AN EVENTFUL WINTER
It was an eventful winter that preceded the breaking out of the war
between the states. The salient feature of the time, apart from the
excitement, was the uncertainty. War seemed inevitable, yet the
temporizing continued. The South went on seizing forts and plundering
arsenals, terrorizing union sentiment, and threatening the federal
government. The arming of troops proceeded without check, and hostile
cannon were defiantly pointed at federal forts. Every friend of his
country felt his cheek burn with shame, and longed for one day of Andrew
Jackson to stifle the conspiracy while it was in its infancy. One by one
the states went out, boldly proclaiming that they owed no allegiance to
the government; but the leaders in the North clung to the delusion that
the bridges were not all burned and that the erring ones might be coaxed
or cajoled into returning. Concessions were offered, point after point
was yielded, even to the verge of dishonor, in an idle attempt to patch
up a peace that, from the nature of the case, could have been but
temporary, if obtained on such terms. The people of the Northern States
had set their faces resolutely against secession and, led by Lincoln,
had crossed the Rubicon and taken up the gage of battle, which had been
thrown down by the South.
There was, then, no alternative but to fight. All other schemes were
illusive. The supreme crisis of the Nation had come, and there was no
other way than for the loyalty of the country to assert itself. The
courage of the people had to be put to the proof, to see whether they
were worthy of the heritage of freedom that had been earned by the blood
of the fathers. For fifty years there had been no war in this country,
except the affair with Mexico, so far away that distance lent
enchantment to the view. The Northern people had not been bred to arms.
The martial spirit was well-nigh extinct. Men knew little of military
exercises, except such ideas as had been derived from the old militia
system, that in many states was treated by the people rather with
derision than respect, and in most of them was, in the impending
emergency, a rather poor reliance for the national defense. Southerners,
trained in the use of firearms and to the duello, did not attempt to
conceal their contempt for their Northern brethren, and feigned to
believe that north of Mason and Dixon's line lived a race of cowards.
It did not take long to demonstrate that the descendants of the Green
Mountain Boys and of the western pioneers were foes worthy of the mettle
of the men who came from the states of Sumter and Marion, and "Light
Horse Harry Lee." The blood of their heroic ancestry ran in their
veins, and they were ready and willing to do or die when once convinced
that their country was in deadly peril. The people, indeed, were ready
long before their leaders were. Some of the ablest men the North had
produced were awed by their fear of the South--not physical fear, for
Webster and Douglas and Cass were incapable of such a thing--but fear
that the weight of Southern political influence might be thrown against
them. Many of the party leaders of the North had come to be known as
"dough-faces," a term of reproach, referring to the supposed ease with
which they might be kneaded into any form required for Southern use.
They might have been styled very appropriately "wax-nosed politicians,"
after the English custom, from the way they were nosed around by
arrogant champions of the cause of slavery.
Conciliation was tried, but every effort in that direction failed. A
tempest of discussion arose over the "Crittenden compromise
resolutions," the last overture for peace on the part of the North. It
was generally conceded that it would be better to have war than to give
up all for which the North had been contending for so many years. There
was a feeling of profound indignation and disgust at Buchanan's message
to Congress, in which he virtually conceded the right of secession and
denied the power of the federal government to coerce a state. The course
of General Cass in resigning from the Cabinet, rather than be a party to
the feeble policy of the President, was applauded by all parties in
Michigan, and the venerable statesman resumed his old-time place in the
affections of the people of the Peninsula state. Governor Blair voiced
the sentiments of Democrats and Republicans alike, when he practically
tendered the whole power of the state to sustain the federal government
in its determination to maintain the Union. All the utterances of the
"War Governor" during that trying period breathed a spirit of devoted
patriotism and lofty courage. The people were with him and long before
the call to arms was sounded by President Lincoln, the "Wolverines" were
ready to do their part in the coming struggle.
In the evening of the day when Fort Sumter was fired upon, the students
marched in a body to the house of Chancellor Tappan and called him out.
