The Confederate Union War

by Alan Sewell

  In those days Charleston had been the South’s center of American nationalism, its leaders cajoling the other colonies to unite in the common effort to drive out the British. After the Revolution it had become the South’s Federalist Party bastion, joining with Northern Federalists in calling upon the national government to put down incipient efforts by the states to defy the national laws they disagreed with. Charleston had even been a center of Southern abolitionist sentiment in those days -- none other than John Fremont had been raised here!

  Rhett deplored those big city commercial interests that promoted nationalism and championed the employment of free labor in industrial concerns. He had dedicated his life to countering these “Anti-Southern” nationalist and abolitionist views. Those views had been in eclipse for the last forty years as plantation slavery had spread across the south. Now he and Yancey were watching them take root again here, the result of mobilizing the Confederate Union for war production as directed by the national government.

  Out in the harbor Rhett and Yancey observed the keels of the ocean-going warships Atlantic and Poseidon being laid down. Nearly five thousand laborers, mostly Negroes, swarmed around the dockyards. The Negroes had been getting “uppity” lately as most of them were slaves whose owners hired them out to the Navy Department for wages. To give them incentive to work productively their owners split their wages with them, putting spending money in the Negroes’ pocket for the first time in their lives.

  “This hiring of Negroes for wages is going to lead to serious trouble,” Yancey complained. “Niggers get money in their pockets and they think they’re as good as Whites. Just this morning a buck Nigger shoved me as I was leaving the train station. Didn’t say a word, just pushed me out of his way and kept on going. Had alcohol on his breath too.” Yancey shook his head in disgust. “How are we ever going to get those Niggers back to doing their plantation work once they’ve had a taste of city living and city money?”

  “I’m afraid they’ve been hearing of Alex Stephens’ proposal for the National Slave Code,” added Rhett. “Now that I’ve considered his ideas, I do have to confess that I think that some of his reforms are needed --- if for no reason than to quiet down the antislavery agitation against us from the rest of the world. But it’s not a good idea to implement them all at once, and especially not when we just started paying our Negroes for their labor. Let’s take things one at a time. Give somebody too much all at once and you’re going to have problems controlling them. Like you said, it won’t do us a doggone bit of good to whip the Abolitionists in Boston if we lose control over our Negroes in our own homes!”

  Yancey glanced from the harbor to the street below. The National Army had opened a recruiting office cattycorner across the street. The soldiers stationed there were uniformed in the solid blue national colors, not the grey of the South Carolina militia. Yancey pointed to the men.

  “I didn’t like seeing the National Army in Charleston the last time I was here,” he complained, “and I’m even more suspicious of it now. Why can’t Davis fight the war with state militiamen, the way the Constitution requires, to put down a rebellion? You know why they’re raising a national army. It’s because a national army isn’t loyal to the states!”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Davis to use that national army against us if we try to exercise our right of State Sovereignty,” Rhett concurred. “Old Hickory Jackson didn’t hesitate to threaten us with invasion during the Nullification Crisis. Our Southern leaders go to Washington and they start thinking like Yankees. We in the South who honored them with national office become their enemies!”

  Yancey reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Confederate Union notes. “Another thing I don’t like is this damn paper currency. It makes the national government financially independent of the states. They don’t have to ask us to send them our tax receipts any more. They just print the paper notes in whatever amounts they need to fund the war. And the paper is not being accepted by the merchants at par, by the way. When I left Alabama they were selling two pounds of coffee for a dollar in specie and a pound and a half for a dollar Confederate Union note.”

  “That’s going to get them in trouble,” replied Rhett wagging his finger.

  “But it’s the government that’s at fault,” answered Yancey, banging the table for emphasis. “The Constitution only permits the national government to coin money in gold and silver specie. So they violate the Constitution by issuing paper currency and then threaten to prosecute people who refuse to accept it at par with gold? Printing paper currency and then forcing the people to accept it as legal tender at par with gold is a license for the government to steal everything the people own. If that’s not the definition of tyranny then I don’t know what is.”

  “We’re getting to be a country without a Constitution, aren’t we?” asked Rhett rhetorically. “A government that doesn’t respect the rights of the states or the people. The Constitution has become a shillyshally thing of milk and water, just like old Tom Jefferson said it would after the Yankees got through doctoring it.”

  “That’s why we need to let the Yankees go,” implored Yancey. “Even the Border State men aren’t reliable on states rights and slavery as they used to be. Even our truest Southern Rights men are turning against us,” he exclaimed, raising his voice to almost a shout. “And that includes President Jefferson Finis Davis.”

  “He’s just as slick as Douglas ever was in his prime,” echoed Rhett. “When they stuck ‘Confederate’ in front of ‘Union’ they thought they’d patched up the differences between the North and South with mere words.”

  “Yes,” said, Yancey, “‘Confederate Union’ is just another name for the ‘The Yankeefied States of America.’ They’re aiming to consolidate a unitary republic governed from Washington, just like the Yankees always wanted. A unitary republic where the majority can trample on the states and extinguish our domestic institutions. And Davis is their fool.”

