1861_ The Civil War Awakening Part 3

Reemerging from his quarters, Sumter's commander addressed the Confederate officers. "I shall await the first shot," he told them calmly-and then added: "If you do not batter us to pieces we shall be starved out in a few days."

The envoys returned to their boat. Just before they departed, Anderson called after them with a final question: "Will General Beauregard open his batteries without further notice to me?"

One of the three men, Colonel James Chesnut of the provisional Confederate Army-until recently, the Hon. James Chesnut of the United States Senate-hesitated a moment before replying. "I think not," he finally said. "No, I can say to you that he will not, without giving you further notice."

Then Chesnut and the others stepped aboard and the slave oarsmen pushed off, carrying word to General Beauregard of his old professor's intransigence.

NOTICE CAME IN THE SMALL HOURS of the night. It can be found today among Anderson's papers in the Library of Congress: a single elegant sheet of lavender-blue notepaper, neatly creased where it was once folded between the gloved fingers of a Confederate adjutant. It reads: of the night. It can be found today among Anderson's papers in the Library of Congress: a single elegant sheet of lavender-blue notepaper, neatly creased where it was once folded between the gloved fingers of a Confederate adjutant. It reads: April 12, 1861. 3:20 a.m.Sir-By the authority of Brigadier-General Beauregard, commanding the provisional forces of the Confederate States, we have the honor to notify you that he will open the fire of his batteries on Fort Sumter in one hour from this time.

We have the honor to be, very respectfully, your obedient servants, James Chesnut, Jr., Aide de Camp Stephen D. Lee, Captain, C.S. Army, Aide de Camp 81 81 After receiving this missive, Anderson went to tell his officers and men-who had been anxiously awaiting news-that all except the sentries should return to their beds and try to get some sleep. It was clear that Sumter's defenders could accomplish little until sunrise, since the garrison had no lights; the fort's lamp oil and candles had long since run out. After breakfast, such as it might be, they would begin to return fire. The only other order he gave was to raise the fort's flag, which was duly run up its staff into the blackness above. But most of the officers and soldiers waited quietly on the ramparts to see the war begin.82 Beauregard's first shot, the signal shot, arrived ten minutes after its appointed time. Private John Thompson was one of the men who stayed on the parapet to watch it explode overhead like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July. Later, his clearest memory of the moment was glimpsing his comrades' faces in that quick flash of light: no one seemed afraid, Thompson wrote, but "something like an expression of awe crept over the features of everyone."

In the minutes that followed, one battery after another opened up around the harbor, until nineteen of them were hammering away at the fort, sending solid rounds and mortar sh.e.l.ls flying in from all sides. The Confederate artillerymen were mostly shooting high, as inexperienced gunners usually did: "Shot and sh.e.l.l went screaming over Sumter," said Sergeant James Chester, "as if an army of devils were swooping around it." But they would eventually find their range.83 Abner Doubleday was among the few men to choose safety over scenery, no matter how awe-inspiring. He stayed in bed, in the makes.h.i.+ft but protected quarters he had improvised within one of the fort's deep powder magazines.84 The second shot of the Civil War crashed into the masonry at what seemed a foot away from Doubleday's head-"in very unpleasant proximity to my right ear," he recalled much later. Big patches of plaster cracked off the ceiling and fell in clouds of dust. The chamber shuddered again as another sh.e.l.l struck near the ventilation shaft, sending a burst of hot smoke roiling in, and Doubleday looked with some alarm at the crates of gunpowder stacked along one wall. He noticed, too, that some of the black powder had been carelessly spilled on the floor, where any stray spark might ignite it. The captain prudently dressed and went down early to breakfast, which consisted of tepid water and a little of the half-rancid pork.85 Clouds hung low in the gray sky, and mist over the water, dimming the faint rays of dawn. At long last, enough light shone through for Sumter's defenders to return fire. To Doubleday fell the honor, if honor it was, of firing the Union's first shot. After breakfast, Anderson had divided the soldiers into three combat details, whereupon Doubleday marched his squad promptly to the cannons that pointed toward the Iron Battery at c.u.mmings Point, whose heavy columbiad guns had been pelting Sumter steadily with solid shot for three hours. Now the captain would try to lob a thirty-two-pound ball inside one of its narrow embrasures. "In aiming the first gun fired against the rebellion I had no feeling of self-reproach," he later recalled, "for I fully believed that the contest was inevitable, and was not of our seeking. The United States was called upon not only to defend its sovereignty, but its right to exist as a nation. The only alternative was to submit to a powerful oligarchy who were determined to make freedom forever subordinate to slavery. To me it was simply a contest, politically speaking, as to whether virtue or vice should rule."86 Perhaps the captain should have been less mindful of these political reflections, apropos as they were, and more attentive to his aim: his cannonball missed its mark by just a few yards, bounced harmlessly off the Iron Battery's slanting roof, and landed with a splash in the nearby swamp. For the next two hours Doubleday's men kept up a slow but steady fire, while from the other side of the fort-where the surgeon Crawford, having successfully pestered Anderson to let him join the fray, was commanding one of the gunnery details-they could hear round after round launched in the direction of rebel-held Fort Moultrie.87 Sumter was now clenched within a ring of fire and smoke. From all sides, metal tore through the sky. Solid iron b.a.l.l.s smashed against masonry; huge mortar sh.e.l.ls buried themselves in the earthen parade ground and then exploded, the entire fort shuddering deep within itself like some wounded beast struggling to keep its footing. Men at their posts reeled as streams of dust and debris poured down onto their heads. Most terrifying of all were the wickedly pointed projectiles that occasionally came hurtling toward them, as straight and accurate as the shots of a dueling pistol, from the direction of c.u.mmings Point, apparently discharged by some diabolical weapon none of the enlisted men had seen before. (This was a rifled cannon known as a Blakely gun, recently developed in England, that had arrived direct from London just three days earlier, a gift from some South Carolina expatriates there.) Its shots tore into the vulnerable gorge wall or sometimes, with ruthless accuracy, pierced the gun embrasures, the narrow openings through which the Union artillerymen fired.88 PRIVATE T THOMPSON WAS HELPING man one of Sumter's cannons from behind one embrasure, inside a narrow brick box known as a casemate. Like almost all the enlisted men, he had never been on the receiving end of an artillery barrage. Thompson was an Irishman, and he would vividly describe the battle later in a letter to his father back in the old country. "The hissing shot came plowing along leaving wreck and ruin in their path," he said. Soon the cannoneers were black with smoke and soot, and several men's faces, cut by broken chunks of masonry knocked loose from the casemate walls, were covered with blood. man one of Sumter's cannons from behind one embrasure, inside a narrow brick box known as a casemate. Like almost all the enlisted men, he had never been on the receiving end of an artillery barrage. Thompson was an Irishman, and he would vividly describe the battle later in a letter to his father back in the old country. "The hissing shot came plowing along leaving wreck and ruin in their path," he said. Soon the cannoneers were black with smoke and soot, and several men's faces, cut by broken chunks of masonry knocked loose from the casemate walls, were covered with blood.

