by Bruce Catton
For the British reaction to what Captain Wilkes had done was quick and spirited—inevitable, in a nation conditioned to believe that no outlanders could ever molest a merchantman flying the British flag. Trent reached Southampton on November 27, and when its news reached London a wave of indignation ran from the cabinet through Parliament and the newspapers to the man in the street. Earl Russell considered the seizure “an act of violence … an affront to the British flag and a violation of international law,” and Lord Palmerston informed Queen Victoria that her government “should be advised to demand reparation and redress.” The British admiral on the North American station was warned to get ready for trouble, and 8000 soldiers were ordered off to Canada. (It was reported that as one transport left the Mersey a regimental band played “Dixie.”) There was uproar in the dignified Reform Club when the news came in; members became “violent, demonstrative and outrageous,” and an ordinarily peaceful member of Parliament declared that if the insult were not atoned for “he would recommend the British colors to be torn to shreds and sent to Washington for the use of the Presidential water closets.” One Englishman wrote to Seward that if the country were polled “I fear that 999 men out of 1,000 would declare for immediate war.”11
Charles Francis Adams was not in London at the time. He was spending a few days at Frystone, the home of Richard Monckton Milnes, one of the few upper-class Britishers who was showing friendship to the American minister, and, on November 27, Mr. Adams and his host, with others, had gone forth in a chilly drizzle to inspect Pomfret Castle, historic scene of the murder of Richard II. Around midday Adams received a telegram from the American Legation, announcing the news, and he retained his correct Bostonian composure even though his reflections on what might come of Captain Wilkes’s act “prevented me from thinking much of historical associations.” His host offered to get him back to London at once, but Mr. Adams replied that all things considered he would like to stay at Frystone a day or two longer; right at the moment London was the last place on earth where he wanted to be. Until he heard from Seward and found out what his government was doing, the American minister must be both quiet and inconspicuous. Fortunately, there was no Atlantic cable, and it took about three weeks for London to send a message to Washington and get a reply. There would be a breathing spell in which the current excitement might die down slightly, in which somebody, on one side of the Atlantic or the other, perhaps even on both sides, might have sober second thoughts. The minister would be reserved.
Mr. Adams had no real idea what was happening. He knew that an American warship had been sent to the English channel to intercept the Confederate cruiser Nashville, on which, according to rumor, Mason and Slidell had planned to sail. That a British merchantman instead of a Southern warship had been used, and stopped, struck the minister as calamitous, and it seemed quite likely that the whole thing was in line with Mr. Seward’s aggressive foreign policy, about which the American minister had worried earlier. It was perfectly conceivable that the Secretary now was actually reaching out for that foreign war which had obsessed him so much in the spring. It also seemed to Mr. Adams that American naval officers brought trouble no matter what they did; it was bad when they were too sluggish but it was even worse when they were too active.… Mr. Adams presently returned to London, where he warned the Legation staff that they probably would not be in London more than another month.12
Some of the thoughts which had come to Mr. Adams had occurred also to the British government. It was known that the American naval power had been most anxious to seize Mason and Slidell; it was known, as well, that Mr. Seward was a man of expedients who gained domestic political advantage by being, or by at least seeming to be, strongly anti-British. (It was asserted that when the Prince of Wales visited America in the fall of 1860 Seward had told the Duke of Newcastle that he expected to hold high office very soon and that “it will then become my duty to insult England, and I mean to do so.”) Mr. Adams’s son Henry doubtless reflected general opinion at the Legation when he wrote to his brother: “I consider that we are dished and that our position is hopeless.” The British, he said, certainly meant to make war if it developed that Wilkes’s act reflected the fixed policy of the American government, and he added: “What Seward means is more than I can guess. But if he means war also, or to run as close as he can without touching, then I say that Mr. Seward is the greatest criminal we’ve had yet.” The minister himself remarked that one big reason for the excitement in London was the myth that “Mr. Seward is an ogre fully resolved to eat all Englishmen raw.”13
Actually, Mr. Seward meant no harm. Even before he learned about the stormy times in London he wrote to Mr. Adams pointing out that Wilkes’s act was entirely unauthorized. He also called in General McClellan, the recently appointed general-in-chief, and asked him what the possibilities were in case America should find itself at war with Great Britain. McClellan unhesitatingly replied that if the nation were to fight Great Britain it might as well give up all hope of winning its war with the Southern Confederacy: and Mr. Seward, accepting this professional opinion, remarked that “if the matter took that turn, they” (Mason and Slidell) “must at once be given up.”14 But it might not be easy. Too many Americans applauded the seizure. To climb down would be hard at best, and it would be wholly impossible if the British were too arrogant about it.
