THE WAR IN THE WEST.
And misfortunes did not come singly, but in battalions.
The trans-Mississippi was so far distant that only broken echoes of its
troubles could penetrate the web of hostile armies between it and the
Capital. But those echoes were all of gloom. Desultory warfare--with
but little real result to either side, and only a steady drain on
Confederate resources and men--had waged constantly. A trifling success
had been gained at Lone Jack, but it was more than done away with by
aggregate losses in bloody guerrilla fighting. Spies, too, had been
shot on both sides; but the act that came home to every southern heart
was the wanton murder of ten Confederates at Palmyra, by the order of
General McNeil, on the flimsy pretext of retaliation. The act, and its
attendant cruelties, gained for him in the South the name of "The
Butcher;" and its recital found grim response in every southern
camp--as each hard hand clasped tighter round the hard musket
stock--and there was an answering throb to the cry of Thompson's prompt
war song:
"Let this be the watchword of one and of all--
Remember the Butcher, McNeil!"
Meantime, Mississippi had been the scene of new disasters. Vicksburg,
the "Queen of the West," still sat unhurt upon her bluffs, smiling
defiance to the storm of hostile shot and shell; teaching a lesson of
spirit and endurance to which the whole country looked with admiration
and emulation. On the 15th of August the iron-clad ram, "Arkansas," had
escaped out of the Yazoo river; run the gauntlet of the Federal fleet
at Vicksburg and made safe harbor under the town, to aid in its heroic
defense.
Twenty days thereafter, General Breckinridge made a most chivalrous and
dashing, but equally useless and disastrous, attack upon Baton Rouge.
His small force was greatly outnumbered by the garrison, behind heavy
works and aided by a heavy fleet of gunboats: and after a splendidly
gallant fight, that had but one serious result--he was forced to
withdraw. That result was the loss of the ram Arkansas--which went down
to co-operate with this movement. Her machinery became deranged, and
there was only the choice of surrendering her to the enemy, or of
sending her the road that every Confederate iron-clad went sooner, or
later--and she was blown up.
But the gloom was only to grow deeper and deeper, with thickening
clouds and fewer gleams of light.
After the fight at Iuka, in which that popular darling had been
defeated and forced to fall back before superior numbers, Price had
combined his army with that of Van Dorn; and on the 3d of October, the
latter led them to another wild and Quixotic slaughtering--standing out
among the deeds even of that stirring time, in bold relief for
brilliant, terrible daring, and fearful slaughter--but hideous in its
waste of life for reckless and ill-considered objects. The forces of
the enemy at Corinth were in almost impregnable works; and Van
Dorn--after worsting them in a hot fight on the 3d, and driving them
into these lines, next day attacked the defenses themselves and was
driven back. Officers and men behaved with a cool and brilliant daring
that savored more of romance than of real war; deeds of personal
prowess beyond precedent were done; and the army of Mississippi added
another noble page to its record--but written deep and crimson in its
best blood.
And another piteous cry was wrung from the hearts of the people to know
how long, O, Lord! were these terrible scenes--_killings_, not battles;
and with no result but blood and disaster!--to be re-enacted.
After its retreat from Kentucky, Bragg's army rested for over a month
at Murfreesboro, the men recruiting from the fatigues of that
exhausting campaign; and enjoying themselves with every species of
amusement the town and its kindhearted inhabitants offered--in that
careless reaction from disaster that ever characterized "Johnny Reb."
There was no fresh defeat to discourage the anxious watchers at a
distance; while the lightning dashes of John Morgan, wherever there was
an enemy's railroad or wagon train; and the flail-like blows of
Forrest, gave both the army and the people breathing space.
But fresh masses of Federals were hovering upon the track of the
ill-starred Bragg, threatening to pounce down upon and destroy
him--even while he believed so much in their inaction as to think of
forcing them into an advance. The Federals now held West and Middle
Tennessee, and they only needed control of East Tennessee to have a
solid base of operations against Northern Georgia. Once firmly
established there, they could either force their way across the state
and connect with their Atlantic seaboard fleets; or could cut the sole
and long line of railroad winding through the Confederate territory;
thus crippling the whole body by tapping its main vital artery, and
causing death by depletion. Rosecrans, with an army of between forty
and fifty thousand men, was lying in Nashville, watching and waiting
the moment for his telling blow.
This was the posture on Christmas, 1862. Three days after the enemy
struck--heavily and unexpectedly.
The first intimation General Bragg had of the movement was cavalry
skirmishes with his advance. These continued daily, increasing in
frequency and severity until the 30th of December, when the contending
armies were near enough for General Polk to have a heavy fight with the
Federal right.
