The American Civil War

July 19th.—I rose early this morning in order to prepare for contingencies and to see off Captain Johnson, who was about to start with despatches for New York, containing, no doubt, the intelligence that the Federal troops had advanced against the enemy. Yesterday was so hot that officers and men on the field suffered from something like sun-stroke. To unaccustomed frames to-day the heat felt unsupportable. A troop of regular cavalry, riding through the street at an early hour, were so exhausted, horse and man, that a runaway cab could have bowled them over like nine pins.

I hastened to General Scott’s quarters, which were besieged by civilians outside and full of orderlies and officers within. Mr. Cobden would be delighted with the republican simplicity of the Commander-in-Chief’s establishment, though it did not strike me as being very cheap at the money on such an occasion. It consists, in fact, of a small three-storied brick house, the parlours on the ground floor being occupied by subordinates, the small front room on the first floor being appropriated to General Scott himself, the smaller back room being devoted to his staff, and two rooms up-stairs most probably being in possession of waste papers and the guardians of the mansion. The walls are covered with maps of the coarsest description, and with rough plans and drawings, which afford information and amusement to the orderlies and the stray aide-de-camps. “Did you ever hear anything so disgraceful in your life as the stories which are going about of the affair yesterday?” said Colonel Cullum. “I assure you it was the smallest affair possible, although the story goes that we have lost thousands of men. Our total loss is under ninety—killed, wounded, and missing; and I regret to say nearly one-third of the whole are under the latter head.” “However that may he, Colonel,” said I, “it will be difficult to believe your statement after the columns of type which appear in the papers here.” “Oh! Who minds what they say?” “You will admit, at any rate, that the retreat of these undisciplined troops from an encounter with the enemy will have a bad effect.” “Well, I suppose that’s likely enough, but it will soon he swept away in the excitement of a general advance. General Scott, having determined to attack the enemy, will not halt now, and I am going over to Brigadier M’Dowell to examine the ground and see what is best to be done.” On leaving the room two officers came out of General Scott’s apartment; one of them said, “Why, Colonel, he’s not half the man I thought him. Well, any way he’ll be better there than M’Dowell. If old Scott had legs he’s good for a big thing yet.”

For hours I went horse-hunting; but Rothschild himself, even the hunting Baron, could not have got a steed. In Pennsylvania Avenue the people were standing in the shade under the selanthus trees, speculating on the news brought by dusty orderlies, or on the ideas of passing Congress men. A party of captured Confederates, on their march to General Mansfield’s quarters, created intense interest, and I followed them to the house, and went up to see the General, whilst the prisoners sat down on the pavement and steps outside. Notwithstanding his affectation of calm and self-possession, General Mansfield, who was charged with the defence of the town, was visibly perturbed. “These things, sir,” said he, “happen in Europe too. If the capital should fall into the hands of the rebels the United States will be no more destroyed than they were when you burned it.” From an expression he let fall, I inferred he did not very well know what to do with his prisoners. “Rebels taken in arms in Europe are generally hung or blown away from guns, I believe; but we are more merciful.” General Mansfield evidently wished to be spared the embarrassment of dealing with prisoners.

I dined at a restaurant kept by one Boulanger, a Frenchman, who utilised the swarms of flies infesting his premises by combining masses of them with his soup and made dishes. At an adjoining table were a lanky boy in a lieutenant’s uniform, a private soldier, and a man in plain clothes; and for the edification of the two latter the warrior youth was detailing the most remarkable stories, in the Munchausen style, ear ever heard. “Well, sir, I tell you, when his head fell off on the ground, his eyes shut and opened twice, and his tongue came out with an expression as if he wanted to say something.” “There were seven balls through my coat, and it was all so spiled with blood and powder, I took it off and threw it in the road. When the boys were burying the dead, I saw this coat on a chap who had been just smothered by the weight of the killed and wounded on the top of him, and I says, ‘Boys, give me that coat; it will just do for me with the same rank; and there is no use in putting good cloth on a dead body.’” “And how many do you suppose was killed, Lieutenant?” “Well, sir! it’s my honest belief, I tell you, there was not less than 5000 of our boys, and it may be twice as many of the enemy, or more; they were all shot down just like pigeons; you might walk for five rods by the side of the Run, and not be able to put your foot on the ground.” “The dead was that thick?” “No, but the dead and the wounded together.” No incredulity in the hearers—all swallowed: possibly disgorged into the note-book of a Washington contributor.