Seward’s legal mind was fascinated with the interesting theory by which Captain Wilkes justified the captures. Wilkes pointed out that under international law a nation at war could properly halt a neutral ship in order to seize enemy dispatches. Such dispatches, by general agreement, were contraband of war. Mason and Slidell had carried no dispatches, to be sure, but it seemed to Captain Wilkes that they themselves were the very embodiment of dispatches, since they were charged to the ears with instructions, messages, arguments, and high state secrets. As living dispatches, then, they were, by a curious inversion of Ben Butler’s reasoning in respect to fugitive slaves, contraband of war, and they could in consequence be removed legally from a neutral ship on the high seas. If this theory were accepted, Captain Wilkes had made only one mistake: he should have seized the Trent and brought the ship into an American port for adjudication by a prize court. The convolutions of this part of the argument led Mr. Adams to remark dryly that “Great Britain would have been less offended if the United States had insulted her a great deal more.”15
The whole Trent affair was a sea lawyer’s dream anyway. Not only was there this fascinating theory put forward by Captain Wilkes; under everything there was a fact which was bound to embarrass both governments if they let themselves think about it. Half a century earlier they had made war upon one another, at least partly because Great Britain then insisted on doing what America had done now and because America then fought to uphold the position now taken by the British. The whole business of the right of search and seizure at sea was mixed up in it; as the world’s greatest sea power, Britain might not be too happy to fight in order to restrict that right. (France and other nations were openly disapproving Captain Wilkes’s act because they did want that right restricted.) On the other hand, America’s historic defense of the freedom of the seas simply did not have room for a defense of the sort of thing Captain Wilkes had done.
Dangerous as the situation looked, and was, both governments were in fact anxious to keep the crisis below flash point. On November 30 Lord Russell sent to Windsor Castle drafts of the dispatches which the cabinet proposed to send to Washington, the most important of which was a tart demand for reparations and apology, which Lord Lyons must give to Secretary Seward. The Royal Consort, Prince Albert, was unwell; was in fact sickening with the malady which two weeks later would kill him. He studied the drafts that evening, and early the next morning, unable to sleep, he considered their revision. Queen Victoria wrote in her diary that “he could eat no breakfast and was very wretched,” but he composed a memorandum for her (although he felt almost too weak to hold the pen) and this memorandum greatly
changed the tone which the government was about to use. It was in fact an attempt to make it easier for the United States to descend from Captain Wilkes’s high horse if the United States really wanted to remain at peace.