  “You’ve touched on the root of the problem,” Rhett answered, turning away from the window and sitting back down on his sofa next to a cluttered pile of old newspapers. “Davis gets his advice from that Yankeefied group of McClellan, Pendleton, and Stanton. He parrots whatever they tell him and the Northern and Border State men in Congress rubber stamp it.”

  “We’ve got to get out from under that gang,” thundered Yancey, his excitement allowing him to ignore another spasm of pain in his kidneys. “That means getting out from under the Republican Abolitionists and the Northern Democrats, which frankly, Davis has made himself a part of.”

  “Then you’re calling for a Secession Convention?” surmised Rhett. “A convention to remove the Deep South from the Confederate Union?”

  “We’ll have to call it a Constitutional Convention until we can get enough Southern Rights men behind us again to make a clean break with the Davis Government,” Yancey explained. “On second thought I suppose we wouldn’t even have to remove ourselves from the Confederate Union if we can amend the Constitution to make it conform to our principles. I don’t know…”

  Yancey’s voice became wistful.

  “Bob, I just want the South to live in peace under a government of our own --- a government of the South, by the South, and for the South. As long as we can have that, then let the Free States go on about their business without us. Let the Border States join them if they favor the Yankees more than us. But if the Border States decide to cast their lot with us, then let’s remain in union with them. I just want a Southern Republic. If the Border States are with us on that, then let them join with us in a new party, a true Southern Rights Party that will wrest control of the government away from the Davis faction. If we can’t get any help from them, then we’ll have to secede and go our own way.”

  Yancey felt the pain shooting through his belly again.

  “I don’t have much time left. If we don’t make this Southern Republic happen now the moment will be lost. Time will pass us by. Davis thinks he’s saving the U
nited Sates by remaking it into the Confederate Union. He’s saving it for the Yankees. The Confederate Union will be their country, not ours.”

  Rhett considered his point a minute before replying.

  “If we do call this convention we’ll have to pack it with true friends of the South so that the Davis men won’t be able to take it away from us by planting their men on the platform committee….”

  “A trick he learned from Douglas at the Charleston Convention last year!” interjected Yancey.

  “Yes,” replied Rhett. “So we’ll have to make sure that our States Right men are invited to the convention before we publicize it. They have to be here before Davis has time to think about sending any of his own people here to head us off. I don’t want the embarrassment of having to refuse seating to the Davis men.”

  “Then let’s start getting together our list of who to invite,” suggested Yancey. “We know we can count on your Governor Pickens and Senator Keitt. Then there’s Governor Brown and Robert Toombs in Georgia. There’s Louis Wigfall of Texas, Ed Ruffin of Virginia, and Albert Brown of Mississippi. Let’s notify them by messenger. There are too many busybodies at the post office and telegraph companies who’ll gossip.”

  “And let’s refer to it as a Political Party Convention,” suggested Rhett. “Those words won’t alarm the Davis Government. The convention will organize our Southern Rights men into a new political party.”

  “A new political party?”

  “Why not? We have no truck with the Davis government. Why should we remain in a party that allows us no voice in its government?”

  “Davis stole my voice!” exclaimed Yancey, remembering how Davis had interrupted him just before he issued his call for secession at last year’s Democratic Party Convention. “All I needed was one more day! Just one more day and we would have had our Southern Republic! We would have been done with the Yankees for now and forever! Just one more day! But, no, Davis had to show up uninvited to unite the party behind Douglas.”

  Yancey shook his head as he remembered the agony of seeing his life’s work destroyed in an instant by Davis delivering the Douglas / Davis Compact to the convention at the very instant when Yancey was scheduled to speak.

  “Our new party will restore your voice,” Rhett assured him. “The party will draft a platform demanding an end to the war, the disbanding of the national army, the postponement of the national slave code, and the suspension of paper currency. If Davis and his faction in Congress don’t abide by these resolutions then we’ll nominate a slate of candidates to run against them in next year’s elections. What do you think we should call our new party?”

  “Hmmmmmmm,” aid Yancey after a moment of reflection. “Why don’t we call it ‘The Confederate Party?’ We are the true Confederates. We’ll call Davis’ men ‘The Consolidationists!’”

  28

  Springfield, Massachusetts, December 2, 1860

  Cump Sherman and Ambrose Burnside walked through the textile warehouse that was being converted into a makeshift factory to replace the Springfield Armory burned by Jeb Stuart’s cavalrymen. Cump, commanding the Department of New England, had called Burnside here to coordinate the defense of what was left of Free State New England. Burnside commanded Rhode Island’s militia. Just as importantly, he owned the Burnside Rifle Company in Providence. The destruction of the Springfield armory and the Colt works elevated Burnsides’ company in importance as one of the Free States’ remaining arms manufacturers.

  The rooms where the salvaged machinery was being cleaned, polished, and lubricated smelled of soot and machine oil. Salvaged rifle barrels and trigger assemblies from the work in process inventory were being cleaned and stacked in rows. Carpenters were scraping the ashes from partially burned rifle stocks. All salvaged parts in passable condition were being assembled into finished rifles. The fire-damaged rifles weren’t pretty, but they would work.

