The Civil War: A Narrative: Volume 2: Fredericksburg to Meridian

  Longstreet too had an alternate plan, however, which was not greatly different except that it involved no reinforcements and called for a move in the opposite direction. He proposed a change of base to Rome, for added security, and a crossing in force at Bridgeport; a move, he said, “that would cut the enemy’s rearward line, interrupt his supply train, put us between his army at Chattanooga and the reinforcements moving to join him, and force him to precipitate battle or retreat.” Davis liked the sound of this much better, largely because it had the virtue of economy in attempting the same purpose. Besides, he knew only too well the danger inherent in waiting idly outside the town while Yankee ingenuity went to work on the very problems for which it was best suited. Bragg concurring, albeit with hesitation, the President hopefully ordered the adoption of Old Peter’s proposal and adjourned the conference.

  So far, he had not addressed the troops. In fact he had declined to do so on his arrival five days ago, when he was welcomed at Chickamauga Station by a crowd of soldiers who called for a speech as he mounted his horse for the ride to army headquarters. “Man never spoke as you did on the field of Chickamauga,” Davis told them, lifting his hat in return salute, “and in your presence I dare not speak. Yours is the voice that will win the independence of your country and strike terror to the heart of a ruthless foe.” Now that he had toured their camps, however, and had seen for himself how rife the discontent was, he changed his mind and did what he had said he dared not do. Referring to the men before him as “defenders of the heart of our territory,” he assured them that “your movements have been the object of intensest anxiety. The hopes of our cause greatly depend upon you, and happy it is that all can securely rely upon your achieving whatever, under the blessing of Providence, human power can effect.” This said, he returned to his primary task of pouring oil on troubled waters, speaking not only to the troops themselves, but also to their officers, particularly those of lofty rank. “When the war shall have ended,” he declared, “the highest meed of praise will be due, and probably given, to him who has claimed least for himself in proportion to the service he has rendered, and the bitterest self-reproach which may hereafter haunt the memory of anyone will be to him who has allowed selfish aspiration to prevail over the desire for the public good.… He who sows the seeds of discontent and distrust prepares for the harvest of slaughter and defeat. To zeal you have added gallantry, to gallantry, energy; to energy, fortitude. Crown these with harmony, due subordination, and cheerful support of lawful authority, that the measure of your duty may be full.” He ended with a prayer “that our Heavenly Father may cover you with the shield of his protection in the hours of battle, and endow you with the virtues which will close your trials in victory complete.”

  These words were spoken on October 14, the date of A. P. Hill’s sudden and bloody repulse at Bristoe Station. Davis stayed on for three more days, continuing his efforts to promote “harmony, due subordination, and cheerful support of lawful authority” at all levels in the strife-torn Army of Tennessee; then on October 17—the date Stanton overtook Grant at Indianapolis—ended his eight-day visit by reboarding the train to continue his journey south for an inspection of the Mobile defenses. As he left he was assured by Bragg that Longstreet’s plan for a crossing of the Tennessee on the Federal right at Bridgeport would be undertaken as soon as the troops could be gotten ready to advance.

  Two days later, after inspecting a cannon foundry and other manufacturing installations at Selma, Alabama, he addressed a large crowd from his hotel balcony, asserting that if the “non-conscripts” would volunteer for garrison duty, and thus release more regular troops for service in the field, “we can crush Rosecrans and be ready with the return of spring to drive the enemy from our borders. The defeat of Rosecrans,” he added, swept along by the enthusiasm his words had aroused—and unaware, of course, that Rosecrans would be relieved that day by a wire from Grant in Louisville—“will practically end the war.” From Selma he proceeded to Demopolis, where he crossed the Tombigbee River and continued west across the Mississippi line to Meridian for a visit with his septuagenarian brother at nearby Lauderdale Springs. The war had been hard on Joseph Davis. Formerly one of the state’s wealthiest planters, he had had to move twice already to escape the advancing Federals, not counting refugee stops along the way, and now his wife lay dying in a dilapidated house, having conserved her ebbing strength for one last glimpse of “Brother Jeff.” The weary President was distressed by what he saw here, for to him it represented what was likely to happen to all his people, kin and un-kin, if the South failed in its bid for independence. Nevertheless he managed, in the course of his stay in Meridian, to work out a solution to another thorny problem of command. On October 23—while Grant rode south down Walden’s Ridge to enter Chattanooga before nightfall—he wired instructions for Bragg and Johnston, in their now separate departments, to have Polk and Hardee swap jobs and commanders, the latter to take charge of the former’s corps in the Army of Tennessee, while the bishop took over the Georgian’s duties at the camp for recruitment and instruction near Demopolis. This done, Davis left next morning for Mobile. After a tour of inspection with Major General Dabney H. Maury, commander of the city’s defenses, he returned to the Battle House and spoke as he had done at Selma the week before, emphasizing that “those who remain at home, not less than those in arms, have their duties to perform. Each of all can encourage the spirit which can bring success,” he told his listeners, adding that “men using the opportunities given by war to make fortunes will be detested by their posterity.” A local reporter, impressed by the Chief Executive’s “remarkably clear enunciation,” observed that, though he spoke “without the slightest apparent effort, his words penetrated far down the street and were heard distinctly by most of the vast crowd gathered on the occasion.”

