Synopsis
For two weeks in 1861, Washington, D.C., was locked in a state of panic. Would the newly formed Confederate States of America launch its first attack on the Union by capturing the nation's capital? Would Lincoln's Union fall before it had a chance to fight?
Wedged between Virginia and Maryland--two states bordering on secession--Washington was isolated; its communications lines were cut, its rail lines blocked. Newly recruited volunteers were too few and were unable to enter the city. A recently inaugurated Lincoln struggled to form a plan--defense or attack?In this final chapter of his trilogy on the Civil War, David Detzer pulls the drama from this pivotal moment in American history straight from the pages of diaries, letters, and newspapers. With an eye for detail and an ear for the voices of average citizens, he beautifully captures the tense, miasmic atmosphere of these first chaotic days of war.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author
David Detzer is professor emeritus of history with Connecticut State University. He is the author of several books, including Allegiance: Fort Sumter, Charleston, and the Beginning of the Civil War; and The Brink: Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and several dogs.
From the Back Cover
"A highly readable, comprehensive, and thoughtfully written examination of a pivotal moment in our greatest national tragedy."--Civil War Book Review
For two weeks in 1861, Washington, D.C., was locked in a state of panic. Would the newly formed Confederate States of America launch its first attack on the Union by capturing the nation's capital? Wedged between Virginia and Maryland--two states bordering on secession--the city was isolated; its communications lines were cut, its rail lines blocked. A recently inaugurated Lincoln struggled to form a plan--defense or attack?
David Detzer pulls the drama from this pivotal moment in American history straight from the pages of diaries, letters, and newspapers, beautifully capturing the tense, miasmic atmosphere of these first chaotic days of war.
"Like a big-budget Hollywood movie director, Detzer works with a large cast of leading and featured characters. Like a 19th-century novelist, he relies on memorable physical description to help readers keep the actors and action straight."--Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"The conclusion of Detzer's popular trilogy on the first hundred days of the Civil War finds the Union gripped by fear that the Confederacy will capture Washington and end the war almost before it has started."--The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
David Detzer is professor emeritus of history at Western Connecticut State University. He is the author of Donnybrook; Allegiance; The Brink: Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962; and Thunder of the Captains, about the Korean War. He lives in Connecticut.
From the Inside Flap
On April 13th, Fort Sumter fell.Soon, the capital of the United States would be under siege....For two weeks in 1861, Washington, D.C., was locked in a state of panic. Would the newly formed Confederate States of America launch its first attack on the Union by capturing the nation's capital? Would Lincoln's Union fall before it had a chance to fight?
Wedged between Virginia and Maryland-two states bordering on secession-Washington was isolated; its communications lines were cut, its rail lines blocked. Newly recruited volunteers were too few and were unable to enter the city. A recently inaugurated Lincoln struggled to form a plan-defense or attack? Intelligence rumors and incendiary headlines revealed Norfolk and Harpers Ferry fallen to rebels, and the notorious "mobtown" Baltimore ignited by riots.
David Detzer pulls the drama from this pivotal moment in American history straight from the pages of diaries, letters, and newspapers. With an eye for detail and an ear for the voices of average citizens, he beautifully captures the tense, miasmic atmosphere of these first chaotic days of war.
"
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
City of
Magnificent Intentions
The Ball has opened.
—Hartford Courant, April 13, 1861
When Charles Dickens visited Washington, D.C., during the 1840s, he was unimpressed. “It is sometimes called the City of Magnificent Distances,” he said, “but it might with greater propriety be termed the City of Magnificent Intentions.” He considered it characterized by “spacious avenues, that begin in nothing, and lead nowhere; streets, mile-long, that only want houses, roads, and inhabitants; public buildings that need but a public to be complete; and ornaments of great thoroughfares, which only lack great thoroughfares to ornament.”
