During the five-week visit of the Joseph Davises, Eliza Davis attentively noticed the brother-in-law she had known for three decades. Like other watchful observers, she detected the emotional and physical impact of his presidential duties. Eliza judged him “sadly changed,” thinner than usual and affected by mood swings, “at times cheerful & again depressed.” Although he could receive bad news stoically, “without the slightest evidence of feeling beyond a change of color,” contemplating reversals and failures could make him “gloomy.” Eliza was also bothered by the unending stream of callers that made it impossible for him “to take his meals in peace.” Varina remembered that when he ate under “any excitement,” dyspepsia flared, afflicting him for days.95
For Jefferson Davis the official business that both buoyed and dispirited him was never far away. As 1861 drew to a close, he made ready for the final session of the Provisional Congress scheduled to convene in mid-November. As with all his congressional messages, this one was carefully prepared, with the cabinet fully consulted. In a confident tone the chief executive touched upon many items from the Post Office Department to financial matters, but he concentrated on three topics—the military effort; diplomatic goals; and the enemy.
Upon Confederate armies he heaped great praise. They had defeated the Federals on battlefields from Virginia to Missouri and had halted the northern invasion. He also asserted that substantial progress had been made in arming and equipping the fighting men, who were now better able to confront their opponents. For this improvement he credited both the government and private ventures, though he hastened to add that these advances must continue. “If we husband our means and make a judicious use of our resources,” he informed the solons, “it would be difficult to fix a limit to the period during which we could conduct a war against the adversary whom we now encounter.”
In addition, he told the legislators that the administration was ardently pursuing diplomatic recognition by foreign countries. He believed recognition would result in assistance for raising the blockade. To that end, he said, the government was actively engaged in proving to foreign nations that because of its porousness, the blockade was ineffectual under international law. Delivering this message in the midst of the Trent crisis, the president expressed optimism that the Confederates would realize their diplomatic goals. Even so, he proclaimed that “the successful prosecution of the war” did not necessitate ending the blockade because the Confederacy could redirect its economy and become “more and more independent of the rest of the world.”
Davis reserved harsh words for his foes. In his judgment, the war waged against the Confederacy had become “barbarous.” The Union had “bombarded undefended villages” and participated in “arson and rapine, the destruction of private houses and property, and injuries of the most wanton character even upon non-combatants,” especially along the Confederate border. He condemned the successful Union naval assault on Port Royal, South Carolina, as designed “to pillage,” and, most frightening, “to incite a servile insurrection in our midst.”
Even facing such a savage adversary, Davis betrayed no doubt about the ultimate outcome of the struggle. After noting the Confederates’ “humble dependence upon Providence … to whose rule we confidently submit our destinies,” he concluded: “Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be free, and we have reason to know the strength that is given by a conscious sense, not only of the magnitude, but of the righteousness of our cause.”96
CHAPTER TWELVE
“The Noblest Cause in Which Man Can Be Engaged”
Presidents of the United States had traditionally hosted public receptions on New Year’s Day, and on his first New Year’s Day as president of the Confederate States, Davis did likewise, opening his White House for all who wanted to come. From 11 a.m. until 3 p.m. on January 1, 1862, Jefferson Davis welcomed callers to the Executive Mansion. Standing just within the parlor fronting the main entrance hall of the house, Davis greeted each visitor, introduced by an aide at his side. Although he received without Varina, kept in her room by illness, Davis’s “hearty cordiality” charmed the guests, “a continuous throng” that kept the president busy shaking hands. “A very large bowl of apple brandy toddy” and the Armory Band helped create a cheerful mood.1
As Davis greeted 1862, he led an infant nation striving for independence, and he commanded armies stretching from the Atlantic coast across the Appalachians to the Mississippi River and even beyond. What a month later he called “war on so gigantic a scale” was surely underway.2
Early in the new year Davis prepared for his inauguration as the first elected president of the Confederate States. The ceremony was set for February 22, birthday of George Washington, the father of the original American republic, whom the Confederates claimed as their own Founding Father. To make the connection as powerful as possible, Davis would give his inaugural address below the great equestrian statue of Washington on the Capitol grounds next to the Virginia statehouse, now the home of the Confederate Congress.