  Davis remained in Mobile over Sunday, October 25—cheered by news of the Buckland Races, which Stuart had staged on Monday, but disappointed by Bragg’s report that rain had delayed his preparations for a crossing at Bridgeport, as well as by the returns from Ohio’s second-Tuesday elections, held just under two weeks ago, which showed that Lincoln’s hard-war candidates had defeated Vallandigham and his Golden Circle friends—then left the following day for Montgomery, where he had arranged to have Forrest board the train for a conference en route to Atlanta. Valuing the Tennessean’s abilities, the Commander in Chief not only approved his transfer to North Mississippi, where he would have authority “to raise and organize as many troops for the Confederate service as he finds practicable,” but also directed that Bragg send the cavalryman a two-battalion cadre of his veteran troopers, plus Morton’s battery, and recommended to Congress his promotion to major general. Forrest left the train at Atlanta, pleased to be taking up new duties as an independent commander in a region he knew well; but for his erstwhile traveling companion there was disturbing news from the Chattanooga theater. While Bragg had been waiting for the weather to clear before he moved against the enemy right, the Federals, with no apparent concern for mud and rain, had anticipated him in that direction by crossing the river themselves. Aggressive as always, Davis saw in this a chance for offensive action. “It is reported here that the enemy are crossing at Bridgeport,” he wired Bragg on the 29th. “If so it may give you the opportunity to beat the detachment moving up to reinforce Rosecrans as was contemplated.… You will be able to anticipate him, and strike with the advantage of fighting him in detail.” It had become increasingly evident, though, that weather was a pretense; that Bragg was favoring his preference for the defensive, despite a presidential warning, repeated today, that “the period most favorable for actual operations is rapidly passing away, and the consideration of supplies presses upon you the necessity to recover as much as you can of the country before you.” Anxious that something be done at once, in Middle or East Tennessee, to justify Longstreet’s prolonged absence from Virginia—where Lee was facing grievous odds, having fallen back to the line of the Rappahannock, an
d might need him at any moment—Davis added: “In this connection it has occurred to me that if the operations on your left should be delayed, or not be of prime importance, that you might advantageously assign General Longstreet with his two divisions to the task of expelling Burnside and thus place him in position, according to circumstances, to hasten or delay his return to the army of General Lee.”

  Much might come of either of these suggestions: the destruction of the blue column that had ventured across the river, within easy reach of the Confederate left, or the expulsion of Burnside from Knoxville and East Tennessee, far upstream on the right, “to recover that country and re-establish communications with Virginia.” But for the present, with whatever patience he could muster while waiting for Bragg to make up his mind and move in one direction or the other, Davis resumed his journey back to the capital by way of Savannah and Charleston, neither of which he had visited since the outbreak of the war. He was welcomed to the former place on Halloween with an exuberant torchlight procession, followed by a reception at the Masonic Hall. A young matron who stood in line for a handshake wrote her soldier brother that she and her friends “were much pleased with the affability of the President. He has a good, mild, pleasant face,” she added, “and, altogether, looks like a President of our struggling country should look—careworn and thoughtful, and firm, and quiet.”

  His affability came under a strain next morning, however, when Bragg announced the failure of the attempted counterstroke on his left, three nights ago at Wauhatchie, and placed the blame on Old Peter for having used an inadequate force ineptly. “The result related is a bitter disappointment,” Davis replied, “as my expectations were sanguine that the enemy, by throwing across the Tennessee his force at Bridgeport, had ensured the success of the operation suggested by General Longstreet, and confided to his execution.” In any case, the way was still open for an advance around the Federal right, and he hoped it would be taken, though he was obliged as always to leave the final decision to the commander on the scene. As for himself, he faced an ordeal of his own the following day in Charleston, where Beauregard was in command and the Rhetts had been attacking him, almost without remission, for the past two years in their Mercury. As his train drew near the station, November 2, he heard the booming of guns being fired in his honor, and when the presidential car lurched to a stop beside the platform a welcoming committee came aboard. In the lead were Beauregard, his aide and amanuensis Colonel Thomas Jordan, and Robert Barnwell Rhett, a colonel too. As a later observer put it, Davis must have “wondered how the visit would turn out when the first three hands raised in salute to him belonged to three enemies.” Perhaps it was this that threw him off his stride for the first time in the course of the autumn journey he had undertaken in the hope of harmonizing discord. At any rate, inadvertently or on purpose, here today in South Carolina he did his office, his country, and his cause the worst disservice he had done since he sent the curt, slashing note in reply to Joe Johnston’s six-page letter of protest at being ranked behind Lee and the other Johnston, more than two years ago in Virginia. What made it worse in this case was that he not only passed up an easy chance to heal, he actually widened a dangerous rift, and he did so with nearly as curt a slash as he had used before, except that this time the technique involved omission.

