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.”