After dinner I walked over with Lieutenant H. Wise, inspected a model of Steven’s ram, which appears to me an utter impossibility in face of the iron-clad embrasured fleet now coming up to view, though it is spoken of highly by some naval officers and by many politicians. For years their papers have been indulging in mysterious volcanic puffs from the great centre of nothingness as to this secret and tremendous war-engine, which was surrounded by walls of all kinds, and only to be let out on the world when the Great Republic in its might had resolved to sweep everything off the seas. And lo! it is an abortive ram! Los Gringos went home, and I paid a visit to a family whose daughters—bright-eyed, pretty, and clever—were seated out on the door-steps amid the lightning flashes, one of them, at least, dreaming with open eyes of a young artillery officer then sleeping among his guns, probably, in front of Fairfax Court House.

July 18th.—After breakfast. Leaving head-quarters, I went across to General Mansfield’s, and was going upstairs, when the General (since killed in battle) himself, a white-headed, grey-bearded, and rather soldierly looking man, dashed out of his room in some excitement, and exclaimed, “Mr. Russell, I fear there is bad news from the front.” “Are they fighting, General?” “Yes, sir. That fellow Tyler has been engaged, and we are whipped.” Again I went off to the horse-dealer; but this time the price of the steed had been raised to £220; “for,” says he, “I don’t want my animals to be ripped up by them cannon and them musketry, and those who wish to be guilty of such cruelty must pay for it.” At the War Office, at the Department of State, at the Senate, and at the White House, messengers and orderlies running in and out, military aides, and civilians with anxious faces, betokened the activity and perturbation which reigned within. I met Senator Sumner radiant with joy. “We have obtained a great success; the rebels are falling back in all directions. General Scott says we ought to be in Richmond by Saturday night.” Soon afterwards a United States officer, who had visited me in company with General Meigs, riding rapidly past, called out, “You have heard we are whipped; these confounded volunteers have run away.” I drove to the Capitol, where people said one could actually see the smoke of the cannon; but on arriving there it was evident that the fire from some burning houses, and from wood cut down for cooking purposes had been mistaken for tokens of the fight.

It was strange to stand outside the walls of the Senate whilst legislators were debating inside respecting the best means of punishing the rebels and traitors, and to think that amidst the dim horizon of woods which bounded the west towards the plains of Manassas, the army of the United States was then contending, at least with doubtful fortune, against the forces of the desperate and hopeless outlaws whose fate these United States senators pretended to hold in the hollow of their hands. Nor was it unworthy of note that many of the tradespeople along Pennsylvania Avenue, and the ladies whom one saw sauntering in the streets, were exchanging significant nods and smiles, and rubbing their hands with satisfaction. I entered one shop, where the proprietor and his wife ran forward to meet me. “Have you heard the news? Beauregard has knocked them into a cocked hat.” “Believe me,” said the good lady, “it is the finger of the Almighty is in it. Didn’t he curse the niggers, and why should he take their part now with these Yankee Abolitionists, against true white men?” “But how do you know this?” said I. “Why, it’s all true enough, depend upon it, no matter how we know it. We’ve got our underground railway as well as the Abolitionists.”

On my way to dinner at the Legation I met the President crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, striding like a crane in a bulrush swamp among the great blocks of marble, dressed in an oddly cut suit of grey, with a felt hat on the back of his head, wiping his face with a red pocket-handkerchief. He was evidently in a hurry, on his way to the White House, where I believe a telegraph has been established in communication with M’Dowell’s head-quarters. I may mention, by-the-bye, in illustration of the extreme ignorance and arrogance which characterise the low Yankee, that a man in the uniform of a Colonel said to me to-day, as I was leaving the War Department, “They have just got a telegraph from M’Dowell. Would it not astonish you Britishers to hear that, as our General moves on towards the enemy, he trails a telegraph wire behind him just to let them know in Washington which foot he is putting first?” I was imprudent enough to say,”I assure you the use of the telegraph is not such a novelty in Europe or even in India. When Lord Clyde made his campaign the telegraph was laid in his track as fast as he advanced.” “Oh, well, come now,” quoth the Colonel, “that’s pretty good, that is; I believe you’ll say next, your General Clyde and our Benjamin Franklin discovered lightning simultaneously.”

The calm of a Legation contrasts wonderfully in troubled times with the excitement and storm of the world outside. M. Mercier perhaps is moved to a vivacious interest in events. M. Stoeckl becomes more animated as the time approaches when he sees the fulfilment of his prophecies at hand. M. Tassara cannot be indifferent to occurrences which bear so directly on the future of Spain in Western seas; but all these diplomatists can discuss the most engrossing and portentous incidents of political and military life, with a sense of calm and indifference which was felt by the gentleman who resented being called out of his sleep to get up out of a burning house because he was only a lodger.

