The total money cost of the war on the American side has been given at very low and at very high amounts, and none of the estimates inspires much confidence. The excess expenditures of the army and navy appear to have been $63,605,621; of which $49,000,000 were raised by selling bonds and treasury notes, and were substantially added to the national debt. But these figures by no means answer the question. To the apparent cost we must add twelve millions paid later to Mexico, the American claims of which we relieved her, the war expenses of the treasury department, bounty lands, pensions, valid claims for damages, and other liabilities of many kinds gradually discharged after peace returned; and from the total must be subtracted the bonds and treasury notes then available for issue and the actual worth of ships, ordnance and other materials required for the war and left over. Evidently it is not feasible to reach a satisfactory conclusion, but as a very bold guess one may suggest a hundred millions.[25]
Even were that a close estimate, however, it would mean little. On the one hand lives, physical and mental sufferings, personal losses of every description, much national obloquy and a thousand minor factors would need to be considered, and on the other our gain in territory, in recognized power, in military and naval efficiency, in national self-consciousness and in particulars not so obvious. One thing, however, is clear. The war cost far less money than its opponents had expected. Webster solemnly predicted in December, 1846, that should it end the following spring, our debt would be a hundred millions, but on the first of July, 1848, the debt was less than sixty-six millions.[26]
XXXIV
THE WAR IN AMERICAN POLITICS
1846–1848
In Mexico the war had far more intimate relations with politics than it had in our own country. Here invading troops did not scatter our civil authorities, Presidents did not rise and fall, cabinets did not organize and melt away, revolutions and revolts did not hover continually at the door. Every part of the country contributed to the result. Supplies were voted, and troops assembled according to law. We have therefore studied Mexican politics in connection with events as these occurred, and reserved American politics to be surveyed more comprehensively; but this does not imply any lack of significance in the second topic.[1]
At first the war seemed extremely popular. The rush to volunteer showed that. A tone of opposition prevailed in New England, but it was quiet—hardly perceptible. May 21, 50,000 people gathered in front of the city hall at New York and called for vigorous measures. Hostilities appeared to be regarded by all as a just punishment for the long series of Mexican insults, barbarities and outrages. The country called; patriotism responded, and other considerations helped. Democratic politicians believed their party would gain prestige and strength. A great and common purpose would bind it firmly together. Many offices and appointments would follow, and almost everybody would gain some profit in a business way. Taylor’s “victories” on the Rio Grande intensified the enthusiasm. “Upon the duties which the present crisis invoked,” exclaimed the Philadelphia North American, “our country has but one heart,” and an invasion of the enemy’s territory “will meet the approbation of the entire American public.” Accordingly the first session of the Twenty-ninth Congress pushed its work far into the summer of 1846—even after Senator Fairfield wrote, “All nature [is] hissing”—and embodied the government’s policy in laws.[2]
THE WAR SOON UNPOPULAR
But this mood changed surprisingly. When Congress adjourned, it was in bad humor, and the country sympathized with it. News of the occupation of California produced little enthusiasm, for it had been expected. The fighting at Monterey excited interest, but it was followed at once by a long armistice, and it had no permanent effect on the downward course of public sentiment. Instead of glorying in the war, the Democrats now defended it feebly, and a great many regarded it as a grave political blunder. The fall Congressional elections went strongly against them. Every reverse could be explained, of course—in Pennsylvania a heavy storm, in New York the opposition of “every most pestilential and reckless form of law-hating faction,” apathy here, lack of organization there—but the National Intelligencer, chief organ of the Whigs, brushed explanations aside, and coldly remarked, “We presume that our President and his Cabinet are by this time convinced that they have forfeited the public confidence—the confidence, that is, of their own party; that of the other they never possessed”; and by mid-winter the political outlook for the war seemed extremely dark.[3]
The reasons for this change were complex and interesting. The people—Democrats and Whigs alike—knew they did not want Polk for chief executive. To the millions demanding, “Who is James K. Polk?” the answer had been given, “He is President of the United States”; but this excellent retort silenced instead of satisfying. Disagreeable ideas prevailed regarding the methods of his nomination and his election. Many viewed him as an Accident, an Unpleasant Surprise, a Surreptitious Incumbent; and his unpopularity not only was a disadvantage in itself, but colored the interpretation placed upon everything he did or said.[4]
Besides this initial difficulty, he was not considered a large enough man for the place, and the Cabinet seemed too much of a piece with him in that respect. The public did not hear Polk’s confidential declaration, “I intend to be myself President of the United States.” They were not aware that he risked a great deal to avoid having Calhoun and Flagg, a New York man of unusual ability, in his official family. But they felt like the Washington correspondent of the Boston Atlas, who said, They are “little fellows,” and “were they all thrown in a bag together, it would make little difference which came out first”; and they suspected that Polk aimed to eliminate all possible competitors. Many, indeed, believed it should be so. “Who would not regret,” asked Senator Mangum, “to see the choice of this great and free people thrown into shadow by over-topping talent?” The President was inaugurated on a cold, rainy, cheerless day, and sentiment, among those who counted, resembled the weather.[4]