In contrast to the garrison's officers, almost nothing is known of its ordinary soldiers. Only a few of their letters survive, and even those may well have been written on their behalf by more literate superiors.89 A recent immigrant who listed his civilian occupation as "laborer," John Thompson, was not atypical. As many as two-thirds of the men in the U.S. army in the 1850s were foreigners, mostly German and Irish. Officers often complained of soldiers who could not understand commands in English, and a significant share of recruits were unable to sign their own names to the enlistment form, let alone pen a letter. Sumter's garrison was even more heavily foreign-born than average: of the seventy-three enlisted men whose birthplaces are known, only thirteen were born in the United States. The roster of privates reads like the roll call in an old World War II movie: Murphy, Schmidt, Onorato, Klein, Wishnowski. A recent immigrant who listed his civilian occupation as "laborer," John Thompson, was not atypical. As many as two-thirds of the men in the U.S. army in the 1850s were foreigners, mostly German and Irish. Officers often complained of soldiers who could not understand commands in English, and a significant share of recruits were unable to sign their own names to the enlistment form, let alone pen a letter. Sumter's garrison was even more heavily foreign-born than average: of the seventy-three enlisted men whose birthplaces are known, only thirteen were born in the United States. The roster of privates reads like the roll call in an old World War II movie: Murphy, Schmidt, Onorato, Klein, Wishnowski.90 At those rare moments when the entire nation went to war-1775, 1812, 1846-soldiering suddenly became a proud calling for patriotic Americans of every cla.s.s and condition. The peacetime "regular army" was a different matter. Service in its ranks was considered a last resort for men who couldn't get by otherwise in the merciless economy of nineteenth-century America-or the first resort of immigrants with no resources or connections. "Uncle Sam" (a figure known even to those newcomers) provided a roof over their heads (it was often one made of canvas), shoddy woolen uniforms, and food consisting mainly of bread and coffee, with occasional salt pork. Enlisted men existed in a different world than officers, even in such unusually close confines as Sumter's: the officers' letters and memoirs almost never mention soldiers as individuals, much less by name, and everyone took it for granted that officers would get the last of the rice and pork, while privates enjoyed their one daily biscuit apiece.91 It might seem inevitable that in the months of tension and uncertainty, crowded and makes.h.i.+ft quarters, and spa.r.s.e rations, this heterogeneous cohort of enlisted men would have been driven to quarrels, brawls, or worse. Throughout the winter of 1861, newspapers in both North and South buzzed with rumors of soldiers at Sumter being shot for mutiny. Yet the reports from inside the fort show quite the opposite case: the longer the siege lasted, the more tightly the group knit itself together. Even the sn.o.bbish Crawford wrote often of the men's high spirits, and said that when the final battle loomed, "it increased their enthusiasm to the highest pitch." If anything, the common soldiers' morale was higher than their officers'. Although it is often said today that half the U.S. Army resigned in 1861 to join the Confederacy, this is untrue. Very few enlisted men in peacetime came from the South. Only twenty-six privates out of all sixteen thousand ended up defecting to the rebels-compared to more than three hundred out of the thousand or so men in the officer corps.92 The Sumter privates' sense that they were actors in an important moment of history seems to have intensified their sense of being Americans-even among those who, technically speaking, weren't. Thompson, though looking forward to the end of his enlistment in a few months so he could go back home to his family in County Derry, spoke of the pride and defiance he shared with his comrades when they "hoisted our colors the glorious 'Stars and Stripes,'" and of their scorn for the "rash folly" of the rebels: "They no doubt expected that we would surrender without a blow, but they were never more mistaken in their lives."93 Nineteenth-century cannon warfare required not just a brave heart but also a strong back. Artillery was thought the least glamorous branch of the service, with none of the elan of the cavalry or even the occasional chance at heroism offered by the infantry. Its men were considered mules; its officers technicians. In fact, artillery combat took considerable skill and coordination. Four cannoneers plus a crew chief, or gunner-usually a noncommissioned officer-fired each of Sumter's big casemate guns. After each shot, the men used iron handspikes and a roller to heave the gun back onto its wheeled carriage, no small feat considering that the barrel of one cannon might be more than ten feet long and weigh over four tons. Two men sponged out its still-hot chamber with a wet swab, lest the next charge ignite prematurely. To load the gun, they rammed in the cartridge (a woolen bag of gunpowder) and a cannonball weighing anywhere from twenty-four to forty-two pounds. Then they heaved the cannon forward again, and the gunner, with help from one of the cannoneers, used a handspike to aim the barrel left or right and an elevating screw to move it up or down. A cannoneer pushed a friction primer down into the vent hole at the back of the barrel, with a long lanyard attached that would set the primer aflame as it was pulled out. When the gunner gave the order to fire, the cannoneer yanked the lanyard, the charge exploded in the barrel, and the cannonball hurtled toward its target.94 The crash of an enormous cannon firing within a confined casemate could be literally deafening; the concussion that shook the ma.s.sive brick walls forced the breath out of men's lungs, and left them gulping black smoke. Sumter's soldiers were, moreover, already dizzy from lack of food and sleep. It was only the adrenaline of combat that kept them, though barely, on their feet. They worked the guns in three s.h.i.+fts, and when a crew's turn ended, they collapsed into whatever seemed a protected spot, their heads spinning and stomachs tight with hunger.

As for the officers, they kept up their esprit de corps as best they could, even to the point of trading wisecracks. When Seymour came to relieve Doubleday at the end of a three-hour s.h.i.+ft, he facetiously asked his friend, "Doubleday, what in the world is the matter here, and what is all this uproar about?"

"There is a trifling difference of opinion between us and our neighbors opposite," Doubleday replied, "and we are trying to settle it."

"Very well," said Seymour, "do you wish me to take a hand?"

"Yes, I would like to have you go in."

"All right, what is your elevation and range?"

"Five degrees, and twelve hundred yards."

