But the War is not less manifest. Assuming all the functions of an independent government, the Confederacy has undertaken to declare war against the United States. In support of this declaration it has raised armies, organized a navy, issued letters of marque, borrowed money, imposed taxes, and otherwise done all that it could in waging war. Its armies are among the largest ever marshalled by a single people, and at different places throughout a wide-spread territory they have encountered the armies of the United States. Battles are fought with the varying vicissitudes of war. Sieges are laid. Fortresses and cities are captured. On the sea, ships bearing the commission of the Rebellion, sometimes as privateers and sometimes as ships of the navy, seize, sink, or burn merchant vessels of the United States; and only lately an iron-clad steamer, with the flag of the Rebellion, destroyed two frigates of the United States. On each side prisoners are made, who are treated as prisoners of war, and as such exchanged. Flags of truce pass from camp to camp, and almost daily during the winter this white flag has afforded its belligerent protection to communications between Norfolk and Fortress Monroe, while the whole Rebel coast is by proclamation of the President declared in a state of blockade, and ships of foreign countries, as well as of our own, are condemned by courts in Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, as prize of war. Thus do all things attest the existence of war, which is manifest now in the blockade, upheld by judicial tribunals, and now in the bugle, which after night sounds truce, indubitably as in mighty armies face to face on the battle-field. It is war in all its criminal eminence, challenging all the pains and penalties of war, enlisting all its terrible prerogatives, and awaking all its dormant thunder.
Further effort is needless to show that we are in the midst of a Rebellion and in the midst of a War,—or, in yet other words, that unquestionable war is now waged to put down unquestionable rebellion. But a single illustration out of many in history will exhibit this double character in unmistakable relief. The disturbances which convulsed England in the middle of the seventeenth century were occasioned by the resistance of Parliament to the arbitrary power of the Crown. This resistance, prolonged for years and maintained by force, triumphed at last in the execution of King Charles and the elevation of Oliver Cromwell. The historian whose classical work was for a long time the chief authority relative to this event styles it “The Rebellion,” and under this name it passed into the memory of men. But it was none the less war, with all the incidents of war. The fields of Naseby, Marston Moor, Dunbar, and Worcester, where Cavaliers and Puritans met in bloody shock, attest that it was war. Clarendon called it Rebellion, and the title of one of his works makes it “The Grand Rebellion,”—how small by the side of ours! But a greater than Clarendon—John Milton—called it War, when, in unsurpassed verses, after commemorating the victories of Cromwell, he uses words so often quoted without knowing their original application:—
“Yet much remains
To conquer still: Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than War.”[8]
The death of Cromwell was followed by the restoration of King Charles the Second; but the royal fugitive from the field of Worcester, where Cromwell triumphed in war, did not fail to put forth the full prerogatives of sovereignty in the suppression of rebellion; and all who sat in judgment on the king, his father, were saved from the fearful penalties of treason only by exile. Hugh Peters, the Puritan preacher, and Harry Vane, the Puritan senator, were executed as traitors for the part they performed in what was at once rebellion and war, while the body of the great commander who defeated his king in battle, and then sat upon his throne, was hung in chains, as a warning against treason.
Other instances might be given to illustrate the double character of present events. But enough is done. My simple object is to exhibit this important point in such light that it will be at once recognized. And I present the Rebellion and the War as obvious facts. Let them be seen in their true character, and it is easy to apply the law. Because Senators see the facts only imperfectly, they hesitate with regard to the powers we are to employ,—or perhaps it is because they insist upon seeing the fact of Rebellion exclusively, and not the fact of War. Let them open their eyes, and they must see both. If I seem to dwell on this point, it is because of its practical importance in the present debate. For myself, I assume it as an undeniable postulate.
The persons arrayed for the overthrow of the Government of the United States are unquestionably criminals, subject to all the penalties of rebellion, which is of course treason under the Constitution of the United States.
The same persons arrayed in war against the Government of the United States are unquestionably enemies, exposed to all the incidents of war, with its penalties, seizures, contributions, confiscations, captures, and prizes.