The human heart is the starting point in all matters pertaining to war.
—Maurice de Saxe
On the day after Christmas, Halleck telegraphed Burnside about a possible enemy advance in the Shenandoah Valley; he considered it “probable” that the Confederates “will take advantage of the inactivity of the Army of the Potomac” to march toward Harpers Ferry. To Burnside the implied rebuke must have cut deeply even though he was already planning a new campaign. A cavalry expedition commanded by Brig. Gen. William Woods Averell would cross the Rapidan and Rappahannock, slide around Lee’s left, and cut the rail line to Richmond. Averell would advance with a “thousand picked men,” both Regular and volunteer cavalry, along with four artillery pieces and twenty engineers. Troopers would gallop toward the James River Canal east of Richmond and also strike at the Petersburg Railroad. With additional cavalry and infantry supporting these maneuvers, Burnside intended to cross the bulk of his army below Fredericksburg, though exactly where remained uncertain.1 The plan was complicated and perhaps unworkable, as it required the coordinated movement of detached forces over a wide area. Given the skepticism of many officers and enlisted men in the aftermath of Fredericksburg and the factiousness, in some cases bordering on disloyalty, among Burnside’s generals, the odds against success were long.
By December 27, detachments of cavalry, artillery, and infantry had left their camps. Some soldiers still anticipated going into winter quarters, expressed doubts about a new campaign, and expected the orders to be rescinded; others believed the unseasonably fine weather was perfect for such a movement. The first advance toward the upper fords of the Rappahannock and the Rapidan appeared to go well, but confusion about roads, the effects of wading through cold water, and shivering in chilly bivouacs with little food hardly made the men hopeful of success. The fear of being led into another slaughter like Fredericksburg dogged the march. A Massachusetts lieutenant in the Sixth Corps considered the entire movement a “desperate effort, in the dark, to retrieve his [Burnside’s] fortunes by one who does not know what he is about, and I think the first idea of its feasibility . . . that Burnside will get will be when he sees his shattered army drowning in the Rappahannock.”2
Unfortunately such attitudes extended much further up the chain of command. Around Hooker’s headquarters, open criticism of Burnside poisoned the atmosphere. Fighting Joe, according to one artillery colonel, “talked as wildly as ever in condemnation of everybody.” At a lavish Christmas dinner, staff officers toasted the general as the Army of the Potomac’s next commander, and while feigning humility and embarrassment, Hooker promised in true mock heroic style to do everything in his power to crush the rebellion.3
Why Burnside had not been shelved baffled several generals, and the loss of faith among the high command grew palpable. A staff officer summarized what was rapidly hardening into conventional wisdom: “Burnside says he has no confidence in himself as commander of the army—can the Army then have confidence in him?”4 Discontent pervaded the Left Grand Division, undoubtedly fanned by indiscreet remarks from Franklin and Baldy Smith. Again Burnside lacked powerful friends inside or outside the army, and so Hooker, the darling of radicals such as Chase and Chandler, openly maneuvered against him while diehard McClellanites freely sniped away.
In the Sixth Corps, Brig. Gen. John Newton had run out of patience. An illustrious West Point graduate, fine engineer, and capable general, Newton had complained even before the battle that the promotion policies in the Army of the Potomac gave more weight to seniority than to performance and had asked to join the Banks expedition. Only days after Fredericksburg one of Newton’s division commanders, Brig. Gen. John Cochrane, wrote to Chase criticizing Halleck and Stanton. Cochrane had been a prominent New York Democrat for nearly thirty years, and even though he praised McClellan’s old friends Franklin and Smith, he sounded more and more like a radical Republican as he warned the treasury secretary that the army had lost faith in Burnside.5
Both generals had informally discussed the army’s low morale with Franklin and Smith, and none of the four approved Burnside’s proposed flanking maneuver. Newton asked for leave to visit Washington—in itself an unusual request with the army preparing to move again—and vaguely told his superiors that he planned to meet with powerful members of Congress. Cochrane also expected to confer with congressmen and perhaps Lincoln. The two generals reached the capital on the afternoon of December 30, but because Congress was in holiday recess, Cochrane proceeded to the Executive Mansion hoping to see the president. He ran into Seward, who arranged for an interview.6