A few years after Dickens wrote these caustic lines, America, puffed up with pride, in light of her successful war with Mexico and expansion to the Pacific, happily threw tax dollars into federal construction. Workmen began building an obelisk to honor George Washington, Father of His Country. According to its design, it would, when completed, soar to a height of 600 feet—making it the tallest man-made structure in the world. The Treasury Building underwent major expansion. Also, two massive wings were added to the Capitol, and the new galleries looking down on the House and Senate could each seat over a thousand observers. And someday, when the cast-iron dome of the Rotunda was finished, topped by a statue of Victory spreading her arms above it to embrace the city and the nation beyond, its roof, 400 feet above the ground, would approximate the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London and St. Peter’s in Rome. Not far away, over at the Patent Office, slack-jawed visitors ogled hundreds of the latest national inventions.
It was easy in those days to wander through such federal buildings. A guidebook proudly said of Washington’s public edifices: “No armed sentinels morosely oppose the entrance of the humblest; patience seems to be the universal characteristic of the employees.” Even the White House was often open to the public, and its grounds served as a kind of city park, with gravel walkways and pleasant trees and a fountain. When weather permitted, on Wednesday evenings the Marine Band gave concerts on the lawn of the Executive Mansion.
The District offered convenient and inexpensive public transport. For a nickel, travelers went by omnibus from the Capitol to Georgetown, or from Columbia College to the Potomac, or from Seventh Street to the navy yard.
For those who were hungry, Washington City offered scores of eateries; if one wished to tipple, it had hundreds of watering holes. The city was home to four relatively swank hotels—including the largest, the National, in whose saloons politicians often came to chat and drowse; and Willard’s (near the White House). Pennsylvania Avenue was cobblestoned for part of its length and handsome trees lined its sides. During each spring, pink peach blossoms tumbled delicately to the ground and the air grew redolent with the scent of magnolias. The flora of the capital magically reflected its position between North and South, having a smattering of plants from both sections—orchids and black walnut, hackberry and sassafras.2
According to the 1860 census, the population of the District was 75,080. This figure included 8,733 who lived in Georgetown, a good-sized town both older and quite separate in those days from what was called Washington City. The District’s population also included 5,225 people who resided in neither Georgetown nor Washington City, who were described by the census as living in the “rural” sector. Here, farmers worked the tired land above the Capitol. When Abraham Lincoln wished for a little quiet time, he often rode out along the dusty country paths that meandered through that agrarian northern part of the District.
Washington City had its problems. Discreet locals did not usually mention this fact, but the place had numerous prostitutes and gambling establishments. Crime was rampant in parts of Washington City. The District’s entire police force numbered only sixteen during daylight hours and fifty at night. Many private homes were squalid, and except for a few impressive shops on Pennsylvania Avenue, most stores were small, dirty, unpainted, shabby. The majority of the city’s population consisted of hotel maids and Irish laborers, of hackmen and faro dealers, of clerks and washerwomen. About 20 percent of the population was African American, including 11,131 free blacks and 3,185 slaves.
When the District was first created during the 1790s from land donated by Virginia and Maryland, the federal government did not bother to write special slave laws; it merely adopted the regulations the two states had been using. During ensuing years, both Virginia and Maryland moderated their slave codes, but the District did not, retaining the much harsher colonial regulations. Until halfway into the Civil War, according to District statutes, if a black person struck a white, the miscreant could legally be cropped (that is, have part of his or her ears cut off). For the crime of “false witness,” an African American could be punished by a court with thirty-nine lashes, and have his or her ears nailed to a pillory before cropping. Among the punishments judges meted out to District blacks were beheading and quartering. All African Americans were required to carry a document showing their status—free or slave. Visiting blacks were often not aware of this regulation. Cases occurred of free Northern African Americans snatched from the District’s streets and thrown into prison for lack of the necessary documentation, then sold into slavery to cover “jail fees.” (It was 1862 before Congress finally voted to outlaw slavery in the District. When Lincoln signed the bill into law, he declared himself “gratified” that it provided for payment to the owners, and also that money was being set aside to colonize the freed blacks somewhere else, far outside the United States.)3
Georgetown, serving as the District’s chief port, was situated at the fall line of the Potomac. Ships jammed its docks; old photographs show a tangle of masts of assorted vessels tied at the wharves. In early 1861 Georgetown was still a bustling commercial town, home to about fifty flour mills that ground grain brought from the interior of Virginia or Maryland. Georgetown was also the center of America’s largest shad and herring market.