"Well," said Seymour, "here goes!" And his gun crews stepped to their places.95 DISPIRITINGLY, THOUGH, all this labor was having almost no effect on the enemy. Sumter's casemate guns were designed to smash the hulls of wooden wars.h.i.+ps entering the nearby channel, not sh.o.r.e fortifications that lay at the very limit of their range. The fort's cannonb.a.l.l.s glanced off the Iron Battery, one Confederate observer said, like marbles tossed at a turtle's back; Doubleday himself compared them to peas thrown on a plate. (One lucky hit did bring down its rebel flag, though, to cheers from Sumter's gun crews.) Shots aimed at Moultrie and the other rebel batteries had, if anything, even less effect, burrowing harmlessly into the sandbags and cotton bales that the Confederates had piled against the ramparts. This is to say nothing of the limits of manpower: Sumter's gun crews were so severely shorthanded that only a few cannons could be fired at a time. And Major Anderson refused even to let his gunners near the fort's heaviest artillery, its mortars and columbiads on the upper tier of the fort, for fear of exposing the men to undue harm. all this labor was having almost no effect on the enemy. Sumter's casemate guns were designed to smash the hulls of wooden wars.h.i.+ps entering the nearby channel, not sh.o.r.e fortifications that lay at the very limit of their range. The fort's cannonb.a.l.l.s glanced off the Iron Battery, one Confederate observer said, like marbles tossed at a turtle's back; Doubleday himself compared them to peas thrown on a plate. (One lucky hit did bring down its rebel flag, though, to cheers from Sumter's gun crews.) Shots aimed at Moultrie and the other rebel batteries had, if anything, even less effect, burrowing harmlessly into the sandbags and cotton bales that the Confederates had piled against the ramparts. This is to say nothing of the limits of manpower: Sumter's gun crews were so severely shorthanded that only a few cannons could be fired at a time. And Major Anderson refused even to let his gunners near the fort's heaviest artillery, its mortars and columbiads on the upper tier of the fort, for fear of exposing the men to undue harm.96 For their part, the Confederate cannons had as yet inflicted no more than minor injuries on any of Sumter's defenders. A muzzle-loading artillery piece could fire twelve times an hour at most without risk of exploding, so even at the height of the attack, the rebel shots were coming in at an average of just a few per minute, and could be spotted well before impact. Ex-sergeant Peter Hart, Anderson's old Mexican War aide, took the hazardous duty of stationing himself on the fort's parapet. "Now fire away, boys," he told his comrades, "I can't fight without breaking a soldier's word, but I'll tell you where your shots strike, and where to look for danger." Every time Hart spied an incoming round, he called out "Shot!" or "Sh.e.l.l!" and the men ducked into a protected corner of the casemates, as if playing some deadly version of dodgeball.97 Union and Confederate gunsmoke drifted, commingling, across the harbor. At midday, the clouds and mist gave way to sheets of rain. At last, through the downpour, Anderson and his officers spotted three vessels steaming toward the mouth of the harbor: the first detachment of Captain Fox's relief expedition. Briefly, the men's morale lifted. But then the friendly s.h.i.+ps stopped and anch.o.r.ed outside the bar, to remain there, stolidly immobile, for the rest of the battle. (Fox would later blame his inaction on a combination of the weather and lack of firepower.)98 Gradually, the ceaseless Confederate volleys were taking their toll on the fort. The place that had been the men's little world for more than three months-whose every stone, Crawford had written, had impressed itself on his heart-was being obliterated. Cannonb.a.l.l.s smashed through the brick walls of the officers' quarters and knocked down its chimney; exploding sh.e.l.ls blew off large chunks of the parapet. And the constant battering was gnawing away, bit by bit, at Sumter's ma.s.sive outer defenses. By the end of the afternoon, a gaping hole had opened in one corner of the gorge wall.99 Even more surreal, though, was the sight of Charleston-an American city, where a few months earlier, the men had strolled with their wives and sweethearts along the Battery or picnicked on the beach at Sullivan's Island-become enemy territory. Fort Moultrie, where some of the men had lived for years, was now a target of their guns.

As evening fell and the rebel gunfire gradually slackened, Sumter's defenders faced new worries. Chester later wrote: "The fleet might send reinforcements; the enemy might attempt an a.s.sault. Both would come in boats; both would answer in English. It would be horrible to fire upon friends; it would be fatal not to fire upon enemies." Meanwhile, Sumter's supply of cartridges was running low. The men cut up extra clothing and bedsheets to sew into bags for the gunpowder, and Major Anderson contributed several dozen pairs of his socks.100 The rain, meanwhile, had become a full-blown storm. Amid the rumble of thunder and the occasional crash of enemy fire, the crews loaded their guns with grapeshot and canister, aimed them toward the most vulnerable points in the outer wall, and at last, after midnight, bedded down next to them as comfortably as they could. "The enemy kept up a slow but steady fire on us during the entire night, to prevent us from getting any rest," Thompson recalled, "but they failed in their object for I for one slept all night as sound as I ever did in my life."101 By daybreak the storm lifted, and the morning of April 13 shone bright and clear. No rebels had stormed the fort by night-but no help had come, either. Fox's three s.h.i.+ps lay outside the harbor, exactly where the men had last seen them.

Enemy fire rained down on Sumter more briskly than ever-and, thanks to the better weather, more accurately. As the soldiers struggled to work their guns, several were badly cut up by flying pieces of masonry; a sh.e.l.l bursting just outside one of the casemates sent metal fragments tearing into a man's legs. Soon the defenders could see the enemy firing red-hot cannonb.a.l.l.s, heated in furnaces ash.o.r.e. The rebel gunners were now truly shooting to kill. A mortar round plowed through the roof of the half-ruined officers' quarters, and the large building soon became a roaring tower of flame. The iron water tanks inside burst, and a scalding cloud of steam and smoke, acrid from the slow burning of damp pine floorboards and rafters, poured into the casemates as the artillerymen fell, blinded and choking, to the ground, masking their faces with wet handkerchiefs. Most of the garrison would have suffocated to death, Doubleday said later, had not the wind mercifully s.h.i.+fted and begun blowing the smoke in the opposite direction. But the men soon confronted an even more terrifying threat as the blaze that had begun in the officers' quarters began closing in on the cannoneers' gunpowder stores. The men heaved barrel after barrel out of the embrasures.102 Doubleday ordered his cannoneers to shoot off a few rounds, just to show the enemy "that we were not all dead yet." But everyone knew that they could not keep even this going for much longer. Only the casemates' fifteen-foot-thick walls sheltered the spent fighters from the inferno around them, and it was unclear how long even these could withstand the attack. "The roaring and crackling of the flames, the dense ma.s.ses of whirling smoke, the bursting of the enemy's sh.e.l.ls, and our own which were exploding in the burning rooms, the cras.h.i.+ng of the shot, and the sound of masonry falling in every direction, made the fort a pandemonium," Doubleday later remembered.103 Across the harbor, meanwhile, the sun still shone. Thousands of Charlestonians-"male and female, white and black, young and old," one observer wrote-were watching the battle from wharves, rooftops, and church steeples. By midday, disappointingly little of the fort was visible: it was as if a volcano had risen from the sea at the center of the harbor, vomiting smoke. All that the spectators could make out through the thick clouds was Sumter's flag on its tall staff.104 The smoke hid even that flag for a while. When it drifted away once more, the enemy banner-the familiar Stars and Stripes-had disappeared. Cheers rang from the rooftops. All around the harbor, the rebel gunners held their fire. Fort Sumter, they congratulated themselves, had finally struck its colors.