  Not that the citizens themselves were cold or unfriendly. “The streets along the line of procession were thronged with people anxious to get a look at the President,” a Courier reporter wrote. “The men cheered and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs in token of recognition.” Proud of their resistance to Du Pont’s and Dahlgren’s iron fleet, as well as of their standing up to Gillmore’s long-range shelling—which had recently begun anew, after a respite of about a month—they were pleased that the Chief Executive had come to praise their valor and share their danger. Flags were draped across the fronts of homes and buildings, and garlands of laurel stretched from the city hall to the courthouse, supporting a large banner that bid him welcome. This was Davis’s first Charleston visit since the spring of 1850, when he had accompanied the body of John C. Calhoun from Washington to its grave in St Philip’s churchyard, and he recalled that sad occasion when he spoke today from the portico of the city hall. In saluting the defenders of Sumter, he had special praise for the fort’s commander, Major Stephen Elliott, and predicted that if the Federals ever took the city they would find no more than a “mass of rubbish,” so determined were its people in their choice of whether to “leave it a heap of ruins or a prey for Yankee spoils.” (“Ruins! Ruins!” the crowd shouted.) “Let us trust to our commanding general, to those having the charge and responsibilities of our affairs,” Davis said, with a sidelong glance at Beauregard, and he added a note of caution, as he had done in all his speeches this past month: “It is by united effort, by fraternal feeling, by harmonious co-operation, by casting away all personal considerations … that our success is to be achieved. He who would now seek to drag down him who is struggling, if not a traitor, is first cousin to one; for he is striking the most deadly blows that can be [struck]. He who would attempt to promote his own personal ends … is not worthy of the Confederate liberty for which we are fighting.” In closing, he thanked the people and assured them of his prayers “for each and all, and above all for the sacred soil of Charleston.”

  At the reception held afterwards in the council chamber, people inquired of one another whether they had noticed that the President, after singling out Major Elliott for praise, not only had failed to congratulate Beauregard for his skillful defense of the city by land and water, but also had not mentioned him by name. Indeed, except for that one sidelong reference to “our commanding general,” when the crowd was advised to put its trust in those in charge, Old Bory might as well not have been in Charleston at all, so far as Davis was concerned. Most of those present had noted this omission, which could scarcely have been anything but intentional, it seemed to them, on the part of a man as attentive to the amenities as the President normally was. Certainly Beauregard himself had felt the slight, and it was observed that he did not attend a dinner given that evening in Davis’s honor by former governor William Aiken in his house on Wragg’s Square. In point of fact, the general had already declined an invitation two days earlier. “It would afford me much pleasure to dine with you,” he had told Aiken, “but candor requires me to inform you that my relations with the President being strictly official, I cannot participate in any act of politeness which might make him suppose otherwise.” However, even if he had accepted earlier, he most likely would not have attended a dinner honoring a man who had just given him what amounted to a cut direct. Hard on the heels of the brief reference to him in the speech, moreover, had come the allusion to complainers as cousins to traitors, and this perhaps infuriated the Creole worst of all, touching him as it did where he was tender. Unburdening his feelings to a friend, he protested that Davis had “done more than if he had thrust a fratricidal dagger into my heart! he has killed my enthusiasm for our holy cause! … May God forgive him,” he added; “I fear I shall not have charity enough to pardon him.”

  Although Davis saw little or nothing of the general out of hours, according to a friendly diarist he spent a pleasant week as the former governor’s house guest, “Beauregard, Rhetts, Jordan to the contrary notwithstanding.… Mr Aiken’s perfect old Carolina style of living delighted him,” the diarist noted, not only because of “those old grey-haired darkies and their automatic, noiseless perfection of training,” but also because it afforded him the leisure, while resting from the rigors of his journey, to hear firsthand accounts of the unsuccessful but persistent siege-in-progress. Gillmore had resumed his bombardment from Cummings Point a week ago, on October 26, and while at first it had been as furious as before, it presently slacked off to an intermittent shelling. An occasional big incendiary projectile was flung at Charleston, but mostly he concentrated his attention on Sumter, chipping away at the upper casemates until it began to seem to observers that
the fort, daily reduced in height as debris from the ramparts slid down the outer walls, was sinking slowly beneath the choppy surface of the harbor. The defenders were on the alert for another small-boat assault, but none was attempted; Gillmore and Dahlgren, it was said, were unwilling to risk a recurrence of the previous fiasco, though each kept insisting that the other should try his hand at reducing the ugly thing. To the Confederates, however, the squat, battered pentagon was a symbol of their long-odds resistance, and as such it took on a strange beauty. An engineer captain wrote home of the feelings aroused by the sight of its rugged outline against the night sky, lanterns gleaming in unseen hands as work crews piled sandbags on the rubble, sentinels huddled for warmth over small fires in the casemates. “That ruin is beautiful,” he declared, and added: “But it is more than this, it is emblematic also.… Is it not in some respects an image of the human soul, once ruined by the fall, yet with gleams of beauty and energetic striving after strength, surrounded by dangers and watching, against its foes?”