s counsellors, and ultimately in breaking up his cabinet only a few weeks before his term of office expired; for there, as elsewhere, arose a conflict of opinion, northern members taking one side and Southern members another. Howell Cobb, of Georgia, Secretary of the Treasury, and Jacob Thompson, of the Interior, soon followed Floyd, and after them went General Cass, of Michigan. Their places were supplied for the brief time of Buchanan’s term by Holt, of Kentucky, Stanton, of Pennsylvania, Dix, of New York, and Horatio King, who had been a leading mind in the Post Office Department for twenty years.
The military authorities of South Carolina, strengthened by volunteers and contributions from other States, commenced the siege of Fort Sumter in earnest. They planted heavy batteries on James Island, Morris Island, and Cummings Point. In every spot where guns could be brought to bear on the fort, powerful earthworks were erected, and an immense floating battery of unexampled construction was planned. This, anchored within short range when the day of attack should arrive, was expected to work terrible execution.
Thus encircled by bristling guns at every point, forbidden all intercourse beyond the walls, and denied the privilege of procuring fresh provisions almost entirely, Major Anderson and his noble band could only wait for the help which was slow in coming.
Thus day by day the isolated fort stood like a solitary rock, against which the angry surges of an ocean were stormfully mustering. Girdled in by an army that grew stronger every moment, its noble commander and his scarcely less heroic men, stood firmly by the flag that floated above its battlements, the only stars and stripes now visible from horizon to horizon.
The God of heaven, and that small handful of men, only know the anxieties that beset them. With no means of intelligence, no certainty of support, if an emergency arose demanding an assumption of prompt responsibility, with nothing but gloom landward or seaward, Anderson and his little forces stood at bay. Every hour, every moment, restricted their privileges and consumed their stores; they began to look forward to a lack of food, and many an anxious eye was turned toward the ocean, in a wistful search after the succor that did not come.
The government in Washington was painfully aware of the peril which hung over these brave men. Still, some hope of an amicable adjustment lingered, and President Buchanan hesitated in taking measures that might inaugurate a civil war. But his obligations to these suffering men were imperative. The heroic band, so faithful to their trust, so true to their national honor, must not be left to starve or fall for lack of food and re-enforcements.
On the 5th of January the Star of the West set sail from New York, laden with stores, ammunition, and two hundred and fifty men. Fort Sumter was at length to be relieved. But the North abounded with secession sympathizers, and in a few hours after the steamer sailed, the people of Charleston were informed of her destination by telegraph. Preparations were promptly made for her reception. Captain McGowan had intended to enter Charleston harbor at night, hoping to veil himself in darkness, and reach Fort Sumter undiscovered. But the buoys, sights and ranges had been removed, and, thus baffled, he was compelled to lie outside the harbor till daylight.
At half-past 7, A. M., January 9th, the Star of the West started for the fort. A shot from Morris Island cut sharply across her bows. She run up the stars and stripes, sending that first aggressive shot a noble answer, in red, white and blue, but keeping steadily on her course.
Again and again the audacious guns on Morris Island ploughed up the waters in her path, and, thus assailed, she slowly changed her course, and left the besieged fort without succor.
The little garrison in Fort Sumter watched these proceedings with keen anxiety; though ignorant of the nature and errand of the steamer, this attack aroused the patriotism in every heart. They saw the stars and stripes deliberately fired upon. Seventeen guns sent their iron messages from Morris Island, and then, ignorant of the cause, ignorant of everything, save that the old flag had been assaulted, the garrison fell to work. The guns of Fort Sumter were run out ready for action, but just then the steamer veered on her course and moved seaward.
Had Major Anderson known that the Star of the West was struggling to give him succor, those seventeen shots would never have been fired with impunity.
While the steamer was yet hovering on the horizon, Anderson sent a flag to Governor Pickens, inquiring if a United States steamer had been fired upon by his authority. Governor Pickens replied that it was by his authority. Immediately on the receipt of this answer, Lieutenant Talbot left Fort Sumter with despatches for Washington, asking for instructions.
From that time the garrison remained in a state of siege, until the 5th of April, one month after the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States.
At this time the fort had become more closely besieged. The little garrison was refused fresh provisions from the city, and its supplies by the Government were almost consumed. Starvation or surrender lay before Major Anderson and his handful of men.
Though cut off from communication with the fort, the Government was not unmindful of its needs. From the 5th to the 11th of April three vessels of war, three transports, and three steamers sailed from New York and Norfolk, with men, horses, and munitions of war. The destination of these vessels was kept secret, and public curiosity became intensely excited. The Confederate Government, now assembled at Montgomery, Alabama, was promptly notified, by its secret emissaries, of these movements. Indeed, it is doubtful if Jefferson Davis was not better informed, regarding the destination of this expedition, than the people of the North. The result was, a formal demand on Major Anderson for the surrender of Fort Sumter by General Beauregard, commander of the Confederate forces investing the fort, which now numbered 7,000 men, protected by batteries mounting 140 siege guns.
President Lincoln had notified Governor Pickens that provisions would be sent to the garrison of Fort Sumter, peaceably, if possible, if necessary, by force.
General Beauregard, commander of the Confederate forces, knew of the succor at hand, but deeming Anderson ignorant of its coming, hoped that the state of semi-starvation to which the garrison was reduced, might enforce the surrender before help arrived. But the astute rebel found himself matched by a soldier, cautious in negotiation as he afterwards proved himself heroic in battle.
On Thursday, the 11th of April, a boat was seen approaching the work, with Colonel Chesnut, Colonel Chisholm and Captain Lee, aids to General Beauregard. They handed Major Anderson a communication from General Beauregard, which was a summons to evacuate the fort. It was to this effect: that the Confederate authorities had refrained from any hostile act against Fort Sumter in anticipation that the government of the United States would withdraw its troops from that fort; that it appeared probable at one time that this would have been done, but that the authorities of the Confederate States could no longer refrain from taking possession of a fort that commanded the entrance to one of their principal harbors, and that the order to evacuate the fort was now made upon the following terms: The troops to be allowed to carry with them their arms, all personal baggage and company property of every description, and the flag which had been maintained with so much fortitude, might be saluted when hauled down.
Major Anderson replied, that his word of honor, and the duty he owed to his government, forbade his compliance with the demand.
These gentlemen then left the fort, displaying a red flag.
At half-past 1 A. M., on Friday, a boat containing Colonel Chesnut, Captain Lee and Colonel Roger A. Pryor, approached the work with a communication from General Beauregard, making inquiry as to what day Major Anderson would evacuate the work, and asking if he would agree not to open his batteries unless Fort Sumter was fired upon. Suspecting from the urgency of this midnight negotiation, some strong necessity on the part of his opponent, but convinced that an evacuation would be inevitable, Major Anderson made a written reply, stating that he would evacuate the fort at noon, on the 15th, provided he did not receive supplies or controlling instructions from his government to the contrary. That he would not open his batteries unless the flag of his country was fired upon, or unless some hostile intention on the part of the Confederate forces should be manifested.
Being in hourly expectation of the arrival of a United States fleet with reinforcements off the harbor, and urged to instant action by dispatches from Montgomery, General Beauregard had prepared his messengers for this answer. Anderson’s communication was handed to Colonel Chesnut shortly after 3 o’clock, who, after a short consultation with the officers who had accompanied him, handed a communication to Major Anderson, and said,
“General Beauregard will open his batteries in one hour from this time, sir.”
Major Anderson looked at his watch, and said,
“It is half-past three. I understand you, sir, then, that your batteries will open in an hour from this time?”
Colonel Chesnut replied, “Yes, sir, in one hour.”
They then retired.