ON THE ISLAND, the air began clearing enough for the battered garrison to continue its fight. Several guns boomed forth defiant once more. But just as Private Thompson and the rest of his gun crew were loading their cannon, they heard a commotion from the adjacent casemate. Cannoneers were seizing muskets and pointing at something, or someone, on the beach just outside the fort. And then-astonis.h.i.+ng and absurd-a man's face appeared, right in the embrasure through which Thompson was about to fire his cannon. the air began clearing enough for the battered garrison to continue its fight. Several guns boomed forth defiant once more. But just as Private Thompson and the rest of his gun crew were loading their cannon, they heard a commotion from the adjacent casemate. Cannoneers were seizing muskets and pointing at something, or someone, on the beach just outside the fort. And then-astonis.h.i.+ng and absurd-a man's face appeared, right in the embrasure through which Thompson was about to fire his cannon.

It was the face of a middle-aged gentleman, a bit thick in the jowls, with a black beard that seemed to bristle angrily in all directions and black eyes that flashed with righteous indignation. He was dressed not in a military uniform but in a frock coat and top hat. Gasping with exertion, cursing and swearing, he was now struggling unsuccessfully to pull himself over the sill with one arm, while his other hand awkwardly grasped a sword, a white handkerchief tied to its point. The soldiers, crowding around, held the stranger at bay with their muskets. Was this some sort of rebel trick? The advance guard of an amphibious attack on the fort? No. The bizarre apparition was-though none of the men recognized him-the Honorable Mr. Louis T. Wigfall, lately United States senator from the now seceded state of Texas.105 Fort Sumter had not, in fact, surrendered: a stray shot from the rebels had toppled the flagstaff. Ex-Sergeant Hart and two comrades, at great risk to life and limb, had ventured forth to raise the banner again on a makes.h.i.+ft pole-for which valiant feat they would soon be celebrated by journalists, lithographers, and political orators throughout the Union. But during the brief silencing of the Confederate batteries, Senator Wigfall, smelling glory in the air, had taken it upon himself to set forth from Moultrie in a small rowboat with the goal of personally securing Anderson's formal capitulation. An unlucky Confederate private and three slaves, whom he had dragooned into service at the oars, accompanied him. By the time Moultrie's commanding officers noticed what Wigfall was up to and began yelling for him to stop, the boat was already out of earshot. They fired a warning shot across his bow, but still the senator-much to the consternation of his oarsmen-would not turn back. By the time they reached the middle of the channel, the Confederate batteries around the harbor had begun opening fire once more, as had Anderson's cannons, and the colonel in charge at Moultrie ordered his gunners to sink that "d.a.m.ned politician."

The politician in question, despite his extensive youthful experience with dueling pistols, found incoming artillery rounds a bit harder to face. Wigfall tied his handkerchief to his sword and stood up in the bow, hoping the gunners would honor his makes.h.i.+ft flag of truce, but managing only to nearly swamp the boat. With shots splas.h.i.+ng around them, he and his crew somehow made it safely to the sh.o.r.e, with Sumter under a full-on Confederate barrage. Showers of bricks fell from above as the portly senator clambered over rocks and debris toward the embrasures, sword and handkerchief in hand. No one in the fort had noticed his boat coming.106 "We stubbornly refused him admittance for a while," wrote Thompson, "but he begged so hard, exhibited the flag he carried and even surrendered his sword"-handing it to Thompson-"that at last we helped him in." Now, to the artillerymen's astonishment, the bearded gentleman ordered them to stop firing, a command that they naturally ignored.107 At last someone called for Major Anderson, who tried to mask his own surprise as he stepped into the casemate and saw the stranger. "To what am I indebted for this visit?" he asked dryly.

"I am Colonel Wigfall, of General Beauregard's staff," the ex-senator rasped in as official a voice as he could muster. "For G.o.d's sake, Major, let this thing stop. There has been enough bloodshed already." He had come, he said, to offer terms of surrender. Under the present circ.u.mstances, in fact, the sh.e.l.l-shocked envoy appeared ready to accept any terms whatsoever that would make the shooting go away.

But Wigfall's little speech, plain enough on its face, was a bit specious at best. For one thing, the "bloodshed" so far consisted of a single Confederate horse. More important, although implying that he came on Beauregard's authority, Wigfall had not even seen the Confederate commander in several days, much less received any instructions from him. The men at Sumter could not have known this, of course.

Anderson pointed out that there had been no bloodshed, at least on his own side-"and besides, your batteries are still firing at me."

"I'll soon stop that," Wigfall replied briskly. He turned to Thompson, who held the sword and handkerchief under one arm, pointed to the embrasure, and told the astonished private, "Wave that out there."

"Wave it yourself," Thompson retorted in his thick brogue, handing the Confederate his sword back.

Wigfall leapt boldly into the opening, somehow believing that the gunners half a mile away would glimpse his handkerchief through the smoke and recognize it as a flag of truce. Presently a shot from Moultrie slammed into the nearby wall, disabusing him swiftly of this notion.

"If you desire that to be seen," Anderson said gently, "you had better send it to the parapet."