The conversation began awkwardly. Fearing to appear openly insubordinate, Newton hesitated to tell Lincoln that even privates had given up on Burnside, and so he proceeded cautiously and indirectly, all the while assuring the president that he had no intention of interfering with military operations. Here was more bad news to try Lincoln’s patience, and he naturally suspected both generals of slandering Burnside and perhaps lobbying for a change in commanders. Newton described the army as dispirited, suggesting that the latest campaign plan could end in disaster, while letting the president draw his own conclusions about Burnside. A recent spate of resignations and desertions, Newton suggested, pointed to serious demoralization. With fervid protestations about unsullied patriotism and pure motives, the wily Cochrane added that he had overheard lower-ranking officers saying they would never cross the Rappahannock again. Lincoln quietly thanked the generals for the information but said little.7
This disquieting meeting had confirmed what the president had feared all along: the Army of the Potomac remained factious with the pernicious McClellan influence all too apparent. “I have good reason for saying you must not make a general movement of the army without letting me know,” Lincoln tersely instructed Burnside. So just as Hooker reported his troops in motion, the entire plan was scrapped.8
For security reasons and likely to avoid responsibility himself, Halleck had earlier asked that details of any plans not be sent by telegraph, so it must have surely baffled Burnside to learn that the president had somehow gotten wind of the impending movement. Adding to the frustration, Averell enthusiastically reported his troops ready to splash through the fords should Burnside manage to change the president’s mind. Many officers and soldiers must have been relieved to learn that the movement had been aborted. Burnside would have to sort all this out and determine just where he stood with the administration; on the last day of 1862 he boarded a steamer bound for Washington.9
At their meeting that afternoon, Lincoln told Burnside about the recent visitors without naming names. Shocked and infuriated to hear that two subordinates had scuttled his plans, Burnside would later barely recall the rest of the conversation. He described for the president the proposed thrust across the river, but Lincoln wished to consult with Halleck and Stanton before approving such a move. When Burnside pointedly asked which generals had gone behind his back, the president refused to say. Even the mild-mannered Burnside heatedly suggested that such men be dismissed from the service but acknowledged that if the country lacked confidence in his abilities, he would resign. In an obvious fit of pique, he added that neither the army nor the country had much faith in Stanton or Halleck.10
Burnside returned to Willard’s Hotel and as was his wont worked into the early morning hours, this time drafting a letter essentially repeating what he had said earlier to the president. “I cannot conscientiously retain the command,” he declared, “without making an unreserved statement of my views.” Burnside readily admitted that not a single grand division commander had endorsed his latest campaign plan and again offered to resign. Early the next morning as the president was eating breakfast, Burnside, Halleck, and Stanton arrived for yet another meeting. Burnside handed his letter to Lincoln, who read and returned it without comment. With his usual candor Burnside repeated his statement about a general loss of confidence not only in himself but also in Halleck and Stanton. Whether he suggested that the secretary of war and the general in chief resign is unclear; in any case Lincoln ducked that question, and so the conversation drifted onto a discussion of strategy. Given the lack of support among his own generals, Burnside naturally wished for “some encouragement” from the administration if he were to cross the Rappahannock again and remarked that Halleck should “at least... sanction the move.” But the meeting ended without a decision, and to the president it seemed that no one would take any responsibility.11
Over a three-day period Lincoln had faced two insubordinate generals, conferred with a faltering army commander, and heard nothing but evasive statements from his military advisers. Halleck’s passivity had been especially annoying. In a sharply worded letter to the general in chief, Lincoln’s usually well-controlled temper suddenly exploded. Noting that Burnside planned to cross the Rappahannock again but that the grand division commanders remained opposed, the president gave Halleck a brief lecture on responsibility: “If in such a difficulty as this you do not help, you fail me precisely in the point which I sought your assistance.” Halleck should accompany Burnside “to the ground, examine it as far as practicable, confer with officers, getting all the elements for forming a judgment of your own.” He must then tell Burnside whether he approved or disapproved of the campaign plan. Pulling no punches, Lincoln closed with a sentence that lacerated Halleck: “Your military skill is useless to me if you will not do this.” At a New Year’s reception held at Stanton’s house, the secretary of war handed Lincoln’s letter to Halleck. The hurt and outraged general in chief immediately submitted his resignation, but Lincoln, perhaps thinking better of a shake-up in the high command at this delicate time, withdrew his note.12 Chronic cabinet divisions and now a blowup among his chief military advisers boded ill for the future of the Army of the Potomac.