Some visitors arriving in the national capital were surprised that so much of it was still a wilderness. Deer, otter, skunks, and opossums seemed everywhere. So were nine different types of turtles, nine species of frogs, and toads—to say nothing of countless snakes and salamanders and water lizards. The District was home to eighteen different bivalves and thirty-two univalves. It was also a stopping place for birds migrating north in the spring and south in the autumn. During April, lovers picnicking near Rock Creek might have noticed warblers, small flycatchers, and thrushes. By summertime a person could espy ducks of great variety, sandpipers and cardinal grosbeaks, rails and black-throated buntings. Locals fished the nearby Potomac for eel, pike, sturgeon, perch, or sunfish.
Some things in the District were less bucolic. Inside federal buildings, all the staircases and other public spaces seemed dank and fetid with spittle from tobacco chewers. The carpets of the White House and Congress were equally bespattered. An open canal slicing through the District’s center carried raw sewage from the hotels and public buildings. The canal’s noxious ooze drifted slowly and pungently past the White House until it floated onto the mud flats next to the Potomac. The remains of dead domestic animals rotted here, along with the occasional body of an unwanted baby. Cattle wandered loose in the city; so did chickens and pigs. There was a city ordinance requiring that pigs be penned, but most owners ignored it, and stray hogs waddled about searching for grub. When the authorities tried to round up the porkers, the animals’ shouting owners often fought the policemen, while gleeful crowds gathered to watch. In 1861 a young visitor from Massachusetts wrote home: “Washington is the most filthy city that it has ever been my chance to see.” He compared it unfavorably to Boston and Lowell. “When at home, we are not accustomed to see hogs running at large in the principle streets of the city, or the carcasses of dead dogs and goats left to decay by the side of the street, in the heart of the city, as is the case here, much to the disgust of our nasal organs.”4
Washington, in other words, was not an easy place to categorize. It was a contradictory town. John F. Kennedy’s famous description of it as combining Northern charm with Southern efficiency would have been just as apt a century earlier. But his witticism would hardly have amused the populace of 1861 because of their parlous position between those two regions.
One person, more than any other American, was giving deep thought to the prospect of an attack on Washington: Winfield Scott.
Scott was an excellent soldier, and respected. Born in Virginia in 1786 to a middle-class family, he attended William and Mary College, where he studied law. He was then a fine-looking young man, bright and curious. Unlike many of his Virginia peers who thrilled to the hunt, Scott preferred to read. When President Jefferson offered him a commission in the army, the lad did not assume that manly courage alone could guarantee a successful career, and immediately began to study the arcane world of the military, and would eventually, after traveling Europe to observe its armies, write America’s first important textbook on tactics. Early in his career he won great fame for winning an important victory during the War of 1812, then later, for successes in several Indian wars. In his middle years he rose to the leadership of the army. During the Mexican War he performed dazzlingly well and was primarily responsible for a relatively painless and quick victory.
Not everything in his life was rosy. He married an extremely wealthy Virginia belle, Maria Mayo, and they produced seven children. She was quick witted and strong willed. They clashed. Lately she had been residing in Europe, using the excuse of fragile health.
Copyright © 2006 by David Detzer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work
should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
Magnificent Intentions
The Ball has opened.
—Hartford Courant, April 13, 1861
When Charles Dickens visited Washington, D.C., during the 1840s, he was unimpressed. “It is sometimes called the City of Magnificent Distances,” he said, “but it might with greater propriety be termed the City of Magnificent Intentions.” He considered it characterized by “spacious avenues, that begin in nothing, and lead nowhere; streets, mile-long, that only want houses, roads, and inhabitants; public buildings that need but a public to be complete; and ornaments of great thoroughfares, which only lack great thoroughfares to ornament.”