Several minutes later, Charlestonians on their distant rooftops spotted something waving on a pole above Sumter's bomb-scarred ramparts, alongside the Stars and Stripes. This was not Senator Wigfall's handkerchief but a full-size white flag. It signaled a cease-fire while Major Anderson negotiated-"or rather dictated," as Thompson later said-his terms of surrender.108 "NOTHING OF MILITARY IMPORTANCE has reached me today," scribbled Winfield Scott in a note to the president that evening, more or less precisely as Fort Sumter was falling into Confederate hands. "Except," the general added, "thro' the newspaper." has reached me today," scribbled Winfield Scott in a note to the president that evening, more or less precisely as Fort Sumter was falling into Confederate hands. "Except," the general added, "thro' the newspaper."109 If General Scott had been known for his drolleries, this might have come off as a rather clever one. (He was not, so it didn't.) For in fact, the headlines of every single paper throughout the Union blazed with the most astonis.h.i.+ng military news since Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown. Editors dug deep in their bins of lead type for the largest fonts available, nor did they stint on exclamation points. The Milwaukee Sentinel Milwaukee Sentinel's front page was typical: "Hostilities Commenced "Hostilities Commenced! FORT SUMTER BOMBARDED FORT SUMTER BOMBARDED! The Rebels Strike the First Blow The Rebels Strike the First Blow! MOULTRIE OPENS ON MAJ. ANDERSON MOULTRIE OPENS ON MAJ. ANDERSON! SEVEN OF THEIR BATTERIES FOLLOW SEVEN OF THEIR BATTERIES FOLLOW! Prompt Response from Sumter!" Prompt Response from Sumter!" (And so on, through nine more lines of boldface and italic type and another five exclamation points.) (And so on, through nine more lines of boldface and italic type and another five exclamation points.)110 It had taken almost an entire day for most Americans to learn about the first shots at Sumter, since telegraphic communication between North and South had been erratic since secession. On the night of Friday the 12th, Walt Whitman went to the opera in New York. The Fourteenth Street Academy of Music was presenting Verdi's latest, Un ballo in maschera, Un ballo in maschera, which had been censored in Europe for its undertones of liberal nationalism but was now touring the United States to great acclaim. After the show, the poet was strolling back toward Brooklyn when he heard the shrill cries of newsboys ahead-a rare sound indeed at midnight. The lads came tearing down Broadway, "rus.h.i.+ng from side to side even more furiously than usual," singing out "Extry! Got the bombardment of which had been censored in Europe for its undertones of liberal nationalism but was now touring the United States to great acclaim. After the show, the poet was strolling back toward Brooklyn when he heard the shrill cries of newsboys ahead-a rare sound indeed at midnight. The lads came tearing down Broadway, "rus.h.i.+ng from side to side even more furiously than usual," singing out "Extry! Got the bombardment of Fort Sumter Fort Sumter!!!" Soon every gaslight on the street had its own little huddle of New Yorkers poring over dispatches from Charleston.111 The news, Whitman would later remember, "ran through the Land, as if by electric nerves." Many people didn't believe it at first: surely, they said, this was rebel propaganda. Perhaps someone had tampered with the telegraph lines. Contradictory reports began coming in: Major Anderson had sh.e.l.led downtown Charleston, incinerating the city and sending thousands of civilians fleeing for their lives. No, he had gone over to the Confederate side, was blowing up his fort piece by piece, and planned to escape by sea in a small boat. Captain Doubleday, resisting surrender, had been clapped in irons by Anderson and then promptly went insane. And perhaps most prevalent: Sumter had been reinforced by Fox's fleet. (Sat.u.r.day night's performance at the Academy of Music was interrupted during Act 4, when the house manager stepped onstage to announce this last piece of splendid news, inspiring the soprano to launch immediately into "The Star-Spangled Banner.") In any event, wrote the skeptical George Templeton Strong, no man of sense could believe that the rebels "have been so foolish and thoughtless as to take the initiative in civil war."112 But when later reports confirmed the initial headlines, disbelief gave way to shock. Throughout the country-even in the heart of busy Manhattan, even on Wall Street-business came to a halt as men and women left their shops and offices to crowd into barrooms, hotel lobbies, and public squares, anywhere that they might hear the very latest facts and rumors. Crowds formed around newsstands, too, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving to press pennies upon the beleaguered vendors. From Fort Kearny in the Nebraska Territory-the westernmost point of the telegraph lines-a Pony Express rider galloped off toward California with the news. In Was.h.i.+ngton, when a man in the lobby of the Willard ventured to express his sympathy with the rebels, police had to come break up the ensuing fracas.113 Perhaps the calmest place in the country was, oddly enough, just down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Willard.

"There was little variation in the business of the Executive Mansion on that eventful Sat.u.r.day," Hay and Nicolay would remember. The president signed official papers, read his mail, and met patiently with the usual parade of dubiously qualified patronage seekers, who insisted on a hearing even at this moment of historic crisis. When a delegation of congressmen came bustling into Lincoln's office, pressing him for his reaction to the momentous news, he replied dryly, "I do not like it," and changed the subject. The only visitors who left the White House with something more substantial were three Virginians, members of the statewide convention considering secession. He rea.s.sured them that he would hold fast to the policy of nonaggression promised in his inaugural address. But, he now added almost matter-of-factly, "in every event, I shall, to the extent of my ability, repel force by force." This was, as the Virginians would soon learn, an all-important clarification.114 Although there is no record of exactly when or how Lincoln got the news of Sumter's surrender, initial reports probably reached him Sat.u.r.day evening, not many hours after the event itself. Incredibly, the White House and War Department had no official intelligence or communications system of any kind, but at least two citizens in the South-one of them a prominent Charleston secessionist, the other an obscure Savannah accountant-were considerate enough to send Lincoln telegrams that night.115 Just six months earlier, very few Americans had ever even heard of Fort Sumter. But now the loss of this two-acre island-the lowering of one flag and the raising of another over a useless piece of federal real estate-was suddenly a national calamity. For many, it was also a summons to vengeance. In Philadelphia, one block from Independence Hall, a mob of young men wrecked the offices of a small pro-Southern newspaper imprudently named The Palmetto Flag, The Palmetto Flag, then marched up Market Street waving American flags and brandis.h.i.+ng nooses, on the hunt for other secessionists. In a bucolic little Indiana village, schoolchildren hanged Jeff Davis in effigy. then marched up Market Street waving American flags and brandis.h.i.+ng nooses, on the hunt for other secessionists. In a bucolic little Indiana village, schoolchildren hanged Jeff Davis in effigy.116 For others, though, that eventful weekend inspired more complicated thoughts and feelings.

Sat.u.r.day afternoon found James Garfield sitting alone in the nearly deserted chamber of the Ohio senate. The legislators had adjourned early; rain beat monotonously against the windows; and only a small knot of men remained on the other side of the room, discussing the news and poring over a large map of Charleston Harbor. The militia bill that Garfield had championed vainly all winter had swept to pa.s.sage immediately at the first word of the attack. But he took no pleasure in this belated victory. Struggling privately with a tangle of emotions-anxiety, excitement, melancholy, anger, mental exhaustion-Garfield began a letter to his old friend Harry Rhodes. He felt almost as if he could see the battle at Sumter happening before his own eyes, he said. It enraged him to think of how his government had left Major Anderson on the island "with his hands tied" for three months while the rebels armed for the attack-so that now "he will almost certainly surrender to the traitors or perish." Here he set the letter down, unable to continue. By the time he picked it up again the next morning, word had come that Anderson had, indeed, struck his colors. Yet Garfield's spirits had lifted. He and Jacob c.o.x, his roommate and fellow senator, had just been to see the governor-who, flatteringly, had wished to confer with the two young men about Ohio's response to the crisis. With Sumter still burning, ruined, on its far-off island, Garfield felt a sudden rush of clarity about the future, which Rhodes doubtless recognized: The war has now fully begun. I am glad we are defeated at Sumpter. It will rouse the people. I can see no possible end to the war, till the South is subjugated. I hope we will never stop short of complete subjugation. Better to lose a million men in battle than allow the government to be overthrown. The war will soon a.s.sume the shape of Slavery & Freedom-the world will so understand it-& I believe the final outcome will redound to the good of humanity.