In substance, Prince Albert suggested a rephrasing so that the British ultimatum would express confidence that Captain Wilkes had not acted under instruction, that the United States had not really meant to insult the British flag, and that on due reflection Washington would “spontaneously offer such redress as alone would satisfy this country, viz., the restoration of the unfortunate passengers and a suitable apology.” The note remained stiff enough, to be sure: Mason and Slidell must be released and Washington must say that it was sorry about the whole affair; but there was a strong “let’s not fight” twist to it, an absence of the dictatorial, angry tone which would have made it impossible for any American political leader to give ground. As Seward himself remarked later, when Lord Lyons told him he had a dispatch for him, everything depended on the way it was worded.16
The cabinet accepted the revisions, apparently with a feeling of relief, and the Prince in his turn was happy that the dispatch was to be shorn “of everything which could irritate a proud and sensitive nation.” Lord Russell privately notified Lord Lyons that “the disposition of the cabinet is to accept the liberation of the captive commissioners and to be rather easy about the apology”—adding, however, that an apology by itself would not be enough: the prisoners must also be freed. Lord Lyons, in turn, behaved just as Mr. Adams had been behaving; that is, he kept very quiet. He sent to Lord Russell copies of American newspapers (which were praising Captain Wilkes and generally uttering defiance) with the remark that “to a person accustomed to the strong language of the American press, these articles appear moderate and even subdued in tone.” The London Times man in Washington, the now-famous Bull Run Russell, did report that Mr. Seward was talking in warlike vein, saying “We will wrap the whole world in flames,” but a Washington friend told him to pay no attention: “When Seward talks that way he means to break down. He is most dangerous and obstinate when he pretends to agree a good deal with you.”17
Old General Scott was in Paris, his work in Washington finished, his health atrocious; but he sat down with Thurlow Weed, Seward’s political guide, who was also visiting Europe, and with John Bigelow, the American consul, to pour oil on the troubled seas. Over Scott’s name they produced a public statement saying that America certainly would “regard no honorable sacrifice too great for the preservation of the friendship of Great Britian,” and predicting that Washington would happily free its captives if that would help to “emancipate the commerce of the world.” Scott had a massive reputation in Europe, and the statement helped to reduce the tension. But if his country was to fight the British, Scott wanted to be back home; he broke off his visit and took ship for New York, writing to Seward that “I am returning home to share in perils, without the least hope of being useful,” and adding: “I hope for peace with England, on honorable terms, & a speedy suppression of the rebellion. If not, O that I were 10 or 15 years less aged!”18
In the end it was all settled peaceably. Lord Lyons received the softened dispatch from the British cabinet, consulted Seward, assured him that the document did not breathe forth fire and slaughter, and gave it to him, and on Christmas Day there was a long cabinet meeting at which President Lincoln and his advisers finally agreed that the only thing to do was to free the prisoners. Mr. Lincoln confessed later that “it was a bitter pill to swallow,” but he seems for some time to have felt that Mason and Slidell were white elephants, more difficult to hold than to liberate, and Attorney General Bates stated the obvious truth: to hold the prisoners meant a war with England, and “we must avoid it now and for the plain reason that now we are not able to meet it.” Secretary Seward prepared an elaborate dispatch to be sent to London; it argued the case at substantial length, but pointed out that Wilkes had acted without orders (disavowed, the act need not be apologized for) and closed by announcing that the prisoners “will be cheerfully liberated.” Lord Lyons wrote to Lord Russell saying that in his opinion the British government’s demands had been substantially complied with, and Lord Russell replied that the American words and actions “constitute the reparation which Her Majesty and the British nation had a right to expect.” Mason and Slidell and their secretaries, J. E. MacFarland and George Eustis, were liberated, H.M.S. Rinaldo called at Provincetown, Massachusetts, to pick them up and take them to England, and the case was closed. When the news reached London, Mr. Adams and Mrs. Adams soberly congratulated one another, and the Secretary at the Legation noted that the news was announced between the acts at most London theaters “and the audiences rose like one & cheered tremendously.”19
So it was over, and the moment when Britain might intervene to make the Southern Confederacy independent passed. No one had watched it more closely than Robert E. Lee, who was still trying to find some way to keep the Federals from taking full advantage of what they had won in South Carolina, and he wrote thoughtfully: “We must make up our minds to fight our battles ourselves. Expect to receive aid from no one. Make every necessary sacrifice of Comfort, money and labor to bring the war to a successful issue & then we will Succeed. The cry is too much for help. I am mortified to hear it. We want no aid. We want to be true to ourselves, to be prudent, just, fair & bold. I am dreadfully disappointed at the spirit here. They have all of a sudden realized the asperities of war.… If I only had some veteran troops to take the brunt they would soon rally & be inspired with the great principle for which we are Contending.”20