The mood in the country had turned equally sour. “Many are very bitter against him [Burnside],” the wife of Michigan’s Republican governor noted, “and even rejoice over the defeat.” The weight of failure, high taxes, depreciating money, and so many deaths depressed many people, as even faithful Republicans sadly conceded. Fredericksburg had been a “wet blanket” on the home front, a recruiting officer reported. “Some [people] are discouraged, others angry at somebody they dont know who.” So pervasive had the despair become that even the staid Scientific American published an editorial blaming the generals and politicians for the nation’s woes.13
Burnside returned to Falmouth a sadder and angrier man. Back in camp he learned that the details of his plans had somehow leaked out there as well, and he swore to find out who had gone to Lincoln behind his back. The trip to Washington had done nothing to solve the dilemma. Burnside favored a campaign that his generals opposed and the government refused to endorse.14
These developments drove Hooker’s stock higher, especially when he unexpectedly journeyed to Washington in early January. Loose talk with reporters about his distrust of Burnside and readiness to assume command only fueled speculation that the change would come soon. Hooker knew the value of newspaper puffery but also disclaimed military ambition, at least when he chatted with other generals. Even a colonel serving under Franklin who had never set eyes on Hooker remarked on his reputation as an unscrupulous intriguer.15
Dissension at the top inevitably trickled down into the ranks. An orderly in Hancock’s division dismissed the entire Army of the Potomac as a “gigantic humbug” filled with partisan cliques. Complaints about self-promoters who would sacrifice lives to advance or destroy careers made for bitter camp-fire conversations. “The cabinet ought to be drawn up in line and shot by a file of Greeley’s Negroes,” a McClellan supporter raged. Too many officers, according to one widespread complaint, cared only for their pay and the bottle, and indeed a lull in campaigning always offered more chances to lobby for promotions.16
Unfortunately for Burnside, much of this desultory grumbling focused on the army’s apparently rudderless state. “We need a leader” became the familiar cry. Where was the Napoleon for this crisis? In New York the McClellan crowd replied, and calls for Little Mac’s return grew louder. Without the right commander, a Massachusetts colonel groaned, “the Star Spangled Banner sounds like a wail to me.” Reading about William S. Rosecrans’s success at Stones River, soldiers naturally wondered why the powers that be could not find a general to match Lee in the eastern theater.17
Good news from the West briefly lifted spirits in Washington and across the northern states. Perhaps the post-Fredericksburg clouds would soon disappear, and certainly some soldiers showed remarkable resilience. Lt. Col. William Franklin Draper of the 36th Massachusetts perceptively commented on how his own attitude had improved since he wrote a despairing letter right after the battle. Maybe Burnside could not lead the boys to victory, but he wondered whether any general could really manage such a large army.18
Scores of men, however, feared the South was winning. The old saw that fighting could never end the war still echoed through the camps. Not only did soldiers admit that they had lost their patriotism, but a few suffered from a corrosive nihilism. Contemplating the impossibility of defeating Lee, much less taking Richmond, a Connecticut volunteer described his comrades as thoroughly “disheartened and sick of the war.”19
The effects of Fredericksburg hung over the camps like a heavy fog, deeply penetrating into the bone and sinew and heart of the army. A common fantasy centered on being taken prisoner in some bloodless skirmish and then being exchanged and paroled. Soldiers admitted they were unable to shake off depressing memories. After reading press reports that attempted to gloss over the slaughter, a member of the 11th Pennsylvania Reserves fired off an angry letter to his hometown paper questioning Burnside’s abilities and noting how his outfit remained in “wretched and ragged condition.”20
* * *
Disgruntled soldiers rightly linked despair over the strategic situation to physical hardships because military readiness and material comfort often went hand in glove. Despite steady improvement in the supply situation since the first days of confusion and chaos after the battle, nothing could stop the usual grousing about food. “The boys are most crasey for fear we shall have to giv thoes rebs another hack,” a New Hampshire soldier wrote home, “but that is the least that troubles me as long as I can get enough to eat.” Advising his brother to “steer clear” of the army, a member of the Iron Brigade added that “a good soldier cares more for a good meal than he does for all the glory he can put in a bushel basket.”21
To soldiers subsisting on little but hardtack, pork, and coffee for a year or more, even desiccated vegetables had their charms. They made “queer tasting” soup that “smells very strong,” a Michigan soldier commented. The good Lord only knew what was in the stuff; roots, dirty pieces of unidentifiable plant matter, and even sand hardly made for a savory meal. Gobbling up fried hardtack from less-than-sanitary utensils, a Maine chaplain thought it best to keep “eyes shut” and remember “it is all for our country.”22 But the spirit of patriotic sacrifice had worn thin.