Next day, the weather being bitter and the driving sleet filling the
atmosphere, the general battle was joined. McCowan and Cleburne, under
Hardee, charged the Federal's right through a deadly hail of artillery
and small arms, that darkened the air as thickly as the sleet--driving
him back at the bayonet's point and swinging his front round from his
center. The fierce valor of the southern troops and the brilliant dash
of their leaders was resistless; and evening fell upon a field, wet
with the blood of the South, but clearly a field of victory. Though the
Federals fought with desperation, they were so badly hurt that Bragg
believed they would fall back that night, in such confusion as to leave
them his easy prey.
Morning of the New Year dawned cold, dark and stormy; but the enemy was
still in sight, having only taken up a stronger position on a hill and
posted his artillery most advantageously. It began to look as if
General Bragg's telegram to Richmond of the victory he had gained,
might require a postscript; but all that long New Year's day he allowed
the enemy time to recuperate and strengthen his position.
It seemed as though another Shiloh was to be re-enacted; a victory
wrenched from heavy odds by valor and skill was to be nullified by
delay in crushing the enemy, while yet demoralized.
Next day came; and then Breckinridge was sent through a terrific storm
of balls and shell, that cut down his gallant boys like grass before
the scythe. On, into the Valley of the Shadow they strode; thinned,
reeling, broken under that terrible hail--but never blenching. And the
crest was won! but the best blood of Kentucky, Louisiana, Tennessee,
Florida, Alabama and North Carolina was flooding that horrid field!
Over two thousand noble fellows lay stiff, or writhing with fearful
wounds--thick upon the path behind the victorious column.
And then--with that fatality that seemed ever to follow the fortunes of
the unfortunate general in command--the army fell back!
Broken was the goblet of victory; wasted the wine of life! And it was
accepted as but small consolation, by the people who hoped and expected
so much--small surcease to the sob of the widow and the moan of the
orphan! that "the retreat to Tullahoma was conducted in good order."
And again the public voice rose loud and hoarse and threatening against
the general and the President, whose favorite he was declared to be.
But amid the darkening clouds that frowned close and threatening upon
him--fearless of the future and heedless of the ominous roar of
dissatisfaction far and near--sat the ruling spirit of the storm he had
raised. Grim, steady and purposeful, Jefferson Davis worked his busy
brain and frail body almost past belief, to redeem the errors of his
chosen instruments--seeking no counsel, asking no aid--and day by day
losing the confidence of the sand-shifting populace, who had once made
him their God! And one act of his now did more than all besides to
reassure the public mind.
Joseph E. Johnston was sent to command the armies of the West! Since
his wound at "Seven Pines," the Government--from causes unknown to the
people--had allowed this brilliant soldier to rust in inactivity; and
now, when all of evil that ill-fortune and want of combination could
accomplish had been done in the West, he was singled out, and sent
forth to reap the harvest so bitterly sown. He was told, in effect, to
take the frayed and scattered ends of armies and campaigns and bind
them into a firm and resisting chain of strategy; or--to bear the sins
of others upon his shoulders and have the finger of History point to
him as the man who lost the West! But patriot soldier and true knight
as he was--little resentful of the coldness of Government as he was
doubtful of his own ability--"Joe Johnston" accepted the test cheerily
and went forth to do, or die.
"For the Johnstons have ever borne wings on their spurs,
And their motto a noble distinction confers--
'_Ever ready!_' for friend, or for foe!"
And this worthy son of noble sires went to clear the Augean Stables of
the West; and the God-speed of his own state--swelled into a hearty
chorus by the voice of the country--followed him on his knightly
errand!
Meantime, Lincoln's famous Proclamation of Emancipation had been
promulgated. It made little difference to the people of the South; for
it was at that time looked upon as a vaunt as idle as if he had
declared the throne of England vacant. Secure in their belief in their
right doing, and in the trusty arms and deadly rifles that defended it,
the southern masses never dreamed the day would come when that
proclamation would be more than the paper upon which it was engrossed.
Still, in the general gloom upon them, it was taken as but another
augury of the bitter spirit animating their enemies; and of the extent
to which it would drive them in this war for the Union and flag.
And so the close of '62 fell dark and dismal upon the distracted
country; enlivened only by the sole gleam in Virginia--the repulse of
Burnside from Fredericksburg. But even the joy for this triumph was
dashed by the precious blood spilled to purchase it; another vent for
that steady drain of men, material and endurance--already almost past
bearing.
But there was no weak yielding in Government, or in people. Men looked
at each other through the gloom, and even as they asked--"Brother, what
of the night?"--struck hands in a clasp that meant renewed faith in the
cause and renewed determination to prove its right.