Cold temperatures, dark skies, and heavy rain made for a dismal day. After a morning in his office, Davis with Varina went by carriage from the White House to the Capitol, where he met Vice President Stephens, members of Congress, and the cabinet, along with other dignitaries. Because of the nasty weather, some proposed holding the ceremony inside, but Davis said no. The procession moved out to the statue of Washington, where a platform had been erected and covered with an awning. Despite the downpour and the mud almost ankle-deep, “a dense and eager crowd” jammed every approach to Capitol Square. Observers commented on the multitude of umbrellas, resembling “the appearance of a plantation of immense mushrooms.” A band played “Dixie.”3
Following the invocation, shortly after noon, Davis rose to speak. He did not seem to notice the rain falling directly on the speaker’s stand, but someone quickly held an umbrella over him. Mostly reading from his prepared text, Davis spoke “in a fine manner and with a loud voice.” He began by proclaiming that through the Confederate States “we hope to perpetuate the principles of our revolutionary fathers. The day, the memory, and the purpose seem fitly associated.” That purpose, he explained, was simply “to maintain our ancient institutions.” In order to secure the Confederate cause, Davis “pledge[d] a zealous devotion of every faculty to the service of those who have chosen me as their Chief Magistrate.”4
In his brief remarks Davis emphasized the righteousness of the Confederate mission while he pointed to the “lights” and the “shadows” characterizing the initial year of the Confederate experience. Yet despite the “trials and difficulties,” he had no doubt about the final result of what he termed “this great strife.” Although assured, Davis did not say ultimate victory would come easily; it would require a “determined spirit,” one even greater than already exhibited. “To show ourselves worthy of the inheritance bequeathed to us by the Patriots of the Revolution, we must emulate that heroic devotion which made reverse to them but the crucible in which their patriotism was defined.” In closing he turned to God: “I trustingly commit myself, and prayerfully invoke thy blessing on my country and cause.”
After Davis finished and the cheers ended, the ceremonies continued with the oath of office administered to president and vice president. At the conclusion of the official activities, the band struck up “La Marseillaise.” That evening from 8 to 11 p.m. the president and first lady hosted a reception at the White House. Even though torrents of rain still pelted the city, several hundred well-wishers attended. A reporter noted that Varina performed with “rare grace and unaffected dignity.” Though pale, the president “appeared cheerful and in good spirits.”5
During the late winter and into the summer of 1862, Davis’s spirit would be sorely tested by circumstances all along his far-flung battle lines. In Virginia, he kept in close touch with Joseph Johnston. Occupying the positions he had held since First Manassas, Johnston faced a greatly strengthened Federal army under a new command
er, Major General George B. McClellan. Both Davis and Johnston realized he would have to withdraw to more defensible lines. Summoned by the president, Johnston arrived in Richmond on February 19 to assess his situation. Davis involved the entire cabinet in a lengthy discussion covering a wide range of military topics, from strategy to the technical difficulties in moving heavy guns.6
At the meeting Davis and Johnston agreed the Confederates should pull back, probably all the way to the Rappahannock River, in order to place a significant natural barrier between them and McClellan’s host. At the same time, Davis wanted to salvage as great a quantity as possible of the weapons and other supplies that had been accumulated to support Johnston’s army. Upon leaving the capital, Johnston believed he possessed the authority to withdraw whenever he deemed best. The president certainly concurred, telling his general, “as has been my custom I have only sought to present general purposes & views. I rely on your special knowledge & high ability to effect whatever is practicable in this our hour of need.” But Davis wanted to know what his commander intended. As he had earlier written, “Please keep me fully & frequently advised of your condition, and give me some early information.…” But keeping his commander in chief so apprised of his intentions was not primary for Johnston. He worried about leaks of military information within the administration, and he remained guarded with the president.7
When, on March 13, Johnston informed Davis that he had largely completed his withdrawal behind the Rappahannock, the president was surprised. “I was as much in the dark as to your purposes, conditions, and necessities, as at the time of our conversation on the subject about a month since.” Johnston’s report that he had been forced to destroy a massive quantity of supplies also distressed the president, who knew the difficulty in replacing them. The destruction was not all Johnston’s fault, for a clogged rail line south from Manassas Junction hindered movement. Moreover, poor planning and coordination within various bureaus and the War Department, which Johnston had complained about, contributed to the confusion and inefficiency. Yet Johnston, as senior commander on the spot, could not escape all responsibility for this logistical disaster.8
Despite this unexpected turn of events, Davis had to deal with the present. Once Johnston had established himself south of the Rappahannock, Davis again journeyed to see his general at Johnston’s headquarters near Fredericksburg. On March 22 they talked and even reconnoitered Federal positions north of the river. President and general on horseback began to ford the river when a dog belonging to their guide’s son followed along. The boy yelled, “Come back Jeff.” Turning in his saddle, Jefferson Davis smiled.9
But more important than dogs or reconnaissances were discussions about McClellan’s intentions and the appropriate Confederate response. Johnston correctly believed that McClellan would not come straight at him, but he did not know precisely how his opponent would attempt to get around him. Using Federal naval superiority, McClellan had decided to turn Johnston’s right flank by taking the water route down the Potomac and on down the Chesapeake Bay all the way to the confluence of the York and James Rivers with the Bay. There he would come ashore and threaten Richmond by advancing up the Peninsula, the land between the rivers. By late March, Davis knew of McClellan’s move, which placed a massive army some seventy-five miles southeast of the capital.10
This maneuver posed a serious problem for Davis and Johnston, who had to decide whether to concentrate all their forces to oppose McClellan or to leave contingents elsewhere to guard against other Union forces, particularly the sizable group left behind at Fredericksburg. The numerical disparity made the situation even more desperate. McClellan commanded more than 100,000 men on the Peninsula; 40,000 remained at Fredericksburg. Johnston had little more than 40,000 in his main army and around 12,000 men in McClellan’s path along the James and York Rivers. In western Virginia almost 20,000 Confederate troops were in and around the Shenandoah Valley.