Reports of widespread illness and unhealthy camps persisted despite improvements in shelter and food. Letterman estimated the rate of sickness for January 1863 at 8 percent, remarkably low by his lights, but many soldiers knew that there were many more men unfit for duty.23 Regiments able to muster fewer than 300 men and companies reduced to a pathetic score all bespoke the staggering and unanticipated costs of the war. For once sheer numbers meant a great deal as soldiers sadly noted how many comrades in bright new uniforms had enlisted on some cheerful morning that now seemed so long ago and how few remained in the ranks.24 The on-again, off-again campaign plans forced surgeons to prepare to move patients on short notice, and despite the construction of more hospitals near Aquia Creek, transporting the most serious cases raised the mortality rate.25
Whatever the actual numbers, January camp deaths loomed large to the soldiers. Days when several noble boys breathed their last became memorable, especially when bodies lay unburied. Between January 2 and 15 a sergeant in the 122nd Pennsylvania counted the deaths of seven comrades.26 Lively, fun-loving fellows suddenly fell ill and were gone. A New York surgeon thought of men who had once occupied places of wealth and position at home now lying cold “with nothing but a blanket and mother earth over them.” Other soldiers mused on how the Lord called his servants home without warning, like a “thief in the night,” as the Bible said. “I have got So used to the dead March that [I] due not mind it any more,” a Pennsylvanian told his wife.27
Volunteers built cracker-box coffins for what seemed like daily funerals; makeshift headboards or a sealed bottle with a scrap of paper listing the victim’s name, regiment, and home address marked the graves. Services were brief: “the slow march, the arms reversed, the muffled drum, the piercing fife, the dirge . . . platoon fire over the grave, the quickstep march back to camp, two left to close the grave, and all is done.” Soldiers witnessed so many funerals that in their minds Virginia became one vast graveyard, sacred ground that could never be surrendered to the Rebels.28 Deaths of friends and comrades might redouble some soldiers’ determination but more often dispirited companies and regiments.
In an age dependent on sketchy, inaccurate newspaper accounts and sometimes long-delayed letters, the desire to know that one’s loved ones were safe could never be satisfied. Given the uncertain military situation, camp hardships, and all too frequent deaths, soldiers valued letters more than ever. The absence of mail sent morale plummeting, but nothing could brighten a day more than news from home. Tearing open a letter, especially from a wife or mother, brought tears to the eyes of hardened campaigners. Especially after Fredericksburg, soldiers needed to know that the home folks still cared about their sufferings. According to one officer, the distribution of mail became the “event of the day” to “us, poor devils, in the Virginia mud, in canvas houses.”29
Of all the problems that plagued both armies, the pangs of loneliness hit some men the hardest. To recall a loving wife or playful child added to the sense of dull dissatisfaction if not outright despair that hung over an army in winter. Even sweet reveries suddenly became frightening. One night a New York sergeant dreamed of coming home only to find his wife indifferent to him and ready to take the hand of a well-dressed gentleman riding in a fancy carriage. Although he claimed that the smoke hurt his eyes as he wrote about this nightmare, he could not help but cry. Men whose minds drifted to domestic scenes also had to battle sometimes uncontrollable terror. Given all that he had seen, a New Hampshire sergeant confessed that he most feared being horribly wounded. Admonitions to bravery emanating from both home and camp could not ease such anxieties. Husbands and wives, though they seldom admitted it to each other, sometimes doubted their spouse’s fidelity, and talk of purity and faithfulness could not conceal worries on that score.30
A vivid imagination could thus be a mixed blessing, but many men enjoyed picturing what their loved ones might be doing at home. Knowing that their families worried and prayed helped soldiers go about their daily tasks, no matter how mundane. Distance encouraged men and women to idealize one another. A Massachusetts officer warmly praised his wife for becoming the mainstay of the local soldiers’ aid society. Less-than-perfect husbands naturally claimed to be changed men, and whatever the truth of such statements, many had grown to appreciate domestic life. “Home, how well we know how to estimate the value of that little word,” a Pennsylvania lieutenant confessed to his wife. “It means all that men care for. Glory and honor sink into insignificance alongside . . . all its endearments.”31