Early in the New Year, news reached Richmond of Magruder's amphibious
victory, the recapture of Galveston; which town had fallen a prey to
the enemy's naval power early in October. On the last night of
'62--while the wearied troops of Bragg were sleeping on the bloody
field of Murfreesboro--General Magruder, with a mixed command of three
regiments of raw infantry, some nineteen pieces of field artillery, and
a boarding fleet of four unarmed boats, came down silently to
Galveston. The Federal fleet--consisting of the Harriet Lane, the
Clifton, the Westfield and the Ossawa--were lying just off the town;
covering it with their broadsides and supported by a force of infantry.
Coming suddenly upon them, like shadows through the darkness,
Magruder's land force opened a hot fire with field artillery--and aided
by the daring boarding of the Lane by Colonel Leon Smith's co-operating
water party--captured the former steamer, burned one other, and drove
the remaining ones, with their tenders, to sea; where it was impossible
to follow them.
This gallant and comparatively bloodless raising of the Galveston
blockade was a gleam of hopeful light; especially as it was almost
coincident with the first approach to a naval success, by the force of
Commodore Ingraham in Charleston Harbor on the 30th of January. The
vessels under his command were ill-built, awkward tubs--as will
hereafter be seen; but the terrible Brooke gun did its work at long
range, and drove the wooden blockading fleet from the harbor for the
moment.
This victory, unimportant as it was--for the blockade it claimed to
raise was renewed and strengthened within a few days--was cheering;
for, said the people, if the Confederates can succeed on the water,
surely the star of the South is not really on the wane.
But there was, after the New Year, a sudden stoppage of active
movements on both sides. The terrific crash of hostile cannon--the
continuous roar of opposing small arms--and the groan of the Federal
mixed with the death-cry of the Confederate, were all suddenly stilled.
The fearful tornado of war that had swept for many months the
once-smiling Southland--leaving its wake only the blackened track of
ruin piled thick with stiffened corpses!--was suddenly hushed; as
though the evil powers that had raised it must pause to gather fresh
strength, before once more driving it in a fiercer and deadlier blast.
In the West, we had lost in the early year the strong position of
Arkansas Post with its large accumulation of stores and its garrison of
over 3,000 men; but the Queen City still sat defiant and unharmed, the
hostile fleet and army having left its fruitless task; and the twin
stronghold of Port Hudson showed another row of ugly teeth, into range
of which no Federal force seemed yet ready to venture.
On the Atlantic seaboard, too, the prospects, at this time, appeared
more cheering. Girt as it was, with one unbroken line of watchful
cruisers, with every port apparently sealed by blockade--southern
ingenuity and pluck still defied them and ran in precious stores of
arms, clothing and medicines. General Beauregard had taken active
command of South Carolina and Georgia; and had put the defenses of both
coasts--especially of Charleston and Savannah--into such a state of
fitness as quite satisfied the Government and made the people of those
states calm and confident in his ability to protect them and theirs.
General Gustavus W. Smith--the friend and comrade of General Joe
Johnston--had, like him, been rewarded for his sacrifices in coming
South, and his able exertions afterward, by the coldness and neglect of
the Government. But like him, too, he forgot personal wrongs; and, when
ordered to North Carolina, threw his whole energy and skill into the
works of defense for the coast and for that vital artery of railroad,
on which the life of the South depended.
Butler still waged his peculiar warfare upon unarmed men and weak women
in the soft nest he had made himself, at New Orleans; but Mobile reared
her defiant crest and took into her bosom peaceful vessels laden with
stores of priceless utility, only to send them out again--bristling
with rifled cannon, fleet-winged and agile, ready to pounce upon the
Federal shipping.
In the Middle West, Johnston's presence had acted like oil upon the
darkening waters of trouble and despair. There had been no record of
fresh disaster, or fresh mismanagement; the troops were recruiting,
resting and increasing in numbers and efficiency; the cavalry,
mobilized under Van Dorn--at last placed in his proper sphere--had done
efficient and harassing, if desultory warfare, upon the enemy's small
posts and communications. Pegram--by his effective raid through
Kentucky--had shown that her people there were not forgotten by their
brothers beyond; and his skillful retreat--laden with heavy droves of
cattle and in the face of a superior force--gained him high praise from
his superior officers.
And so the people watched and waited--hopeless no longer, but quite
recovered from the prostration of the rapid, heavy and continuous blows
of the previous autumn. Steadfast and buoyant, as they were ever, the
masses of the South once more turned their backs upon past disaster,
looking eagerly through the dark cloud for the silver lining they felt
must be beyond.
And again, as ever, they turned their eyes toward Virginia--stately and
calm amid the shock of battle. And they hoped not in vain; for over her
blackened fields--furrowed by shot and shell, drenched with blood of
best and bravest, but only more sacred for the precious libation--was
again to ring the clarion shout of victory that ever swelled from the
lines of Stonewall Jackson!