There is no Minister of the European Powers in Washington who watches with so much interest the march of events as Lord Lyons, or who feels as much sympathy perhaps in the Federal Government as the constituted Executive of the country to which he is accredited; but in virtue of his position he knows little or nothing officially of what passes around him, and may be regarded as a medium for the communication of despatches to Mr. Seward, and for the discharge of a great deal of most causeless and unmeaning vituperation from the conductors of the New York press against England.

On my return to Captain Johnson’s lodgings I received a note from the head-quarters of the Federals, stating that the serious action between the two armies would probably be postponed for some days. M’Dowell’s original idea was to avoid forcing the enemy’s position directly in front, which was defended by movable batteries commanding the fords over a stream called “Bull’s Run.” He therefore proposed to make a demonstration on some point near the centre of their line, and at the same time throw the mass of his force below their extreme right, so as to turn it and get possession of the Manassas Railway in their rear: a movement which would separate him, by-the-bye, from his own communications, and enable any general worth his salt to make a magnificent counter by marching on Washington, only 27 miles away, which he could take with the greatest ease, and leave the enemy in the rear to march 120 miles to Richmond, if they dared, or to make a hasty retreat upon the higher Potomac, and to cross into the hostile country of Maryland.

M’Dowell, however, has found the country on his left densely wooded and difficult. It is as new to him as it was to Braddock, when he cut his weary way through forest and swamp in this very district to reach, hundreds of miles away, the scene of his fatal repulse at Fort Du Quesne. And so, having moved his whole army, M’Dowell finds himself obliged to form a new plan of attack, and, prudently fearful of pushing his under-done and over-praised levies into a river in face of an enemy, is endeavouring to ascertain with what chance of success he can attack and turn their left.

Whilst he was engaged in a reconnaissance to-day, General Tyler did one of those things which must be expected from ambitious officers, without any fear of punishment, in countries where military discipline is scarcely known. Ordered to reconnoitre the position of the enemy on the left front, when the army moved from Fairfax to Centreville this morning, General Tyler thrust forward some 3000 or 4000 men of his division down to the very banks of “Bull’s Run,” which was said to be thickly wooded, and there brought up his men under a heavy fire of artillery and musketry, from which they retired in confusion.

The papers from New York to-night are more than usually impudent and amusing. The retreat of the Confederate outposts from Fairfax Court House is represented as a most extraordinary success; at best it was an affair of outposts; but one would really think that it was a victory of no small magnitude. I learn that the Federal troops behaved in a most ruffianly and lawless manner at Fairfax Court House. It is but a bad beginning of a campaign for the restoration of the Union, to rob, burn, and destroy the property and houses of the people in the State of Virginia. The enemy are described as running in all directions, but it is evident they did not intend to defend the advanced works, which were merely constructed to prevent surprise or cavalry inroads.

I went to Willard’s, where the news of the battle, as it was called, was eagerly discussed. One little man in front of the cigar-stand declared it was all an affair of cavalry. “But bow could that be among the piney woods and with a river in front, major?” “Our boys, sir, left their horses, crossed the water at a run, and went right away through them with their swords and six-shooters.” “I tell you what it is, Mr. Russell,” said a man who followed me out of the crowd and placed his hand on my shoulder, “they were whipped like curs, and they ran like curs, and I know it.” “How?” “Well, I’d rather be excused telling you.”

July 17th.—I went up to General Scott’s quarters, and saw some of his staff—young men, some of whom knew nothing of soldiers, not even the enforcing of drill—and found them reflecting, doubtless, the shades which cross the mind of the old chief, who was now seeking repose. M’Dowell is to advance to-morrow from Fairfax Court House, and will march some eight or ten miles to Centreville, directly in front of which, at a place called Manassas, stands the army of the Southern enemy. I look around me for a staff, and look in vain. There are a few plodding old pedants, with map and rules and compasses, who sit in small rooms and write memoranda; and there are some ignorant and not very active young men, who loiter about the head-quarters’ halls, and strut up the street with brass spurs on their heels and kepis raked over their eyes as though they were soldiers, but I see no system, no order, no knowledge, no dash!