He and c.o.x, he added, had been talking not just about "the prospects of the country [but] the future of our own lives." They had decided, Garfield reported, to leave politics behind. They would go into the army.117 In Boston, too, many were thinking about Slavery & Freedom. On Sunday afternoon, twelve-year-old Franky Garrison sprinted home from the Common, where he had just heard about Anderson's surrender, to tell his father the news. A few days later, when he helped proofread the galleys of that week's Liberator, Liberator, the boy must have realized what a sea change was occurring. "The North United at Last," one headline ran. For thirty years, the elder Garrison had fought not just to defeat Southern slaveholders but also to win over the divided heart of his own region. He had hung the star-spangled banner upside down, as an emblem of the despicable Const.i.tution. But now Franky and his father watched with pride as a huge American flag was raised right in front of the the boy must have realized what a sea change was occurring. "The North United at Last," one headline ran. For thirty years, the elder Garrison had fought not just to defeat Southern slaveholders but also to win over the divided heart of his own region. He had hung the star-spangled banner upside down, as an emblem of the despicable Const.i.tution. But now Franky and his father watched with pride as a huge American flag was raised right in front of the Liberator Liberator office, on a staff 140 feet tall. The more that slave drivers trampled on that banner, Garrison confessed, the handsomer it seemed. His comrade Wendell Phillips went even further. A week after Anderson's surrender, he stood amid red, white, and blue bunting before a cheering crowd of Boston abolitionists. "For the first time in my anti-slavery life," he told them, "I speak beneath the stars and stripes.... To-day the slave asks G.o.d for a sight of this banner, and counts it the pledge of his redemption." office, on a staff 140 feet tall. The more that slave drivers trampled on that banner, Garrison confessed, the handsomer it seemed. His comrade Wendell Phillips went even further. A week after Anderson's surrender, he stood amid red, white, and blue bunting before a cheering crowd of Boston abolitionists. "For the first time in my anti-slavery life," he told them, "I speak beneath the stars and stripes.... To-day the slave asks G.o.d for a sight of this banner, and counts it the pledge of his redemption."118 Indeed, the response to Sumter seemed to manifest itself, among Northerners of every political and cultural hue, as a kind of flag mania. Along the thoroughfares of major cities, each shop and office "successively ran up its colors like a fleet of s.h.i.+ps on the eve of the action." On village greens and town squares-places where it had never previously occurred to anyone that the national emblem belonged-citizens gathered for solemn ceremonies around hastily erected poles. (And from that day to this, there would scarcely be a single American hamlet, no matter how tiny, that did not not display the Stars and Stripes in its most conspicuous available spot.) Artists and intellectuals were swept up in the moment as well. The painter Frederic Church, previously known for producing landscapes of exquisite delicacy, now daubed a canvas with a garish piece of patriotic kitsch: a sunrise scene in which the clouds formed red and white stripes, with a square patch of stars twinkling against blue sky in the upper left. (This was quickly transformed into a best-selling lithograph.) display the Stars and Stripes in its most conspicuous available spot.) Artists and intellectuals were swept up in the moment as well. The painter Frederic Church, previously known for producing landscapes of exquisite delicacy, now daubed a canvas with a garish piece of patriotic kitsch: a sunrise scene in which the clouds formed red and white stripes, with a square patch of stars twinkling against blue sky in the upper left. (This was quickly transformed into a best-selling lithograph.)119 For a century and a half, historians have struggled to explain exactly why the attack at Charleston struck such a transformative chord. Even Bruce Catton, one of the Civil War's greatest twentieth-century chroniclers, was left scratching his head: "In the strangely revealing light of the exploding sh.e.l.l," he wrote, Americans "saw something that was to carry them through four years of war. It is hard to say just what it was, for no one bothered to be explicit about it and time has dimmed it anyway." George Bancroft, America's most revered historian in the 1860s, did try to be explicit, and came up with a tortured explanation involving navigation rights on the Chesapeake and Mississippi. But in any case, he remembered of that April, "I witnessed the sublimest spectacle I ever saw."120 Perhaps there was an explanatory power in the flags themselves. Two weeks after Sumter's surrender, Henry Ward Beecher gave a sermon at his Brooklyn church to bless the colors that two local volunteer companies were carrying with them to war. With characteristic theatricality, the great preacher eulogized the flag in Christlike terms: It was upon these streaming bars and upon these bright stars that every one of that immense concentric range of guns was aimed, when Sumter was lifted up in the midst, almost like another witnessing Calvary.... And do you know that when it was fallen, in the streets of a Southern city, it was trailed, hooted at, pierced with swords? Men that have sat in the Senate of the United States ran out to trample upon it; it was fired on and slashed by the mob; it was dragged through the mud; it was hissed at and spit upon; and so it was carried through Southern cities! That our flag...should, in our own nation, and by our own people, be spit upon, and trampled under foot, is more than the heart of man can bear!...It is not a painted rag. It is a whole national history. It is the Const.i.tution. It is the government. It is the free people that stand in the government on the Const.i.tution.121 Whitman expressed the same idea in plainer language-although the simple words masked deeper complexities-when he wrote: "The negro was not the chief thing: the chief thing was to stick together."

The attack on Sumter forced Americans everywhere to pick sides: to stand either with the flag or against it-and overwhelmingly, perhaps for a mult.i.tude of individual reasons, Northerners chose to stand with it. And that expression of national unity, in turn, became the strongest possible argument for the Union itself: for the idea that the flag could shelter beneath its folds Americans of many opinions and temperaments, and that disagreement need not mean disunion. The pure wordless symbolism of a piece of cloth could represent both the deepest traditions of American radicalism and those of American conservatism. For people like Garrison and Phillips, it had become a pledge to stand firm against the slave power and uphold what they saw as the purest distillation of America's commitment to liberty, as embodied in the Declaration. To more orthodox minds, it was a summons to defend the nation and the Const.i.tution.

Even Emerson, the great apostle of individualism, found himself beholding with astonished admiration the "whirlwind of patriotism, not believed to exist, but now magnetizing all discordant ma.s.ses under its terrific unity." He was then in the midst of a lecture series in Boston on the relations.h.i.+p between "Life" and "Literature." Amid his abstract ruminations, he had taken note of the national crisis; a few days before Sumter he had spoken of "the facility with which a great political fabric can be broken." But the following week, he threw aside his prepared text and spoke instead from a sheaf of hastily scribbled notes. The sage went so far as to admit he had been wrong: It is an affair of instincts; we did not know we had them; we valued ourselves as cool calculators; we were very fine with our learning and culture, with our science that was of no country, and our religion of peace;-and now a sentiment mightier than logic, wide as light, strong as gravity, reaches into the college, the bank, the farm-house, and the church. It is the day of the populace; they are wiser than their teachers.... The interlocutions from quiet-looking citizens are of an energy of which I had no knowledge. How long men can keep a secret! I will never again speak lightly of a crowd. We are wafted into a revolution which, though at first sight a calamity of the human race, finds all men in good heart, in courage, in a generosity of mutual and patriotic support. We have been very homeless, some of us, for some years past,-say since 1850; but now we have a country again.... This affronting of the common sense of mankind, this defiance and cursing of friends as well as foes, has hurled us, willing or unwilling, into opposition; and the nation which the Secessionists hoped to shatter has to thank them for a more sudden and hearty union than the history of parties ever showed.122 Ironically, the Confederates' attack on, and swift victory at, Fort Sumter turned out to be their worst strategic blunder of the war, a blunder, indeed, that may have cost the South its independence. It is difficult to see what the rebels would have lost if they had allowed Major Anderson and his tiny force to be provisioned and remain indefinitely. Indeed, they could have couched their forbearance as a humanitarian gesture, a token of their peaceful intentions, that might have won them allies not just in the North but also-all-importantly-among the nations of Europe. Certainly leaving Sumter alone would have bought them more time: time to more fully organize and equip the South's armies; time to establish all the ordinary apparatus-a postal service, a stable national currency, a judicial system-that serve to make government a stable fact rather than a speculative figment. Both to its own citizens and to the rest of the world, the Confederate States of America might have come to seem like a fait accompli.123 Instead, Davis, his cabinet, and his generals had only a perfunctory discussion before deciding to sh.e.l.l the fort. Instead, Davis, his cabinet, and his generals had only a perfunctory discussion before deciding to sh.e.l.l the fort.