His remarks were an exhortation to duty, an appeal to patriotism. He
advised against haste, saying that the chances were that the country
would be more in need of men in a year from that time than it was then.
The University would put no hindrance in the way of such students as
might feel impelled by a sense of duty to respond to the call for
troops, but, on the contrary, would bid them God speed and watch their
careers with pride and solicitude. The speech was calm but filled with
the loftiest sentiments.
Professor Andrew D. White was also visited and made a most memorable and
significant speech. Standing on the porch of his house, in the presence
of several hundred young men, he declared his opinion that one of the
greatest wars of history was upon us, which he believed would not end in
a day, but would be a protracted and bloody struggle. "I shall not be
surprised," said he, "if it turns out to be another 'Thirty Years War,'
and no prophet can predict what momentous consequences may result from
it, before a Gustavus Adolphus shall arise to lead the armies of the
Union to victory." He made a rousing union speech that was loudly
cheered by the throng of young men who heard it. Dr. Tappan also
addressed an immense mass meeting, and all things worked together, to
arouse the entire people to a high pitch of enthusiastic ardor for the
cause of the Union.
At once, the town took on a military air. The state militia companies
made haste to respond to the first call for three months' service and
were assigned to the First regiment of Michigan infantry, stationed in
Detroit. The ranks were filled to the maximum, in an incredibly short
space of time. Indeed, there were more men than munitions for the
service, and it was more difficult to equip the troops than to enlist
them. The "position" of private in the ranks was much sought. As an
illustration of this: On the afternoon before the First regiment of
Michigan three-months men was to leave Detroit to march to Washington,
my room-mate, William Channing Moore, a member of the Freshman class,
came hurriedly into the room and, aglow with excitement, threw down his
books, and extending his hand, said:
"Good-by, old boy; there is a vacant position in the Adrian company. I
have accepted it and am off for the war. I leave on the first train for
Detroit and shall join the company tomorrow morning."
"What is the position?" I asked.
"High private in the rear rank," he laughingly replied.
Moore was in the Bull Run battle, where he was shot through the arm and
taken prisoner. He was exchanged and discharged and came back to his
class in 1862. His sense of duty was not satisfied, however, for he
enlisted again in the Eighteenth Michigan infantry, in which regiment he
rose to be a captain. He survived the war and returned to civil life,
only to be drowned several years later while fording a river in the
South.
"Billy" Moore, as he was affectionately called, was a young man of
superb physique, an athlete, a fine student, and as innocent of guile as
a child. He is mentioned here as a typical student volunteer, one of
many, as the record of the Michigan University in the war amply proves.
Two other University men, worthy to be named in the list with Moore,
were Henry B. Landon and Allen A. Zacharias. Landon was graduated from
the literary department in 1861. He immediately entered service as
adjutant of the Seventh Michigan infantry--the regiment which led the
advance of Burnside's army across the river in the battle of
Fredericksburg. He was shot through the body in the battle of Fair Oaks,
the bullet, it was said, passing through both lungs. This wound led to
his discharge for disability. Landon returned to Ann Arbor and took a
course in the medical department of the University, after which he
reentered service as assistant surgeon of his old regiment. He survived
the war, and became a physician and surgeon of repute, a pillar in the
Episcopal church, and an excellent citizen. Landon was a prince of good
fellows, always bubbling over with fun, drollery, and wit; and, withal,
a fine vocalist, with a rich bass voice. In the winter of 1863-64, he
often came to see me in my camp on the Rapidan, near Stevensburg,
Virginia, and there was no man in the army whose visits were more
welcome.