A few years after Dickens wrote these caustic lines, America, puffed up with pride, in light of her successful war with Mexico and expansion to the Pacific, happily threw tax dollars into federal construction. Workmen began building an obelisk to honor George Washington, Father of His Country. According to its design, it would, when completed, soar to a height of 600 feet—making it the tallest man-made structure in the world. The Treasury Building underwent major expansion. Also, two massive wings were added to the Capitol, and the new galleries looking down on the House and Senate could each seat over a thousand observers. And someday, when the cast-iron dome of the Rotunda was finished, topped by a statue of Victory spreading her arms above it to embrace the city and the nation beyond, its roof, 400 feet above the ground, would approximate the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London and St. Peter’s in Rome. Not far away, over at the Patent Office, slack-jawed visitors ogled hundreds of the latest national inventions.
It was easy in those days to wander through such federal buildings. A guidebook proudly said of Washington’s public edifices: “No armed sentinels morosely oppose the entrance of the humblest; patience seems to be the universal characteristic of the employees.” Even the White House was often open to the public, and its grounds served as a kind of city park, with gravel walkways and pleasant trees and a fountain. When weather permitted, on Wednesday evenings the Marine Band gave concerts on the lawn of the Executive Mansion.
The District offered convenient and inexpensive public transport. For a nickel, travelers went by omnibus from the Capitol to Georgetown, or from Columbia College to the Potomac, or from Seventh Street to the navy yard.
For those who were hungry, Washington City offered scores of eateries; if one wished to tipple, it had hundreds of watering holes. The city was home to four relatively swank hotels—including the largest, the National, in whose saloons politicians often came to chat and drowse; and Willard’s (near the White House). Pennsylvania Avenue was cobblestoned for part of its length and handsome trees lined its sides. During each spring, pink peach blossoms tumbled delicately to the ground and the air grew redolent with the scent of magnolias. The flora of the capital magically reflected its position between North and South, having a smattering of plants from both sections—orchids and black walnut, hackberry and sassafras.2
According to the 1860 census, the population of the District was 75,080. This figure included 8,733 who lived in Georgetown, a good-sized town both older and quite separate in those days from what was called Washington City. The District’s population also included 5,225 people who resided in neither Georgetown nor Washington City, who were described by the census as living in the “rural” sector. Here, farmers worked the tired land above the Capitol. When Abraham Lincoln wished for a little quiet time, he often rode out along the dusty country paths that meandered through that agrarian northern part of the District.
Washington City had its problems. Discreet locals did not usually mention this fact, but the place had numerous prostitutes and gambling establishments. Crime was rampant in parts of Washington City. The District’s entire police force numbered only sixteen during daylight hours and fifty at night. Many private homes were squalid, and except for a few impressive shops on Pennsylvania Avenue, most stores were small, dirty, unpainted, shabby. The majority of the city’s population consisted of hotel maids and Irish laborers, of hackmen and faro dealers, of clerks and washerwomen. About 20 percent of the population was African American, including 11,131 free blacks and 3,185 slaves.
