It was to no very agreeable task that Lee was assigned at the outset of
his command. The forces of the Confederacy were even less prepared to
take the field than those of the United States, and for three months
Lee was hard at work organizing and equipping the army for effective
service. This important but dull duty prevented him from taking any
active part in the first great battle of the War at Bull Run (July 21,
1861), but it was his rare judgment in massing the troops where
they could readily reënforce each other that enabled the Confederate
commanders on that occasion to form the junction which resulted in the
overwhelming defeat of the Union army. This fact was well recognized by
the authorities and, when the situation in western Virginia assumed a
threatening aspect, he was ordered there with the highest hopes that he
would repeat the success of Bull Run and speedily expel the Union forces
from that part of the state.
A more unpromising field of operation than western Virginia could
scarcely have been selected for the new commander. The people of that
region generally favored the Union, and the Federal troops had already
obtained possession of the strongest positions, while some of the
Confederate commanders were quarreling with each other and otherwise
working at cross purposes. For a time, therefore, Lee had to devote
himself to smoothing over the differences which had arisen among his
jealous subordinates, but when he at last began an aggressive movement,
bad weather and a lack of coöperation between the various parts of his
small army defeated his designs, and in October, 1861, the three-months'
campaign came to an inglorious close.
This complete failure was a bitter disappointment to the Confederate
hopes and Lee was severely blamed for the result. Indeed, for the
time being he was regarded as an overrated individual who had had his
opportunity and had proved unequal to the task of conducting military
operations on a large scale. It was not easy to suffer this unjust
criticism to pass unnoticed, but the discipline of the army life had
taught Lee to control his tongue, and he made no protest even when he
found himself removed from the front to superintend the fortifying
of the coast. A small-minded man would probably have retired in sulky
silence under such circumstances, but Lee entered upon his new duties
with cheerful energy, and in four months he devised such skillful
defenses for Charleston, Savannah and other points on the Confederate
coast line, that they were enabled to defy all assaults of the Union
army and navy until almost the close of the war. This invaluable service
attracted no public attention, but it was fully appreciated by the
Confederate authorities, who in no wise shared the popular opinion
concerning Lee's talents. On the contrary, President Jefferson Davis,
himself a graduate of West Point, continued to have the highest regard
for his ability, and in March, 1862, he reappointed him as his chief
military adviser at Richmond.
It was about this time that the roar of cannon in the West attracted the
attention of the country, making it realize for the first time how far
flung was the battle line of the contending armies; and on hard-fought
fields, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from Washington and
Richmond, the mud-splashed figure of Grant began to loom through heavy
clouds of smoke.
It was by no brilliant achievement that Grant regained his standing in
the army. The unruly 21st Illinois had been sufficiently disciplined
within a fortnight after he assumed command to take some pride in
itself as an organization and when its short term of service expired,
it responded to the eloquence of McClernand and Logan, two visiting
orators, by reënlisting almost to a man. Then the Colonel set to work in
earnest to make his regiment ready for the field, drilling and hardening
the men for their duties and waiting for an opportunity to show that
this was a fighting force with no nonsense about it. The opportunity
came sooner than he expected, for about two weeks after he had assumed
command, his regiment was ordered to northern Missouri, and a railroad
official called at his camp to inquire how many cars he would need
for the transportation of his men. "I don't want any," was the bluff
response; and, to the astonishment of the local authorities who, at
that period of the war, never dreamed of moving troops except by rail
or river, the energetic Colonel assembled his regiment in marching order
and started it at a brisk pace straight across country.
But, though he had moved with such commendable promptness, Grant was not
nearly so confident as his actions seemed to imply. In fact, before he
reached his destination, he heartily wished himself back again, and by
the time he arrived at the point where the enemy was expected his
nerves were completely unstrung. It was not the fright of cowardice that
unmanned him, but rather the terror of responsibility. Again and again
he had braved death in battle but now, for the first time, the safety of
an entire regiment depended solely upon him as he approached the summit
of the hill from which he expected to catch sight of his opponents he
dreaded to fight them, lest he prove unequal to the emergency. But,
while he was tormenting himself with this over-anxiety, he suddenly
remembered that his opponent was just as new at his duties as he was and
probably quite as nervous, and from that moment his confidence gradually
returned. As a matter of fact, Colonel Harris, who commanded the
Confederate force, displayed far more prudence than valor, for, on
hearing of the advance of the Union troops, he speedily retreated and
the 21st Illinois encountered no opposition whatever. But the march
taught Grant a lesson he never forgot and, thereafter, in the hour of
peril, he invariably consoled himself by remembering that his opponents
were not free from danger and the more he made them look to their own
safety the less time they would have for worrying him.