5: Revolutionary Struggle
The silver lining slowly disappeared, and as 1861 drew toward its end the Confederate capital showed a queer blend of lingering optimism and rising pessimism. On the surface things still looked good, and Varina Davis noted that most politicians, taking eventual European recognition for granted, were planning to join in the scramble for high office which would follow the attainment of full independence. The Richmond Examiner, mixing bile with insight, remarked that the Confederacy had passed its hour of greatest peril, the time in which it might have been overwhelmed before it could raise an army or prepare its defenses, and asserted: “If we are conquered at all now, it must be done by the regular and ordinary means of war, and not by the rush of a vast mob.” Its enemies were contemptible: “The Yankee, always held in supreme contempt abroad as a swindling, low-bred huckster, is now regarded as destitute of courage,” and no British Grenadier or French Zouave could ask for better sport than “hunting the swift-footed antelopes of McClellan.” Still, trouble lay ahead. The Northern peace party had vanished, and Yankee recruits, “however vile and cowardly they may be,” would be dangerous when drilled, organized, and equipped in large numbers. The armies the Confederacy must fight next year would be different from the hordes that had been routed at Bull Run. All in all, the Confederacy must reorganize its own army: “Unless it places it on a different footing from the present, its chance next year will be bad.”1
The same thought had occurred to President Davis. So far, what had been done had been makeshift. Incomplete returns showed that the Confederacy now had 209,000 men under arms, present for duty; 258,000 for an “aggregate present,” which was how the War Department tabulated things when it counted all of the extras. This was an extremely good showing, to be sure; but the Yankees had more than twice that many, and the sobering thing about the Confederate total was that a good half of the soldiers had signed up for twelve-month terms and would be going home in the springtime, when the Yankee hordes would be advancing. It was true that 1861 had brought dazzling victories, but the landscape nevertheless had been darkening. Missouri and western Virginia had been lost, most of the Carolina coast was gone, much of Kentucky was held by the Federals and Tennessee itself was in grave danger. Washington was preparing new amphibious expeditions—one of them, according to indications, aimed at New Orleans, largest city in the South—and the blockade undeniably was begin
ning to bind. Arms were short, and so was money, and a government of sharply limited powers, resting on a jealously guarded concept of states’ rights, might easily find the whole situation hard to control. A friend of the President wrote in his diary: “I have not seen the President apparently so gloomy.”2
As always, Mr. Davis showed a cheerful face to the public. Late in November he assured Congress that what had been done so far “has checked the wicked invasion which greed of gain and the unhallowed lust of power brought upon our soil”; the Confederate States “are relatively much stronger now than when the struggle commenced,” and although privations lay ahead the people could be sustained by “the strength that is given by a conscious sense, not only of the magnitude but of the righteousness of our cause.”3 Yet the President had a special vantage point, from which he could see much which he could not talk about in public; only to his intimates could he discuss the picture in detail.
During the summer the President and his family had moved into the Brockenbrough mansion, on Clay Street at 12th, a tall, pillared dwelling known thenceforward as the White House of the Confederacy. Here, one evening early in December, there was a formal dinner, and after it was over Mr. Davis and a few friends adjourned to a retreat which the President called his “snuggery”—a book-lined room where, relaxing in easy chairs, the men could accept Presidential cigars and could listen to frank talk. In this quiet, pleasant hideaway, Mr. Davis revealed his worries.
The biggest concern was the volunteer army. Not only were many enlistments about to expire; even this early it was obvious that a good many regiments—including, Mr. Davis confessed, some from his own state of Mississippi—would refuse to remain in service. Governors and generals could be blamed, here: governors, because some of them would not co-operate with Richmond on troop recruitment and maintenance, and generals because so few of them were able to handle volunteer soldiers. (Attorney General Thomas Bragg, one of the men present at this little meeting, proudly noted that his brother, Braxton Bragg, was named by Mr. Davis as the only army commander who knew how to manage volunteers and retain their love and respect—a judgment which would call for revision before the war was over.)