As Lincoln told a confidant: "They attacked Sumter-it fell, and thus, did more service than it otherwise could."

To be sure, some Americans in the North continued decrying what they saw as a misbegotten war against slavery. "A servile insurrection and the wholesale slaughter of the whites will alone satisfy the murderous designs of the Abolitionists," wrote the editor of one New York paper in mid-April. "The Administration, egged on by the halloo of the Black Republican journals of this city, has sent on its mercenary forces to pick a quarrel and initiate the work of devastation and ruin."124 A few still held out hope for a bloodless reunion. One pro-Union meeting in New York began with extravagant toasts, not to Anderson or Lincoln but to John J. Crittenden. When the venerable senator had announced his retirement when Congress adjourned in March, he made clear to his friends that he wished never to see Was.h.i.+ngton again. He then hurried home, exhausted and demoralized, to his Kentucky farm. Just after the fall of Sumter, however, with his state teetering on the brink of secession, the old politician took to the stump once more, begging his fellow Kentuckians to steer a neutral course: remain loyal to their country but take up arms against neither North nor South. The state did not secede. In the coming months, however, Crittenden would see three of his own sons march off to war: two to fight for the Union, one for the Confederacy.125 A few abolitionists, too, could not bring themselves to join in the war fever. The farthest that Lydia Maria Child could go was to hope that someday the Stars and Stripes might be worthy of the adoration it was receiving. "Meanwhile," she wrote to a friend, "I wait to see how the United States will deport itself. When it treats the colored people with justice and humanity, I will mount its flag in my great elm-tree, and I will thank you to present me with a flag for a breast-pin; but until then, I would as soon wear the rattlesnake upon my bosom as the eagle."126 Child was not the only one to speculate on what war might mean for the slaves. On the morning he heard about Sumter's fall, William Russell, the London Times London Times' urbane correspondent, was already in Baltimore on his way to catch a steamer bound for Charleston. Stopping for a quick shave, he asked the black barber what he made of the news. "Well, sare," the man replied, "'spose colored men will be as good as white men."127 Russell later offered this tidbit to his readers in a tone of mildly sympathetic amus.e.m.e.nt. The poor deluded Negro!

SHORTLY AFTER A ANDERSON'S SURRENDER to the intrepid Wigfall, General Beauregard's authorized aides arrived at the fort. In the end, they decided to honor the agreement that the major and the ex-senator had reached. Only Doubleday seemed irked that the battle was over: he continued to believe that it might have ended differently if his commander had worried less about avoiding bloodshed and more about defeating the enemy, maybe by trying to sh.e.l.l Charleston itself. Anderson, for his part, was quick to a.s.sure the Confederate envoys that he had always aimed his cannons at fortifications rather than at men, and when told that none of the secessionists had been wounded by Sumter's fire, he lifted up his hands and exclaimed, "Thank G.o.d for that!" (Doubleday listened, fuming: "As the object of our fighting was to do as much damage as possible, I could see no propriety in thanking Heaven for the small amount of injury we had inflicted.") to the intrepid Wigfall, General Beauregard's authorized aides arrived at the fort. In the end, they decided to honor the agreement that the major and the ex-senator had reached. Only Doubleday seemed irked that the battle was over: he continued to believe that it might have ended differently if his commander had worried less about avoiding bloodshed and more about defeating the enemy, maybe by trying to sh.e.l.l Charleston itself. Anderson, for his part, was quick to a.s.sure the Confederate envoys that he had always aimed his cannons at fortifications rather than at men, and when told that none of the secessionists had been wounded by Sumter's fire, he lifted up his hands and exclaimed, "Thank G.o.d for that!" (Doubleday listened, fuming: "As the object of our fighting was to do as much damage as possible, I could see no propriety in thanking Heaven for the small amount of injury we had inflicted.")128 The only term of surrender at which the Confederates initially balked was Anderson's request to salute his flag a final time before lowering it. But in the end they allowed him to do so.

On Sunday afternoon-a day of splendid suns.h.i.+ne-the tattered national ensign rose again on its repaired flagpole and unfurled into a strong breeze. Anderson was determined to honor it with no fewer than a hundred cannon blasts. This was not to be. His salute, like the Union, was cloven in half. With the fiftieth shot came disaster and a terrible omen: a gun crew, exhausted by the recent ordeal, reloaded its weapon too hastily, neglecting to cool the muzzle with a thorough sponging before ramming in the powder. In the ensuing explosion, one soldier-a young Irish immigrant named Daniel Hough, well liked among the men of the garrison-was killed almost instantly, his body torn apart. Several others were badly wounded.

But there was no time to mourn the dead or care for the injured. Daniel Hough's remains were left behind to be buried by the enemy, as so many other men's would be in the years ahead. Still in shock, his comrades formed ranks behind Captain Doubleday and marched through Sumter's main gate toward a waiting transport. Behind them they could hear wild cheering as the Stars and Stripes came down and a Confederate banner went up.

Early the next day-Monday, April 15-the U.S. steamer Baltic, Baltic, with Major Anderson and all his men aboard, cleared the bar of Charleston Harbor and set out into open water. with Major Anderson and all his men aboard, cleared the bar of Charleston Harbor and set out into open water.129

CHAPTER FIVE.

The Volunteer.

Senior wisdom suits not now, The light is on the youthful brow.

-HERMAN M MELVILLE, "The Conflict of Convictions" (186061)

Rally at Union Square, New York, April 20, 1861 (photo credit 5.1)

Lower Manhattan, April 1861.