It was in July, 1861, when Grant entered Missouri, and about a month
later the astonishing news reached his headquarters that President
Lincoln had appointed him a Brigadier General of Volunteers. The
explanation of this unexpected honor was that the Illinois Congressmen
had included his name with seven others on a list of possible
brigadiers, and the President had appointed four of them without
further evidence of their qualifications. Under such circumstances, the
promotion was not much of an honor, but it placed Grant in immediate
command of an important district involving the control of an army of
quite respectable size.
For a time the new General was exclusively occupied with perfecting the
organization of his increased command, but to this hard, dull work he
devoted himself in a manner that astonished some of the other brigadiers
whose ideas of the position involved a showy staff of officers and a
deal of picturesque posing in resplendent uniforms. But Grant had no
patience with such foolery. He had work to do and when his headquarters
were established at Cairo, Illinois, he took charge of them himself,
keeping his eyes on all the details like any careful business man. In
fact he was, as far as appearances were concerned, a man of business,
for he seldom wore a uniform and worked at his desk all day in his shirt
sleeves, behind ramparts of maps and papers, with no regard whatever for
military ceremony or display.
A month of this arduous preparation found his force ready for active
duty and about this time he became convinced that the Confederates
intended to seize Paducah, an important position in Kentucky at the
mouth of the Tennessee River, just beyond the limits of his command.
He, accordingly, telegraphed his superiors for permission to occupy the
place. No reply came to this request and a more timid man would have
hesitated to move without orders. But Grant saw the danger and, assuming
the responsibility, landed his troops in the town just in time to
prevent its capture by the Confederates. Paducah was in sympathy with
the South, and on entering it the Union commander issued an address to
the inhabitants which attracted far more attention than the occupation
of the town, for it contained nothing of the silly brag and bluster so
common then in military proclamations on both sides. On the contrary,
it was so modest and sensible, and yet so firm, that Lincoln, on reading
it, is said to have remarked: "The man who can write like that is fitted
to command."
Paducah was destined to be the last of Grant's bloodless victories,
for in November, 1861, he was ordered to threaten the Confederates near
Belmont, Missouri, as a feint to keep them from reënforcing another
point where a real assault was planned. The maneuver was conducted with
great energy and promised to be completely successful, but after Grant's
raw troops had made their first onslaught and had driven their opponents
from the field, they became disorderly and before he could control them
the enemy reappeared in overwhelming numbers and compelled them to fight
their way back to the river steamers which had carried them to the scene
of action. This they succeeded in doing, but such was their haste to
escape capture that they actually tumbled on board the boats and pushed
off from the shore without waiting for their commander. By this time the
Confederates were rapidly approaching with the intention of sweeping the
decks of the crowded steamboats before they could get out of range,
and Grant was apparently cut off from all chance of escape. Directly
in front of him lay the precipitous river bank, while below only
one transport was within hail and that had already started from its
moorings. Its captain, however, caught sight of him as he came galloping
through a corn field and instantly pushed his vessel as close to the
shore as he dared, at the same time throwing out a single plank about
fifteen feet in length to serve as an emergency gangway. To force a
horse down the cliff-like bank of the river and up the narrow plank to
the steamer's deck, was a daring feat, but the officer who was riding
for his life had not forgotten the skill which had marked him at West
Point and, compelling his mount to slide on its haunches down the
slippery mud precipice, he trotted coolly up the dangerous incline to
safety.
The battle of Belmont (November 7, 1861), as this baptism of fire was
called, is said to have caused more mourning than almost any other
engagement of the war, for up to that time there had been but little
loss of life and its list of killed and wounded, mounting into the
hundreds, made a painfully deep impression. In this respect, it was
decidedly ominous of Grant's future record, but it accomplished his
purpose in detaining the Confederates and he was soon to prove his
willingness to accept defeats as necessary incidents to any successful
campaign and to fight on undismayed.