  “We’ll be able to salvage most of the equipment and work-in-process inventory,” said Sherman. He looked at the rows of lathes and drills his men had pulled out of the ruins of the Springfield Armory. “It’s more difficult than you’d think to destroy industrial machinery by arson.”

  “How long do you expect it will take to get back into production?” Ambrose Burnside asked.

  “We’ll be finished with the work-in-process inventory by the end of next week. Then we’ll resume production of new weapons. We’ll be back to full production in about four weeks. The same schedule applies to the Colt Works in Hartford, more or less.”

  “The Confederates accomplished much less in the way of destruction than they expected, then?”

  “They were in too much of a hurry. They burned each manufactory then left. They could have ended production for good and all if they had taken time to haul the machinery out and dump it into the river before they burned the buildings. But that would have taken them a couple days and they were in a hurry to get back to their lines around Boston.”

  Sherman escorted Burnside out of the building and across town to Sherman’s headquarters in the guest house of the owner of the textile warehouse where the weapons were being salvaged. Burnside scanned the horizon as they walked. Looking eastward toward the highlands of the Connecticut River Valley he saw men at work constructing fortifications. Older men were shoveling trenches and piling the dirt up in parapets along the rim of hills ringing the valley. Younger men were positioning field artillery salvaged from the burned armory into gun emplacements that commanded the approaches from the other side.

  Down by the river construction crews were erecting commercial buildings and residential barracks. Many of the buildings had been hastily built with green lumber that was already warping. Cloth had been stuffed between cracks to keep out the wind and rain. Like the salvaged rifles, these buildings were not pretty, but they would do their jobs of housing the refugees from Confederate-occupied New England who were evacuating to Free State lines every day.

  Burnside saw today’s newly arrived refugees standing in the blocks-long line outside of Sherman’s Provost Marshal’s office. Perhaps these people had lived comfortably in Boston until a day or two ago. Now they would be assigned to live in the most humble, drafty quarters shared with many other families. Despite being uprooted from all that was familiar, many were smiling. The bits of conversation that Burnside could pick up were surprisingly cheerful. He decided to talk to some of these people to gauge their motives for coming here.

  “Good day, sir,” he addressed a middle aged head of one of the families who was standing in line. “I am General Ambrose Burnside of Rhode Island. I’d like to welcome you to the United States of Free America. I’m supposing that you arrived here today.”

  “That’s right,” answered the man. “The Confederates are letting anybody who wants to leave their lines go. They took us by train as far as Worcester. Hired a wagon to take us the rest of the way.”

  “May I inquire as to why you decided to join us here?”

  “I’m a carpenter. The work has gotten slow in Boston with the Confederates running the show. Mr. Lincoln’s government says there’s to be no business with the Confederate-occupied territories. The Confederates have been feeding us from their military stores, but I don’t want to live off their charity. I imagine there’s plenty of work here for carpenters.”

  The man’s wife jostled him. “We’re Free State citizens, Beriah. We could never live under the rule of those Confederate slave masters, even if you had all the work you could handle in Boston. We’d rather be here with our people than aliens in an occupied country. Isn’t that so?”

  “I reckon she’s right about that,” replied Beriah. “The Free States are our country.”

  Burnside tipped his hat. “Thank you good folks for coming to join us in making a free country here. I know it wasn’t easy leaving your homes. We will live free here, among our own people, until we grow strong enough to run the Confederates out of Boston. And the more people we have like you, the sooner we will run them ou
t and return to our homes.”

  Sherman and Burnside moved on.

  “The new arrivals are assigned living quarters and work,” explained Sherman. “Most of the healthy young men are volunteering for the army. We’ve got more than we can arm at the moment. We’re putting the mechanics to work building our new armaments foundries. The fellow you talked to is free to engage in civilian trade if he wants to. We do need some of that. People have to have carpenters to make their furniture. They can’t sit on the floors, not even in time of war.”

  “Trade is flourishing,” observed Burnside. “Much more so than I would have expected. There doesn’t seem to be any shortage of merchandise in the stores.” He saw that many Boston merchants had reestablished themselves in the crudely constructed storefronts that sold everything from saddles to canned goods.

  “The first arrivals had time to bring household furnishing and even the inventories of their shops and warehouses here before the Confederates closed their ring around the city,” Sherman explained. “It’s become impossible for us to obtain any thing else from inside the Confederate lines now. Anything we need here from now on we’ll have to make here. Prices might go sky high, but markets have a way of adjusting themselves to that. The government has solved part of that problem by issuing a national currency.”

  “The people here don’t seem to have any difficulty conducting their business in Free State notes,” said Burnside.

  “They’ve made a virtue of necessity,” replied Sherman. “It’s in people’s nature to do business. Since they don’t have enough gold or silver to settle their accounts, they’ve decided that they must conduct their business with greenbacks. Our government was wise to take the gamble of printing the notes in the expectation that people would accept them at par with gold.”