Rebels at the Gate: Lee and McClellan on the Front Line of a Nation Divided (5 page)

“The apathy in Washington is very singular & very discouraging,” McClellan confided to Governor Dennison. “I can get no answers except now & then a decided refusal of some request or other—perhaps that is a little exaggerated, but the upshot of it is that they are entirely too slow for such an emergency, & I almost regret having entered upon my present duty.”

Ignoring the fact that experienced officers were needed elsewhere, McClellan won a number of desirables, including his father-in-law, Randolph Marcy, as chief of staff; the talented Seth Williams as adjutant-general; and no less a mustering officer than Robert Anderson—the heroic defender of Fort Sumter. But one veteran West Point man got no consideration at all. Twice he visited McClellan's headquarters in quest of a staff position and left word, without reply. McClellan knew the man, and likely remembered his reputation as a drinker. The scorned officer was Ulysses S. Grant.
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A twenty-nine-year-old lieutenant of topographical engineers named Orlando Poe had more luck in joining McClellan's staff. Tall and athletic, descended of a legendary Ohio Valley frontiersman, he was sent on a secret reconnaissance into Western Virginia to ascertain “the state of feeling of the inhabitants.” Agents were also sent into Kentucky, under direction of Allan Pinkerton, a Chicago private detective retained to head McClellan's intelligence gathering.
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There was much concern about Kentucky and Western Virginia. Kentucky's undeclared loyalty had already sparked excitement across the river in Cincinnati. Governor Beriah Magoffin had ignored Lincoln's call for volunteers, yet it was known that his militia was gathering. To Kentucky's neighbors, Magoffin's posture of “armed neutrality” was troubling.
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The situation in Western Virginia was even worse. Confederate troops were known to be mustering there. A tenuous truce was in effect until May 23, when citizens voted on an Ordinance of Secession. Virginians were expected to vote their state out of the Union, yet many in the western counties remained loyal. There was no accounting for what the westerners might do.

To a general poring over maps, the strategic importance of Western Virginia was inescapable. Her boundary traced the Ohio River for nearly two hundred fifty miles. Her panhandle thrust like a dagger into the heart of the North—dividing the loyal Union states nearly in two. Confederate forces might pour across her mountain ramparts to rupture the vital Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad or threaten valuable salt works, coalfields, and oil wells on the unguarded frontier.
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Putting aside his maps, General McClellan sifted through letters from loyal Union men bemoaning the state of affairs in Western Virginia. Many urged occupation by Federal troops; others warned that the arrival of Lincoln's soldiers would merely arouse state pride and “throw many wavering men into the rebel ranks.”

Among those demanding action was George R. Latham, a Grafton attorney. Latham had converted his law office into a Federal recruiting station. “Can anything be done for us?” he implored. “We are now enrolling men and drilling every day, collecting such arms as may be had…and preparing for a fight…. The Union men of [Western] Virginia are becoming more firm every day. They want to see secession put down and the leaders hung.” A Wheeling resident agreed: “The people will welcome the presence of U.S. forces. There is
no
doubt on this point.…[T]heir spirit and determination in this regard…furnish incontestable evidence that they are
now ripe
for a movement.”
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Governor Dennison pledged to “defend Ohio beyond rather than on her border.” In response to these developments, McClellan placed artillery on the Virginia line. As he prepared for hostilities, a dispatch arrived from the War Department. McClellan's face registered astonishment at the news: he had been appointed a major general in United States service, then the highest rank in the army. Thirty-four-year-old George McClellan had received the ultimate soldier's honor—only the venerable Winfield Scott outranked him now. It was stunning tribute for one so young.
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McClellan's agents reported much disloyalty across the Ohio River. But the pleas of loyal Virginia Unionists could not be ignored. “My letters from Wheeling,” McClellan informed General Scott, “indicate that the time rapidly approaches when we must be prepared to sustain the Union men there.”
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“
This difficulty is not going to be settled without a fight.”

—Francis H. Pierpont, Virginia Unionist

The election of President Abraham Lincoln in 1860 sparked calls for disunion across the South. A writer in the Richmond
Whig
called it “the greatest evil that has ever befallen this country.” Lincoln, the “Black Republican” candidate, had pledged to halt the further spread of slavery. His stance was deemed a threat to the Southern way of life.

Thus Virginia's General Assembly gathered in extra session on January 7, 1861. “Great excitement prevails in the public mind,” said Governor John Letcher, “and prudence requires that the representatives of the people of this Commonwealth should…determine calmly and wisely what action is necessary in this emergency.” Would Virginia join the Confederate states? “Times are wild and revolutionary here beyond description,” warned one legislator. “I fear the Union is irretrievably gone.”
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A convention of 152 delegates gathered at Richmond on February 13 to decide Virginia's fate. Weeks of debate ensued. Firebrands from the Confederate states of South Carolina, Georgia, and Mississippi stirred passions with eloquent speeches.
“The very air here is charged with the electric thunders of war,” observed a Richmond correspondent. “On the street, at the Capitol, in the bar-room, at the dinner-table, nothing is heard but resistance to the general government.”
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The tone of Lincoln's inaugural speech and unfolding drama at Fort Sumter pushed delegates to act. But loyal Unionists from Western Virginia fought back. The most outspoken of them was Clarksburg attorney John S. Carlile. A native Virginian, former state senator, and member of Congress, Carlile was angular and clean-cut, with a sallow face that belied great resolve. He was passionate, dashing, and magnetic. He was a brilliant orator—dazzling in eloquence and power. A rich, deep voice and “imperturbable coolness” made Carlile the most dangerous Unionist in Richmond. Fearlessly he denounced secession, maddening foes and inducing crowds on the street to burn him in effigy.
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Westerners cheered him on. “We have no interest,” said one, “in a Convention whose object, and sole object…is to make us rebels and traitors to our country…and place us under the unprotected folds of the slimy serpent of South Carolina.” “We have been the ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’ for Eastern Virginia long enough,” thundered the editor of the
Western Virginia Star
, “and it is time that section understood it.” If Virginia chose to unite with the Confederacy, westerners called for a new state “independent from the South, and firm to the Union.”
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President Lincoln's call for troops on April 15 outraged Virginia secessionists. The mood in Richmond grew ominous. Bonfires blazed in the public square. Thugs spilled into the streets, ripped down National flags, and hoisted secession banners in their place. Angry mobs packed the convention galleries to boo and hiss as Unionists tried to speak.
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The Richmond convention abruptly went into secret session. On the morning of April 17, former governor Henry A. Wise sealed Virginia's fate.