Yet home remained far away, and that irreducible fact added to the psychological strain of soldiers who found little diversion as they nervously waited for generals to decide on the army’s next move. Soldiers naturally dreaded word of family illness, especially when misdirected letters held up news of recovery. The men recognized obvious signs of anxiety among their home folks, and separation itself created health problems. A corporal in the Irish Brigade suggested that his wife visit the doctor to get some medicine for her nervousness. Men rarely received furloughs to care for ailing family members or even attend a mother’s funeral.32
The arrival of paymasters in late December and early January helped alleviate some worries for soldiers who had gone two, four, or even six months without receiving a single greenback. Suddenly flush with money, they dreamed of splurging on everything from apple fritters to soap, or for what an Irish Brigade corporal termed a “regular jollification.” Sutlers and newsboys swarmed about the camps, and opportunistic soldiers gathered to collect high-interest loans from their less provident comrades or lure gullible lads into gambling away their pay. One New Jersey volunteer decided he would only send money to his wife if the paper money was holding its value back home, though few men seemed so calculating. Other soldiers, however, did not receive all their back pay, and a Rhode Island corporal recalled hearing derisive cheers for Jeff Davis.33
Many regiments received no pay at all. Rather than sending money home, soldiers had to beg their families for a few dollars to tide them over; some men had even run out of money for postage stamps. Living on official promises made for a spartan existence. Sardonically recapturing the feelings of many, a Pennsylvania surgeon whose pay was $600 in arrears remarked, “Uncle Sam treats his officers more like Dogs than Gentlemen.”34
Bureaucratic foul-ups, including paymasters skipping soldiers who were on detached service, added to the dismay. In a kind of desperation reminiscent of Washington’s army during the American Revolution, some soldiers sold state bounty warrants to speculators for ready cash. No one ever seemed to know when the paymaster was even supposed to arrive, let alone when he would arrive. The angry resignation of one Pennsylvania officer who not only suffered from chronic diarrhea but also claimed that his wife and children had been reduced to “absolute want of the common comforts of life” reached Lincoln’s desk. If soldiers were not going to be paid, perhaps they should just go home. As would be the case with the Confederates later in the war, the connection between family hardships and demoralization in the army became clear. On January 18 twenty-three men in the 13th Pennsylvania Reserves quietly “stacked their arms” and “refused to serve until they are paid.” The men were immediately arrested, and when some remained defiant, they ended up in irons.35 This near mutiny showed just how dangerous the situation had grown, and Washington politicians took notice.
Chase admitted to the chairman of the Senate finance committee that the Treasury owed some $60 million to the soldiers and sailors but had only $12.5 million available for that purpose. This gloomy arithmetic indicated a genuine crisis. Congressional resolutions calling for the government to pay the men could not fill empty coffers, and printing more greenbacks now seemed inevitable even to those who normally worshiped hard money. In January and February the purchasing power of a soldier’s monthly pay dipped to what was then a wartime low. Lincoln well understood the issue from his brief militia service in the Black Hawk War and, despite his own aversion to currency inflation, would approve nearly any congressional measure to remedy this rank injustice and political embarrassment.36
Even staunch Republican newspapers were outraged, and conservative editors eagerly seized on the issue. The president, the politicians, and government contractors all received their money while families suffered. Yet some bluecoats feared—and quite rightly—that there was simply not enough money in the Treasury. A New Yorker in Hancock’s division sarcastically suggested that perhaps the men had not been paid because “they [the politicians] have not had Enough of us killed yet.” A Minnesotan berated “villains at Washington” bent on “robbing the helpless Soldiers” to line their own pockets and even fantasized about the army marching to burn the capital.37 Such reckless statements helped let off steam but also suggested that patience had worn thin.