[Illustration: AUSTIN BLAIR]
Zacharias was graduated in 1860. He went to Mississippi and became
principal of a military institute. Military schools were numerous in the
South. It will be remembered that General W.T. Sherman was engaged in
similar work in Louisiana. "Stonewall" Jackson was professor of military
science in Virginia. The South had its full share of cadets in West
Point, so that the opening of hostilities found the two sections by no
means on an equality, in the matter of educated officers. Zacharias came
north, and went out in the Seventh Michigan infantry, in which he was
promoted to captain. He was mortally wounded in the battle of
Antietam. When his body was recovered on the field, after the battle, a
letter addressed to his father was found clasped in his hand. It read as
follows:
"I am wounded, mortally, I think. The fight rages around me. I have
done my duty; this is my consolation. I hope to meet you all again. I
left not the line until nearly all had fallen and the colors gone. I
am weak. My arms are free, but below my chest all is numb. The enemy
is trotting over me. The numbness up to my heart. Good-by to all.
ALLAN."[1]
The reference, in a previous paragraph, to General Cass, recalls the
name of Norval E. Welch, a student of law, who was remarkable for his
handsome face and figure. It is related of him that on an occasion when
he was in Detroit, he happened to walk past the residence of General
Cass, who was then, I believe, one of the United States senators from
Michigan. The latter was so much impressed with the appearance of Welch,
that he called him back and inquired his name, which was readily given.
After a few moments' conversation, Cass asked Welch how he would like to
be his private secretary, and, receiving a favorable response, tendered
him the appointment on the spot. Welch served in that capacity until
Cass went into the Cabinet of President Buchanan, when he came to Ann
Arbor and took up the study of the law. When the Sixteenth Michigan
infantry was organized, he was commissioned major, and was killed when
leaping, sword in hand, over the confederate breastworks at Peebles's
Farm, September 30, 1864. He had, in the meantime, been promoted to the
colonelcy of his regiment.
Morris B. Wells was a graduate of the law department. He went into the
war as an officer of the same regiment with Welch, but was subsequently
promoted to be lieutenant colonel of the Twenty-first Michigan infantry.
He was killed at Chickamauga.
No two men could be less alike in appearance than Norval Welch and
Morris Wells. One was the embodiment of physical beauty, ruddy with
health, overflowing with animal spirits, ready for a frolic, apt with
the foils, dumb-bells or boxing gloves, but not particularly a student;
the other, tall, rather slender, with an intellectual cast of
countenance, frank and manly in his bearing, but somewhat reserved in
manner and undemonstrative. Both were conspicuous for their gallantry,
but the one impelled by that exuberant physical courage which is
distinctive of the leonine type; the other an exemplar of that moral
heroism which leads men to brave danger for a principle. They gave
everything--even their lives--for their country.
The list might be indefinitely extended, but more is not needed to
illustrate the spirit of the college boys of 1861-62.
But the students did not all go. Many remained then, only to go later.
The prospect of danger, hardship, privation, was the least of the
deterrent forces that held them back. To go meant much in most cases.
It was to give up cherished plans and ambitions; to abandon their
studies and turn aside from the paths that had been marked out for their
future lives. Some had just entered that year upon the prescribed course
of study; others were half way through; and others still, were soon to
be graduated. It seemed hard to give it all up. But even these
sacrifices were slight compared to those made by older men and heads of
families.
And there was no need to depopulate the University at once. The first
call filled, those who were left behind began to prepare for whatever
might come. The students organized into military companies. Hardee's
tactics became the leading text-book. There were three companies or
more. These formed a battalion and there was a major to command it. One
company was styled "The Tappan Guard," after the venerable President,
and it was made up of as fine a body of young men as ever formed in
line. Most of them found their way into the federal army and held good
positions. The captain was Isaac H. Elliott, of Illinois, the athlete,
par excellence, of the University, a tall, handsome man and a senior.
"Tom" Wier, a junior, was first lieutenant and the writer second
lieutenant. Elliott went to the war as colonel of an Illinois regiment
of infantry and was afterwards, for many years, adjutant general of that
state. Wier went out in the Third Michigan cavalry and became its
lieutenant colonel. At the close of the war he was given a commission
as second lieutenant in the Seventh United States cavalry, Custer's
regiment, was brevetted twice for gallantry, and after escaping massacre
with his chief at Little Big Horn, died of disease in New York City in
1876.