seemed to many hardly worth while to run risks. The new call for volunteers for three years had just gone forth, and though troops began to arrive under it with surprising promptitude and many three months' men reënlisted, yet a long time had to elapse before the new levies were all on hand. Thus betwixt departing and coming hosts McClellan's duty was not to use an army, but to create one.
The task looked immeasurable, but there was a fortunate fitness for it upon both sides. The men who in this awful crisis were answering the summons of President Lincoln constituted a raw material of a kind such as never poured into any camp save possibly into that of Cromwell. For the most part they were courageous, intelligent, self-respecting citizens, who were under the noble compulsion of conscience and patriotism in leaving reputable and prosperous callings for a military career. The moral, mental, and physical average of such a body of men was a long way above that of professional armies, and insured readiness in acquiring their new calling. But admirable as were the latent possibilities, and apt as each individual might be, these multitudes arrived wholly uninstructed; few had even so much as seen a real soldier; none had any notion at all of what military discipline was, or how to handle arms, or to manoeuvre, or to take care of their health. Nor could they easily get instruction in these things, for officers knew no more than privates; indeed,
for that matter, one of the great difficulties at first encountered lay in the large proportion of utterly unfit men who had succeeded in getting commissions, and who had to be toilfully eliminated.
That which was to be done, McClellan was well able to do. He had a passion for organization, and fine capacity for work; he showed tact and skill in dealing with subordinates; he had a thorough knowledge and a high ideal of what an army should be. He seemed the Genius of Order as he educated and arranged the chaotic gathering of human beings, who came before him to be transmuted from farmers, merchants, clerks, shopkeepers, and what not into soldiers of all arms and into leaders of soldiers. To that host in chrysalis he was what each skillful drill-master is to his awkward squad. Under his influence privates learned how to obey and officers how to command; each individual merged the sense of individuality in that of homogeneousness and cohesion, until the original loose association of units became one grand unit endowed with the solidarity and machine-like quality of an efficient army. Patient labor produced a result so excellent that General Meade said long afterward: "Had there been no McClellan there could have been no Grant, for the army made no essential improvement under any of his successors."
That the formation of this great complex machine was indispensable, and that it would take much time, were facts which the disaster at Bull
Run had compelled both the administration and the people to appreciate moderately well. Accordingly they resolutely set themselves to be patient. The cry of "On to Richmond!" no longer sounded through the land, and the restraint imposed by the excited masses upon their own ardor was the strongest evidence of their profound earnestness. In a steady stream they poured men and material into the camps in Virginia, and they heard with satisfaction of the advance of the levies in discipline and soldierly efficiency. For a while the scene was pleasant and without danger. "It was," says Arnold, describing that of which he had been an eye-witness, "the era of brilliant reviews and magnificent military displays, of parades, festive parties, and junketings." Members of Congress found excursions to the camps attractive for themselves and their visitors. Glancing arms, new uniforms, drill, and music constituted a fine show. Thus the rest of the summer passed away, and autumn came and was passing, too. Then here and there signs of impatience began again to be manifested. It was observed with discontent that the glorious days of the Indian Summer, the perfect season for military operations, were gliding by as tranquilly as if there were not a great war on hand, and still the citizen at home read each morning in his newspaper the stereotyped bulletin, "All quiet on the Potomac;" the phrase passed into a byword and a sneer. By this time, too, to a nation which had not European standards of
excellence, the army seemed to have reached a high state of efficiency, and to be abundantly able to take the field. Why did not its commander move? Amid all the drilling and band-playing the troops had been doing hard work: a chain of strong fortifications scientifically constructed had been completed around the capital, and rendered it easy of defense. It could be left in safety. Why, then, was it not left? Why did the troops still linger?
For a moment this monotony was interrupted by the ill-conducted engagement at Ball's Bluff. On October 21 nearly 2000 troops were sent across the Potomac by the local commander, with the foolish expectation of achieving something brilliant.[[146]] The actual result was that they were corralled in an open field; in their rear the precipitous bank dropped sharply to the river, upon which floated only the two or three little boats which had ferried them across in small parties; in front and flank from the shelter of thick woods an outnumbering force of rebels poured a steady fire upon them. They were in a cruel snare, and suffered terribly in killed and drowned, wounded and captured. The affair was, and the country at once saw that it was, a gross blunder. The responsibility lay upon General Stone and Colonel Baker. Stone, a military man by education, deserved censure, but he was
treated in a manner so cruel, so unjust, and so disproportionate to his deserts, that his error has been condoned in sympathy for his wrongs. The injustice was chargeable chiefly to Stanton, in part to the Committee on the Conduct of the War. Apparently Mr. Lincoln desired to know as little as possible about a wrong which he could not set right without injury to the public interests. He said to Stanton concerning the arrest: "I suppose you have good reasons for it, and having good reasons I am glad I knew nothing of it until it was done." To General Stone himself he said that, if he should tell all he knew about it, he should not tell much. Colonel Baker, senator from Oregon, a personal friend of the President, a brilliant orator, and a man beloved and admired by all who knew him, was a favorable specimen of the great body of new civilian officers. While brimming over with gallantry and enthusiasm, he was entirely ignorant of the military art. In the conduct of this enterprise a considerable discretion had been reposed in him, and he had, as was altogether natural, failed in everything except courage. But as he paid with his life on the battlefield the penalty of his daring and his inexperience, he was thought of only with tenderness and regret.
This skirmish illustrated the scant trust which could yet be reposed in the skill and judgment of subordinate officers. The men behaved with encouraging spirit and constancy under severe trial. But could a commander venture upon a campaign