Telltale signs of trouble appeared around the camps. Lazy fellows seemed all too numerous and remained impervious to discipline. Given the army’s depressed state, customary complaints about drunken officers carried a sharper tone. A Hoosier private tied another common vice—gambling—to general demoralization: “The grand army of the Republic has one third playing cards, the other doing the duty, and the last third deserting as fast as they can.”38
The last part of the statement was an obvious exaggeration but seemed believable at the time. The absentee rate in the Army of the Potomac had held steady since November at around 26 percent, but the aggregate numbers concealed a disturbing trend. Many of those who had been sick or wounded in the fall after a hard campaign season had either died, gone home, or recovered enough to return to the ranks, so in fact what appeared to be a serious yet stable problem actually signified a higher desertion rate. Desertion may have reached 200 men per day in January 1863, and several hundred officers remained absent without leave. The toll in particular regiments was even more striking. The 140th New York in Sykes’s division lost 18 men during January 1863; nearly a score of new recruits for a Rhode Island battery absconded almost immediately; from a Sixth Corps camp near White Oak Church a surgeon noted how on a single night 19 enlisted men and non-commissioned officers had taken “leg bail.”39
Each deserter had his own reason, from bounty jumping to health problems to family troubles, but a more general pattern also emerged. Although some soldiers had loudly talked of deserting over the Emancipation Proclamation, few ever did. Despair at home played a larger role. A Michigan woman informed her brother that the Fredericksburg defeat had sapped northern patriotism, and in early January he replied that the army’s fighting spirit was largely “played out.” A few weeks later he deserted. Many such men had just grown sick of the war, but the military stalemate and tardy pay further eroded morale and clearly pushed some soldiers over the edge. And for every man who actually deserted, several others considered it. “I hope the earth will sink between the two great armies so they cant get near each other,” a disheartened Connecticut volunteer raved. “Let those that like to carry the flag at home come down here . . . and face the music.” He would not yet abandon his post but did not rule out heading home.40
Clever stratagems foiled efforts to suppress desertion. Families shipped citizens’ clothes to the camps, helping the soldiers to slip away undetected, or a man might suddenly disappear right after a helpful relative’s visit. Eventually officers tried to intercept packages and banned civilian clothes in camp. General Patrick ordered the arrest of men caught without passes outside the picket lines and established procedures for cavalry to round up skulkers and stragglers during marches and battles.41
In theory, deserters could be shot, and soldiers dreaded being assigned to carry out these sentences; but in reality executions remained rare. Typically the poor miscreant would be marched around a square of men, have his head roughly shaved, and then be escorted from camp to the strains of the “Rogue’s March.” Often a “C” for coward or a “D” for deserter would be branded on the man’s hip. Onlookers deplored this barbaric spectacle, though many also conceded the necessity for treating the offense with severity.42
When officers could resign and thus escape the punishment meted out to enlisted men who deserted, one could hardly blame a fellow for railing against the injustice. But it also seemed that deserters got off lightly, and the uncertainty of punishment clearly exacerbated the problem. The welcome such cowards sometimes received back home also raised hard questions about how popular will affected army morale. Democrats trumpeted reports of desertion and accused the government of suppressing the actual numbers. Even such a Republican stalwart as Senator William Pitt Fessenden of Maine refused to criticize unpaid soldiers for absconding and felt “heartsick” over the War Department’s “miserable mismanagement.”43
Yet despite the desertions and sagging morale, many soldiers slowly recovered from their post-Fredericksburg doldrums. Although Republican newspapers exaggerated what they reported as a rekindled fighting spirit, many rugged veterans understood they would soon have to face Lee again. Some regiments that had been horribly battered only a few weeks earlier now appeared fit to take the field. Love of country, a sense of duty, grim determination, and even personal honor survived regardless of complaints, pessimism, and despair. A Hoosier in French’s division proudly served the “best government in the world” and hated to hear anyone in the army or at home lending comfort to the “enemies of Freedom.” Indeed, memories of sacrifices already made and comrades lost sparked a patriotic revival—not the flag-waving and hurrahing variety but, rather, the quiet kind of resolve that carried armies to victory.44
Disillusionment and despair would not necessarily tear most men away from a still-firm commitment to finish their work. A Pennsylvania captain admitted being tempted to let others do the fighting but could never quite bring himself to act on this impulse. “I am a soldier and a good one,” he noted with unaffected pride. He would “growl” after a fight, but when “an order came to storm a battery, nary a squeal would I make.” This last statement made up for the bad food, the damp ground, and the harsh talk about Burnside or Lincoln. It overshadowed the swearing, the grumbling, and wild talk of mutiny. It perhaps counted for more than demoralization and even desertions. War demanded a great deal of soldiers and pushed them to the breaking point and beyond, but armies somehow managed to survive the worst. “This body of men is composed of material which is not easily broken,” a Maine private decided. “All we want is competent leaders, men who are capable of the duties to be performed and we will show the country that we are a mighty army, a conquering host.”45
As the soldiers endured the daily drills or stood on some cold picket post, they proved their mettle. Here the army revealed its strength of character, not merely a steady loyalty but the important ability to find comfort and even pleasure in the ordinary: a nice roaring fire, a piece of pork roasting on a stick, or even a simple night’s sleep accompanied by pleasant dreams of home.46 Such soldiers could be relied on not only for routine duties but for standing to the mark in the next fight.