When the District was first created during the 1790s from land donated by Virginia and Maryland, the federal government did not bother to write special slave laws; it merely adopted the regulations the two states had been using. During ensuing years, both Virginia and Maryland moderated their slave codes, but the District did not, retaining the much harsher colonial regulations. Until halfway into the Civil War, according to District statutes, if a black person struck a white, the miscreant could legally be cropped (that is, have part of his or her ears cut off). For the crime of “false witness,” an African American could be punished by a court with thirty-nine lashes, and have his or her ears nailed to a pillory before cropping. Among the punishments judges meted out to District blacks were beheading and quartering. All African Americans were required to carry a document showing their status—free or slave. Visiting blacks were often not aware of this regulation. Cases occurred of free Northern African Americans snatched from the District’s streets and thrown into prison for lack of the necessary documentation, then sold into slavery to cover “jail fees.” (It was 1862 before Congress finally voted to outlaw slavery in the District. When Lincoln signed the bill into law, he declared himself “gratified” that it provided for payment to the owners, and also that money was being set aside to colonize the freed blacks somewhere else, far outside the United States.)3
Georgetown, serving as the District’s chief port, was situated at the fall line of the Potomac. Ships jammed its docks; old photographs show a tangle of masts of assorted vessels tied at the wharves. In early 1861 Georgetown was still a bustling commercial town, home to about fifty flour mills that ground grain brought from the interior of Virginia or Maryland. Georgetown was also the center of America’s largest shad and herring market.
Some visitors arriving in the national capital were surprised that so much of it was still a wilderness. Deer, otter, skunks, and opossums seemed everywhere. So were nine different types of turtles, nine species of frogs, and toads—to say nothing of countless snakes and salamanders and water lizards. The District was home to eighteen different bivalves and thirty-two univalves. It was also a stopping place for birds migrating north in the spring and south in the autumn. During April, lovers picnicking near Rock Creek might have noticed warblers, small flycatchers, and thrushes. By summertime a person could espy ducks of great variety, sandpipers and cardinal grosbeaks, rails and black-throated buntings. Locals fished the nearby Potomac for eel, pike, sturgeon, perch, or sunfish.
Some things in the District were less bucolic. Inside federal buildings, all the staircases and other public spaces seemed dank and fetid with spittle from tobacco chewers. The carpets of the White House and Congress were equally bespattered. An open canal slicing through the District’s center carried raw sewage from the hotels and public buildings. The canal’s noxious ooze drifted slowly and pungently past the White House until it floated onto the mud flats next to the Potomac. The remains of dead domestic animals rotted here, along with the occasional body of an unwanted baby. Cattle wandered loose in the city; so did chickens and pigs. There was a city ordinance requiring that pigs be penned, but most owners ignored it, and stray hogs waddled about searching for grub. When the authorities tried to round up the porkers, the animals’ shouting owners often fought the policemen, while gleeful crowds gathered to watch. In 1861 a young visitor from Massachusetts wrote home: “Washington is the most filthy city that it has ever been my chance to see.” He compared it unfavorably to Boston and Lowell. “When at home, we are not accustomed to see hogs running at large in the principle streets of the city, or the carcasses of dead dogs and goats left to decay by the side of the street, in the heart of the city, as is the case here, much to the disgust of our nasal organs.”4
Washington, in other words, was not an easy place to categorize. It was a contradictory town. John F. Kennedy’s famous description of it as combining Northern charm with Southern efficiency would have been just as apt a century earlier. But his witticism would hardly have amused the populace of 1861 because of their parlous position between those two regions.
One person, more than any other American, was giving deep thought to the prospect of an attack on Washington: Winfield Scott.
Scott was an excellent soldier, and respected. Born in Virginia in 1786 to a middle-class family, he attended William and Mary College, where he studied law. He was then a fine-looking young man, bright and curious. Unlike many of his Virginia peers who thrilled to the hunt, Scott preferred to read. When President Jefferson offered him a commission in the army, the lad did not assume that manly courage alone could guarantee a successful career, and immediately began to study the arcane world of the military, and would eventually, after traveling Europe to observe its armies, write America’s first important textbook on tactics. Early in his career he won great fame for winning an important victory during the War of 1812, then later, for successes in several Indian wars. In his middle years he rose to the leadership of the army. During the Mexican War he performed dazzlingly well and was primarily responsible for a relatively painless and quick victory.
Not everything in his life was rosy. He married an extremely wealthy Virginia belle, Maria Mayo, and they produced seven children. She was quick witted and strong willed. They clashed. Lately she had been residing in Europe, using the excuse of fragile health.
Copyright © 2006 by David Detzer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work
should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
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