The Sword (32 page)

A
braham Lincoln sat in his office in Washington, and Jefferson Davis, one hundred miles away, occupied the office of the presidency of the Confederate States of America. The two men were in precarious positions politically, for both the South and the North were clamoring for battle to settle the question of slavery. Both the North and the South had visions that the war would be short. The South expected that the North would be beaten decisively and would allow them to go their own way, with the Confederacy a permanent political entity. The North, on the other hand, was equally convinced that they must crush the Confederacy and maintain the Union.

Abraham Lincoln had been chosen to lead the people of the North, but he was by no means a unanimous choice. Now as he sat in his office and looked around his cabinet, he saw doubt and even disdain on the faces of some of the men he had chosen to help him lead the Union in the battle that was to come. His face was drawn, already lined, even though his presidency was in its infancy. He listened quietly to these men who were entrusted with the union of the United States of America.

Lincoln kept his eye on the ranking general of the North, the hero of the Mexican War, General Winfield Scott. Scott was old and overweight and exhausted from a lifetime of serving his country, but Lincoln could see that he was stirred and determined. Scott had already proposed his plan of crushing the Southern forces. It was called the Anaconda Plan, and it was simple. Winfield said it would be necessary to throw a ring around the Confederacy and crush it slowly, as a boa constrictor crushes its prey.

Lincoln’s glance went around the room, and he listened as man after man insisted that Scott’s plan was too slow. Most of them saw Scott as being outdated and not a fit man to lead the nation in this tremendous endeavor. They were all in favor of immediate action and continued arguing with the old general.

Finally, Secretary of State William Seward, who felt himself more able to govern than Lincoln, said, “Mr. President, we must take the quick road. We have a fine army, and we must use it at once. Our armies are more numerous, our equipment is better, and they have nothing but a group of individuals.”

“They have Robert E. Lee,” General Scott said loudly. “He is the South’s greatest military asset, and he can out-general any man we put against him.”

Immediately the rest of the cabinet took exception to Scott’s statement, and finally Lincoln, sensing which way the wind was blowing, broke in saying, “Gentlemen, I see great value in General Scott’s plan, and I feel we must pursue it … in the long run. In the meanwhile, the people are protesting that we are doing nothing. They forget that our army is composed mostly of volunteers for the term of three months. That is not time to train an army, as we all well know.”

“The very reason why we shouldn’t fight right now,” Scott spoke up.

“I wish that it were possible to wait, General. I know you are right and our men are green, but the men of the South are fighting forces that are green, also. I’ve made the decision that we will throw the Army of the Potomac into action against the South.”

“Who will be the commander?” Seward demanded at once.

Lincoln knew that everyone in the room expected him to name George McClellan, who had experienced some success in minor actions. Lincoln, however, felt differently. He said plainly, “I am appointing Irvin McDowell as the commander of the Union armies.” He saw the arguments rising and cut them off short. “General McDowell will be the commanding officer. My mind is made up. I will instruct him to attack the Southern forces at once.”

Doubt was as thick as a night fog in the room, but there was no arguing with Abraham Lincoln when he spoke this firmly. So the cabinet began to make plans for an immediate attack on the South.

General Irvin McDowell was a large man, six feet tall and heavyset, with dark brown hair and a grizzled beard. His manner was modest, and only from time to time was he dogmatic in his conversations. He had a strong will along certain lines, for instance, in his belief that alcohol was an evil. Once he had suffered an accident in a fall from a horse that had rendered him unconscious. The surgeon who tried to administer some brandy found General McDowell’s teeth so tightly clenched together that he could not administer it. McDowell was determined—apparently even when unconscious—not to take liquor.

Now he was prodded into motion by a civilian president who could only identify the seriousness of the battle to come by saying that both armies were equally green and untrained. McDowell saw clearly that Lincoln did not take into consideration that the Northern army would be on the attack while the Southerners would defend. McDowell was not a military genius, but he knew that defense was simpler than attack.

But orders were orders, and he set out at once to put the army into motion. He reissued ammunition and saw to it that food for the entire campaign was ordered and would be in place when the men needed it and made certain that his supply line was well established. Then he gave orders for the army to move toward
Virginia. He knew that the South was already thrown into a battle line around a small town called Manassas. A creek called Bull Run flowed by that town, and it was there McDowell knew that the action would take place.