Speculation about the army’s future plans continued to dominate conversation in the capital and in the camps along the Rappahannock. Burnside returned from Washington depressed and likely disappointed that his resignation had not been accepted. Taking the unusual step on January 5 of writing directly to Lincoln, he informed the president that despite opposition from his own generals, orders had been issued for engineers and cavalry to prepare for crossing the Rappahannock again. Repeating the offer to relinquish command, he gave Lincoln the option to remove him at any time. Writing to Halleck, Burnside asked for strategic advice but acknowledged that the general in chief need not “assume any responsibility in reference to the mode and place of crossing.” By this time Burnside knew his man, and Halleck’s reply was defensive though not entirely discouraging. Claiming to have long favored a crossing of the Rappahannock above Fredericksburg and likely prodded by the recent blowup with Lincoln, Old Brains at least advised Burnside to make Lee’s army and not Richmond his primary objective. After mentioning several contingencies and the possibility of feints at various points, Halleck’s customary caution resurfaced: “As you yourself admit, it devolves on you to decide upon the time, place, and character of the crossing which you may attempt. I can only advise that an attempt be made, and as early as possible.” Lincoln endorsed Halleck’s reply but also responded directly to Burnside’s letter. “Be cautious,” he counseled, “and do not understand that the Government is driving you.”47 These words offered Burnside little comfort. He could still feel the political pressure without being entirely sure that his superiors would support his decisions.
News of Burnside’s proffered resignation soon leaked out along with reports that Lincoln, having lost patience with both Halleck and the cabinet, would now direct war policy on his own. For his part Burnside forged ahead with his plans, no doubt relieved to be back in the field riding to reconnoiter the fords above Fredericksburg and conferring with generals and staff. Balloon ascensions aided in the reconnaissance, and Burnside himself reportedly rode in one of Lowe’s contraptions. Unseasonably pleasant weather—not to mention cavalry movements and the ominous arrival of more pontoons—certainly suggested that the army would not long remain idle. Yet in camp and in Washington, contradictory rumors circulated. The troops would cross the river, the campaigning season was over, Hooker would soon replace Burnside, or even the American republic was entering its death throes: all seemed plausible. Frustrated by delays and false reports, one of Burnside’s faithful staff officers “wish[ed] all the newspapers were in the bottom of the sea.”48
Opinion in the ranks had turned against Burnside. During a review of Sumner’s grand division in early January, the reception was decidedly cool. “Old Burnside wanted to see how many more men he had [available] to kill off,” one private sniffed. Even though men in the loyal Ninth Corps cheered their old leader, a chilling rain cut short the inspection and made Burnside’s customary doffing of his hat and exposure of his bald pate seem slightly ridiculous.49
Formerly naive and hopeful volunteers had their eyes opened. A Massachusetts officer had once assumed that “our Generals devised plans almost superhuman in cunning—that... they had looked into the future and set the exact minute when the signal should be given for blows to be struck which were inevitably to crush the Rebellion.” But he now considered the whole lot more like Dickens’s Micawber, “waiting for something to turn up.”50 Unpaid, homesick, occasionally cold and even hungry, some ill unto death, soldiers had lost many illusions, but most remained at their posts. Men learned how to make themselves comfortable, at least comparatively so, and a winter camp sometimes presented a deceptively ordered and even placid appearance. But talk of a new offensive kept the boys on edge awaiting the next test—if not of their valor at least of their endurance—as the war stretched into the indefinite future.
* * *
Confederates were much more cheerful but no less uncertain, as everyone from newspaper editors to privates offered widely varying predictions on Burnside’s next move. Surely the devastating defeat at Fredericksburg and the reported demoralization made it unlikely that the Federals would launch a winter campaign.51 But thinking on the matter also ran the other way. Burnside still had a large army, and political pressure would likely force another thrust toward Richmond, perhaps with a crossing at Port Royal or even an advance along the old James River route.52 So for the time, confusion reigned.