Wise drew a large Virginia horse-pistol from his bosom, laid it on the desk before him, and proceeded to harangue the delegates
in a “most violent and denunciatory manner.” His flowing locks danced wildly. His glaring eyeballs bulged from their sockets. The theatrics were shocking, and hypnotic. Wise cried out that events were transpiring that “caused a hush to come over his soul.” Flourishing a pocket watch, he gazed at the hands and declared that the hour had come for Virginia to assert her rights. With bated breath, Wise intoned that state forces—under direction of the ex-governor himself—were marching on the Federal armory at Harpers Ferry and the United States naval yard at Norfolk. Virginia was at war!
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By day's end, the Richmond convention voted eighty-eight to fifty-five to approve an Ordinance of Secession. “I cannot describe to you the terrible solemnity of the closing scenes of the convention,” recalled delegate George Porter. “It was the darkest hour I ever saw. Men wept like children. Our country is hopelessly ruined.”

Western delegates had voted overwhelmingly against the ordinance. Now the most vociferous among them feared for their lives. Axe-wielding secessionists stormed the Capitol, toppled its flagpole, and tied the Stars and Stripes to a horse's tail. A lynch mob descended on John Carlile's boarding house as he fled the city.
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Richmond's “Secession” convention promptly aligned with the Confederate States of America. Western delegates scrambled home to continue the fight. If the Richmond traitors could secede from the Union, westerners threatened to secede from Virginia.
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Ever loyal to the Stars and Stripes, they talked of a new government and a new state. Richmond had never supported them—this was only the latest slander in a century of eastern tyranny. It was time for citizens of the west to look out for themselves. To protect the helpless and sustain the Lincoln government, they would rend Virginia in two.

Mass meetings were called. A gathering on April 22 in Clarksburg, Western Virginia, brought out nearly twelve hundred people. John Carlile fired up the crowd. The citizens of each county were urged to select five or more “of their wisest, best, and discreetest men” as delegates to counteract the Richmond convention.
The “Clarksburg Resolutions” were widely distributed—news of the secession vote at Richmond outraged loyal Unionists.
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But the sentiment in Western Virginia was far from unanimous. Only days after the Clarksburg mass meeting, “Southern Rights” advocates gathered in that town to endorse the Secession Ordinance. Loyalty was divided even in counties bordering the Ohio River. A Parkersburg newspaper predicted that Lincoln's “treachery” would cause the people of Western Virginia to “repudiate Unionism.”
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On Monday, May 13, 1861, a convention of Unionists met in Wheeling. It was a proceeding of dubious legality. Attending were more than four hundred delegates from twenty-seven counties. Some had been chosen at public forums, others had been picked by irregular means—even at secret gatherings in the dead of night. The delegates traveled to Wheeling at their own peril.
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Nonetheless, Wheeling was a safe venue. Located on the Ohio River in the panhandle far northwest of Richmond, it was Western Virginia's largest city with fourteen thousand residents. Wheeling was one of the few population centers in the state with an overwhelming majority of Unionists. It was a major manufacturing hub. Large numbers of immigrant workers gave the city a decidedly northern flavor.
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The Wheeling convention sparked intense curiosity. Reporters attended from New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, and other northern cities. The town was decked out in patriotic splendor—flags by the hundreds waved from the streets. Bands blared as throngs of visitors arrived by steamboat and train in a “spectacle to stir the blood.”

The convention opened at Washington Hall; inside, a large stage decorated with bunting overlooked the eager, fluttering mass. Grafton attorney George Latham was made temporary secretary and recorded debate. The bombastic John Carlile rose to call for action. Ignoring arguments that the convention lacked authority, he sought no less than a new state government to shield the people of Western Virginia from the “rattlesnake flag” of the Confederacy.
The convention promptly split into two factions: those advocating deliberation until the May 23 referendum on Virginia secession, and those seeking—without delay—a new state.
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Carlile spoke as chief advocate for division of the state. A large banner with the inscription “New Virginia, now or never” served as his backdrop. “Let this Convention show its loyalty to the Union, and call upon the government to furnish them with means of defense, and they will be furnished,” he exclaimed. “There are 2,000 Minnie muskets here now; and more on the way, thank God.

“Let us act; let us repudiate these monstrous usurpations; let us show our loyalty to Virginia and the Union at every hazard. It is useless to cry peace when there is no peace; and I for one will repeat what was said by one of Virginia's noblest sons and greatest statesmen, ‘Give me liberty or give me death!'” Delegates responded with thunderous cheers.
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On May 14, Carlile offered a resolution calling for the dismemberment of thirty-two Virginia counties to form a new state. His plan acknowledged Federal law regarding the creation of a new state from the territory of an existing one. A committee would be appointed to draft a constitution and form of government for “the State of New Virginia.”
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