To make the critical decision on how to meet this crisis, President Davis on April 14 held an all-day council of war in Richmond. He hosted Johnston and two of his generals along with the secretary of war and Robert E. Lee, once again Davis’s military adviser. Johnston urged concentration at Richmond of all forces in Virginia reinforced by all available units from the Carolina-Georgia coast, but he had no interest in fighting McClellan on the Peninsula, which he believed utterly futile. Instead, he wanted to strike northward with the bulk of the newly thrown-together force in a campaign beyond the Potomac, leaving a garrison to protect Richmond. Davis and Lee raised serious questions. They saw no guarantee that McClellan would follow Johnston without first marching into Richmond and then following with his vastly superior numbers. They were unwilling to risk the capital and the army. The capital was also endangered from the south, for the enemy had successfully invaded the North Carolina coast at Roanoke Island, only 100 miles below Richmond. Besides, Lee thought the Peninsula a good place to fight because the restricted land space could work to the Confederate advantage. He also worried that stripping the coast would result in the fall of Savannah and Charleston.
Davis sided with Lee: the Confederates would fight on the Peninsula. Although Johnston would not get all the reinforcements he wanted, the president did give him the troops in northern and eastern Virginia and did begin bringing up individual units from the Carolinas. By May, Johnston commanded the largest army yet assembled by his government, around 70,000 men. Still, Johnston’s pessimism remained; he saw no way he could stop McClellan’s juggernaut. He simply did not believe he could operate successfully on the ground assigned.11
Turning toward the West offered Jefferson Davis no relief. Although he had absolute confidence in Sidney Johnston, the general was deeply concerned about the means available to defend his vast front extending from the Appalachians westward across the Mississippi. Johnston centered his line in central Kentucky because of the state’s political and military importance, but a determined Federal push in several locations, particularly up the rivers leading into the southern interior, could unhinge his position. To plead for more resources, he had written a letter early in 1862 and sent it by a staff officer to Davis. As Davis read the message on January 14, the officer remembered the president’s features contracting as he exclaimed, “My God!” He explained that he would do what he could but could send neither sufficient arms nor sufficient men to Johnston because he did not have them. Moreover, every other commander was making identical demands. Johnston would have to raise troops in Tennessee. “We commenced this war without preparation,” Davis concluded, “and we must do the best we can with what we have.”12
The next news from the West was even worse. In early February a combined army-navy Federal force advanced up the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers under the direction of a determined, compact general, with the cigar stuffed in his mouth seemingly a permanent part of his anatomy. Just south of the Kentucky-Tennessee border, Ulysses S. Grant assaulted and captured Forts Henry and Donelson, the respective guardians of the two rivers. The Confederates mounted a futile, and at Donelson an embarrassing, defense, with almost the entire force there surrendered. Grant’s success made Sidney Johnston’s position in Kentucky untenable and Nashville, on the Cumberland, indefensible. Johnston had to retreat all the way through Tennessee into northern Mississippi. His entire front caved in. This catastrophe was compounded in far-off northwestern Arkansas, where in early March at Pea Ridge the major Confederate army west of the Mississippi suffered a severe defeat. Reconquering Missouri became a distant hope.13
The rapid and unexpected collapse of Johnston’s front occasioned a great public outcry. The concomitant fall of Nashville and the news that the garrison at Fort Donelson had surrendered without trying harder to fight its way out fueled the clamor. Letters poured in to the president about the calamity, including one from the Tennessee congressional delegation. Some writers begged Davis to take command in the field to salvage the cause. This hammer blow affected the president personally. A cabinet member
reported him “distressed and almost gloomy.” The capitulation at Fort Donelson especially perplexed him; he could not understand Confederates giving up without fighting. Although he had no intention of altering his role by taking active command of a field army, he understood the import of what he described to Joseph as “recent disasters in Tennessee.” He realized he would have to exert every effort to “retrieve our waning fortunes in the West,” lest support for the Confederacy in that region decline precipitously.14
In this bleak time Davis still clutched one certainty, the ability of Sidney Johnston. To his favorite soldier he penned a consoling message, yet one acutely perceptive about the war he was waging and the country he was leading. “We have suffered great anxiety because of recent events in Ky. & Tenn.,” he admitted, “and I have been not a little disturbed by the repetitions of reflections upon yourself.” While eagerly awaiting Johnston’s full report, the president wrote, “I made for you such defense as friendship prompted, and many years of acquaintance justified.” Still, he went on, “I needed facts to rebut the wholesale assertions made against you to cover others, and to condemn my administration.”
The political veteran told his general the public did not understand the military situation because it believed Johnston’s force much stronger than it actually was. The Confederate game of bluff had been working on the home front as well as against the Federals. But now “a full development of the truth is necessary for future success.” Informing Johnston that he must not protect anyone out of generosity, Davis stressed that “the question is not personal, but public in its nature.” As he would so often do, Davis maintained he could absorb adverse blows, and he was certain Johnston could as well, but he underscored that “neither of us can willingly permit detriment to the country.”15
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