IT WAS A DAY UNLIKE ANY the city had known before. Half a million people, or so the newspapers would report, crowded the streets between Battery Park and Fourteenth Street. If you were there among them that day, the thing that you would never forget-not even if you lived to see the next century-was the flags. The Stars and Stripes flew above the doors of department stores and town houses, from Bowery taverns and from the spire of Trinity Church, while Broadway, the the city had known before. Half a million people, or so the newspapers would report, crowded the streets between Battery Park and Fourteenth Street. If you were there among them that day, the thing that you would never forget-not even if you lived to see the next century-was the flags. The Stars and Stripes flew above the doors of department stores and town houses, from Bowery taverns and from the spire of Trinity Church, while Broadway, the New York Herald New York Herald reported, "was almost hidden in a cloud of flaggery." P. T. Barnum, not to be outdone, especially when he sensed an opportunity for attention, had strung an entire panoply of oversize banners across the thoroughfare. The national ensign even fluttered, in miniature, on the heads of the horses straining to pull overloaded omnibuses through the throngs on Fifth Avenue. The one flag that everyone wanted to see reported, "was almost hidden in a cloud of flaggery." P. T. Barnum, not to be outdone, especially when he sensed an opportunity for attention, had strung an entire panoply of oversize banners across the thoroughfare. The national ensign even fluttered, in miniature, on the heads of the horses straining to pull overloaded omnibuses through the throngs on Fifth Avenue. The one flag that everyone wanted to see-needed to see-was in Union Square itself, the unattainable point toward which all the shoving and sweating and jostling bodies strove. No fewer than five separate speakers' platforms had been hastily erected there, and every so often, above the ceaseless din, you could catch a phrase or two: to see-was in Union Square itself, the unattainable point toward which all the shoving and sweating and jostling bodies strove. No fewer than five separate speakers' platforms had been hastily erected there, and every so often, above the ceaseless din, you could catch a phrase or two: "that handful of loyal men...their gallant commander...the honor of their country..." "that handful of loyal men...their gallant commander...the honor of their country..."

If you managed somehow to clamber up onto the base of a beleaguered lamppost and emerge for a moment above the hats and bonnets of the mult.i.tude, you might glimpse what was propped up on the monument in the center of the square: cradled in General Was.h.i.+ngton's bronze arms, a torn and soot-stained flag on a splintered staff. (One hundred forty years later, in an eerie echo of that long-forgotten day, a later generation would gather around the same statue with candles and flowers in the aftermath of another attack on the nation.) Nearby, waving a bit stiffly to acknowledge the cheers, was a lean, gray-haired officer.1 But then you lost your tenuous foothold, the gray-haired officer and his flag vanished from sight, and you were down off the lamppost again, buffeted this way and that by the odorous ma.s.ses of New Yorkers, ripened by exertion and by the sunny spring day: Wall Street bankers in black broadcloth; pale, flushed shopgirls; grimy men from the Fulton docks, more pungent than anyone else, smelling of fish. But then you lost your tenuous foothold, the gray-haired officer and his flag vanished from sight, and you were down off the lamppost again, buffeted this way and that by the odorous ma.s.ses of New Yorkers, ripened by exertion and by the sunny spring day: Wall Street bankers in black broadcloth; pale, flushed shopgirls; grimy men from the Fulton docks, more pungent than anyone else, smelling of fish.

It was hard to imagine anybody swaggering through such a crowd, but here came someone doing just that-and not just one man but three abreast, nonchalant young toughs all dressed in identical, baggy red s.h.i.+rts. One had a fat plug of tobacco in his cheek and looked ready to spit where he pleased; another fellow none too surrept.i.tiously pinched the prettiest of the shopgirls as he pa.s.sed. Somehow, by common consent, the pressing throngs parted to let them through. They all knew exactly who these superior beings were: the fire b'hoys. And as of today, no longer simply that, either-for these b'hoys had signed their enlistment papers yesterday, and were very shortly to be sworn in as soldiers of the First New York Fire Zouaves.

On the way home after the great Union rally, you might have seen many more of them, over a thousand red-s.h.i.+rted recruits, crowding a park just off Fourteenth Street, arrayed in rough military formation. Uncharacteristically quiet, even subdued, they raised their brawny right arms as their colonel, the man they had just unanimously elected to lead them into war-for such was the custom still, in those early months of 1861-administered the oath.

The young colonel-he seemed, from a distance, barely more than a boy-was, unlike all his thousand-odd comrades, not a New York City fireman. He was not even a New Yorker, unless one counted his childhood far upstate. He was different in almost every way from the strapping men of his regiment, with their loose limbs and salty tongues: a small man, neat and self-contained, who never drank, or smoked, or swore. He thrilled to poetry as much as to the tattoo of drums; he had dined at the White House more often than in taverns or mess halls; and he had come not from the teeming wards of Brooklyn but from the West.

He was also one of those occasional American figures whose death, even more than his life, seemed to mark the pa.s.sing away of one era and the beginning of another. He would be, briefly, the war's most famous man. And for that moment, the entire conflict, the irreconcilable forces that set state against state and brother against brother, would seem distilled into-as one who knew him well would write-"the dark mystery of how Ellsworth died."2 LIKE SO MANY A AMERICANS of his generation, Elmer Ellsworth seemed to emerge out of nowhere. This wasn't quite true, but almost. In later years, some would swear they had roomed with him in a cheap boardinghouse in Was.h.i.+ngton, long before he was famous; or been his cla.s.smate at a high school in Kenosha before he suddenly dropped out and disappeared; or known him living up among the Ottawa Indians near Muskegon, where the tribe had adopted him as its chief. But no one was ever quite sure. of his generation, Elmer Ellsworth seemed to emerge out of nowhere. This wasn't quite true, but almost. In later years, some would swear they had roomed with him in a cheap boardinghouse in Was.h.i.+ngton, long before he was famous; or been his cla.s.smate at a high school in Kenosha before he suddenly dropped out and disappeared; or known him living up among the Ottawa Indians near Muskegon, where the tribe had adopted him as its chief. But no one was ever quite sure.3 Odd remnants of his diaries would eventually turn up. And his parents, at least, who would long outlive him, eventually shared everything they could recall of his boyhood. He had left home early, though. There were few enough opportunities for him there.

Ellsworth was born in the year of the country's first great financial depression, 1837, in the small village of Malta in Saratoga County, New York. His ancestors had settled nearby before the Revolution, but the family was poor. Ephraim Ellsworth, the boy's father, had struggled as a tailor until the Panic ruined him, forcing him to eke out a living doing odd jobs, netting wild pa.s.senger pigeons to sell for their meat, and peddling kegs of pickled oysters door-to-door on commission. His son, serious-minded and small for his age, was sent off at the age of nine to work for a man who owned a general store and saloon. Scrupulously, the boy refused to handle liquor or even-as his master expected-to rinse out the customers' whiskey gla.s.ses.4 In a world where drunkenness was common (among children, too), he had already resolved to be different. In a world where drunkenness was common (among children, too), he had already resolved to be different.

His early life, Ellsworth would write as an adult, seemed to him nothing but "a jumble of strange incidents." He was a child who seemed to live half in the gritty reality of his physical surroundings, half in a dream world of his own creation. Sometimes he cadged paint from a wagon shop in the village and daubed scenes onto a sc.r.a.p of board or an old window shade. One of these has survived; it shows a forest-fringed river that might have been the nearby Hudson but for the turrets and spires of Arthurian castles rising along its banks. In summer, he wandered among the "green old hills" above the actual river, and in winter, he skated on the Champlain Ca.n.a.l, perhaps developing there the