Lincoln’s counterpart, Jefferson Davis, had been chosen over fire-eaters in the South with the hope that he might be able to obtain a peaceful solution. Davis had been a military hero during the Mexican War and a powerful member of Congress for years. The Southern people were charmed by the music of his oratory, the handsomeness of his clear-cut features, and the dignity of his manner.

As he sat in his office preparing for the battle that he was being forced to order, Davis was troubled by the superior forces that the North would assuredly throw against the Confederacy. Davis had taken what steps he could to provide for defense.

The main line of advance from Washington was blocked at Manassas Junction, and Davis had chosen General P. G. T. Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, with twenty-two thousand men and a smaller army of twelve thousand men under General Joe Johnston, to meet McDowell. Davis was well aware of the greenness of the Confederate troops, and he was also aware that the men of the South would be outnumbered by the Northern troops. He had done all he humanly could, and then he prayed.

This was the setting for the first battle of the war, called Bull Run by the South and Manassas by the North. It was fought on Sunday, July 21, 1861. As that day approached, the two armies left their homes and prepared for the largest battle thus far in the Civil War.

“This is not what I thought war would be like, no,” Chantel said as she and Jacob made their way down the crowded streets of town. They were following all of the companies stationed in Richmond
as they marched to Manassas. Townspeople crowded the streets, tossing flowers to them and cheering them.

Jacob glanced around and shook his head. “It won’t be like this after the battle.”

“What do you mean, Grandpere?”

“You see these men? These soldiers that are laughing now, and drinking and singing? Many of them will be dead. Others will have lost arms or legs or been wounded terribly. But they haven’t seen war yet. They don’t realize. God give them strength, for they will.”

Indeed, there was a carnival-like atmosphere throughout the South. The saying had become commonplace: one Confederate could beat three Union soldiers. Sometimes that was even amended to say that one Confederate could beat ten Union soldiers. No one knew exactly why or how this equation had been decided, but the men of the South believed it firmly.

Chantel heard her name called and turned to see Armand-Pierre Latane shouldering his way through the crowd, smiling as he approached. A captain in Major Roberdeau Wheat’s Louisiana Tigers, he had come to Jacob’s wagon one day to purchase some new handkerchiefs, for he was something of a dandy, from New Orleans. He had been delighted to find Chantel, a beautiful young Cajun girl, in the camp. He stopped by the wagon often, ostensibly to buy buttons or tinned oysters or bootblack, but mostly to talk to Chantel.

He came to walk beside them. He looked trim and neat in his dress uniform, a gray frock coat with gold trim, light blue breeches with the navy blue infantry stripe down the side, and a long, goldhandled sword in a silver sheath. “Good day, Mr. Steiner. Hello, cherie,” he said. “So you’ve come to join the fun.”

Chantel said, “I didn’t think it would be like this, Armand. You’re going to fight in a battle, not on your way to a party. Aren’t you afraid, you?”

“Afraid? No, not me. Somebody else may get shot but not Armand Latane.”

Jacob saw that the man was being deliberately obtuse and asked
gently, “I trust your heart is right with God, Captain. You should know that there is a chance that you may be wounded or even die.”

Armand’s face grew more serious, but he shrugged carelessly. He was a handsome man with well-shaped features and jet-black hair. “Even if we were afraid, no man would show it. We each try to outdo the other in audacity, you may say.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” Chantel asked. “And when will the battle start?”

“It’s not far to Bull Run. We have word that troops have already left Washington and are headed this way. Our men are ready for them. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, we will fight.”

The soldiers were not keeping very good parade line; they mingled with the crowds, stopped for drinks at the saloons, wandered here and there to say good-bye to friends. Now a company of cavalry, trotting in close order, shouldered the crowds aside. Chantel saw that Clay was leading the column. He looked toward the wagon, obviously seeing if it was Jacob’s, then pulled Lightning out of the formation with a muttered order to the corporal riding beside him.

He saluted Latane smartly, and Armand gave him a crisp salute back. “Lieutenant Tremayne, you and your men look like you’re ready for a fight.”

Clay smiled briefly. “General Stuart’s always ready for a fight. And I know that Major Wheat and you Tigers will give a good account of yourselves, too, Armand.”

“C’est ca
,” Armand said, shrugging carelessly. “The Tigers will taste blood tonight, Clay.”