The worst-served English general has always a young fellow or two about him who can fly across country, draw a rough sketch map, ride like a foxhunter, and find something out about the enemy and their position, understand and convey orders, and obey them. I look about for the types of these in vain. M’Dowell can find out nothing about the enemy; he has not a trustworthy map of the country; no knowledge of their position, force, or numbers. All the people, he says, are against the Government. Fairfax Court House was abandoned as he approached, the enemy in their retreat being followed by the inhabitants. “Where were the Confederate entrenchments?” Only in the imagination of those New York newspapers; when they want to fill up a column they write a full account of the enemy’s fortifications. No one can contradict them at the time, and it’s a good joke when it’s found out to be a lie.” Colonel Cullum went over the maps with me at General Scott’s, and spoke with some greater confidence of McDowell’s prospects of success. There is a considerable force of Confederates at a place called Winchester, which is connected with Manassas by rail, and this force could be thrown on the right of the Federals as they advanced, but that another corps, under Patterson, is in observation, with orders to engage them if they attempt to move eastwards.

The batteries for which General M’Dowell was looking last night have arrived, and were sent on this morning. One is under Barry, of the United States regular artillery, whom I met at Fort Pickens. The other is a volunteer battery. The onward movement of the army has been productive of a great improvement in the streets of Washington, which are no longer crowded with turburlent and disorderly volunteers, or by soldiers disgracing the name, who accost you in the by-ways for money. There are comparatively few to-day; small shoals, which have escaped the meshes of the net, are endeavouring to make the most of their time before they cross the river to face the enemy.

Still horse-hunting, but in vain—Gregson, Wroe—et hoc genus omne. Nothing to sell except at unheard-of rates; tripeds, and the like, much the worse for wear, and yet possessed of some occult virtues, in right of which the owners demanded egregious sums. Everywhere I am offered a gig or a vehicle of some kind or another, as if the example of General Scott had rendered such a mode of campaigning the correct thing. I saw many officers driving over the Log Bridge with large stores of provisions, either unable to procure horses or satisfied that a waggon was the chariot of Mars. It is not fair to ridicule either officers or men of this army, and if they were not so inflated by a pestilent vanity, no one would dream of doing so; but the excessive bragging and boasting in which the volunteers and the press indulge really provoke criticism and tax patience and forbearance overmuch. Even the regular officers, who have some idea of military efficiency, rather derived from education and foreign travels than from actual experience, bristle up and talk proudly of the patriotism of the army, and challenge the world to show such another, although in their hearts, and more, with their lips, they own they do not depend on them. The white heat of patriotism has cooled down to a dull black; and I am told that the gallant volunteers, who are to conquer the world when they “have got through with their present little job,” are counting up the days to the end of their service, and openly declare they will not stay a day longer. This is pleasant, inasmuch as the end of the term of many of M’Dowell’s, and most of Patterson’s, three months men, is near at hand. They have been raring luxuriously at the expense of the Government—they have had nothing to do—they have had enormous pay— they knew nothing, and were worthless as to soldiering when they were enrolled. Now, having gained all these advantages, and being likely to be of use for the first time, they very quietly declare they are going to sit under their fig-trees, crowned with civic laurels and myrtles, and all that sort of thing. But who dare say they are not splendid fellows—full-blooded heroes, patriots, and warriors—men before whose majestic presence all Europe pales and faints away?

In the evening I received a message to say that the advance of the army would take place to-morrow as soon as General M’Dowell had satisfied himself by a reconnaissance that he could carry out his plan of turning the right of the enemy by passing Occaguna Creek. Along Pennsylvania Avenue, along the various shops, hotels, and drinking-bars, groups of people were collected, listening to the most exaggerated accounts of desperate fighting and of the utter demoralisation of the rebels. I was rather amused by hearing the florid accounts which were given in the hall of Willard’s by various inebriated officers, who were drawing upon their imagination for their facts, knowing, as I did, that the entrenchments at Fairfax had been abandoned without a shot on the advance of the Federal troops. The New York papers came in with glowing descriptions of the magnificent march of the grand army of the Potomac, which was stated to consist of upwards of 70,000 men; whereas I knew not half that number were actually on the field. Multitudes of people believe General Winfield Scott, who was now fast asleep in his modest bed in Pennsylvania Avenue, is about to take the field in person. The horse-dealers are still utterly impracticable. A citizen who owned a dark bay, spavined and ringboned, asked me one thousand dollars for the right of possession. I ventured to suggest that it was not worth the money. “Well.” said he, “take it or leave it. If you want to see this fight a thousand dollars is cheap. I guess there were chaps paid more than that to see Jenny Lind on her first night; and this battle is not going to be repeated, I can tell you. The price of horses will rise when the chaps out there have had themselves pretty well used up with bowie-knives and six-shooters.”