Lee kept his forces alert for any Federal move. Stuart’s cavalry remained active and combative, conducting several forays that the Federals found nettlesome if not alarming. Only days before the battle of Fredericksburg, Brig. Gen. Wade Hampton had moved northeast in a raid on Dumfries that bagged fifty Yankees and twenty-four sutlers’ wagons, a good haul for Rebel horsemen whom Stuart described as “thinly clad and scantily fed.” On December 17 Hampton struck again in the same direction, this time reaching Occoquon, where he captured more prisoners and wagons before Federal cavalry drove him off. The general later boasted of quaffing Burnside’s Christmas champagne, and reports of how he had ruined the bluecoats’ holiday cheer appeared in the Confederate press, giving yet more reason for rejoicing to people eager to turn small successes into great triumphs.53
Under orders from Lee, Stuart led a larger expedition of 1,800 troopers that on December 27 reached Dumfries and Occoquon, snatching up more prisoners and wagons though not in the numbers anticipated and against stiffer Federal resistance. But despite hard marching, cold weather, and short rations, some Confederates described the raid as a lark; Yankee cavalry “ran like sheep,” claimed one Virginian. Stuart even sent a cheeky note to Union Quartermaster General Meigs complaining about the poor quality of captured Union mules.54
The raid in fact had not accomplished much aside from reconfirming the already established superiority of Confederate cavalry. Flashy heroics did not alter the imbalance in men and resources. Lee saw “no sign” of the Army of the Potomac going into winter quarters and so as usual dragged his feet on sending reinforcements to other theaters. “General Burnside’s army is increasing rather than diminishing,” he informed Secretary of War Seddon. The fact remained, as Lee explained at length, that Confederate armies were not large enough to take advantage of enemy mistakes, and the southern people had not yet faced up to this stubborn and unpleasant reality. Even Lee recognized that esprit could not forever make up for such a disadvantage, and a Confederate surgeon concisely described the frustrating strategic situation: “The Yankee forces are so large that we cannot expect to gain more decided victories over them. All we can do is hold them in check until they are discouraged and worn out.”55 Like Lee, Jackson remained dissatisfied with the military stalemate. It galled him to hear Yankee bands playing on the other side of the Rappahannock, and pacing in his tent one day, he finally exploded: “Napoleon would not have permitted this. The enemy ought to be driven into the Potomac.”56
It was better to be frustrated over an incomplete victory than disheartened by a crushing defeat, however, and optimistic Confederates bore the hardships of winter quarters reasonably well. Relative idleness, a North Carolinian noted, gave soldiers a feeling of cheerful “content[ment], irresponsible laughings, independent action, and practical spirit of jesting.” Compared with marching and fighting, camp life became almost like “home.” Each day the boys built their fires and ate their meals and went about their duties. “A dreamy sort of existence, a sort of trance,” thought Jedediah Hotchkiss.57
Reading, visiting, and music (“Richmond Is a Hard Road to Travel”) filled the hours between meals, drills, and picket duty. If one of the boys celebrated a birthday, his comrades might toss him into a Virginia mud puddle. Checkers and cards provided some amusement, as did an occasional baseball game; members of the 16th Mississippi bowled ninepins with cannonballs.58 Whether held in woods or in logged-up tents complete with curtains and “artificial thunder,” amateur theatricals attracted appreciative crowds. Yet men dressed as women with sheets tied around their waists or draped over barrel hoops reminded the soldiers of the greatest void in their social lives.59
As with the Federals, the rare appearance of any reasonably attractive woman in camp caused an immediate stir. The absence of “sweet creatures” saddened a romantic artillerist who resolved to cut quite the figure with young women after the war, but such sentimental effusions could not disguise disturbing changes. “The constant association with all the coarse elements of humanity,” a South Carolina lieutenant feared, along with all the bloodshed and “abominable vices untempered by the sweet & angelic influence of women’s society, is enough to upset what virtues a man may be possessed of at home.”60
To preserve conventional moral standards became a perhaps hopeless battle. In Brig. Gen. George T. Anderson’s brigade of Hood’s Division a Christian association established a code of conduct based on the Ten Commandments, with added prohibitions against gambling and drunkenness.61 Because camp life sorely tested a man’s religious convictions, there was often a close connection between morals and morale. Enlisted men yearned for the prayer and fellowship of a Sunday at home. Observing the Sabbath strengthened commitment to the southern cause and reminded soldiers that they were fighting for their families and for their faith.62
With the war soon to enter its third year, many soldiers prayed for spiritual renewal. In makeshift log chapels, men held Bible classes and sang favorite hymns. Revival meetings soon overflowed even the 1,200-seat Presbyterian church in Fredericksburg, and beginning with Barksdale’s brigade the number of converts grew rapidly. Preachers of various denominations conducted joint services, marking the first real signs of concerted evangelism in the army. The emphasis was on conversion rather than politics, on praying rather than fighting, but the message of salvation and reports of mass enthusiasm undoubtedly nourished military as well as spiritual hopes.63
For many soldiers the distance between the anxious bench and the picket line was not that great. But even with revival meetings and prayer services, the state of religion in Lee’s army remained precarious, as Jackson and many chaplains readily acknowledged. Men who had not heard a sermon in months talked of returning home to worship God, as if worship seemed hardly possible in camp. “I have gone entirely wild,” a Georgia sergeant confessed to his wife, “and if I ever get back I shall have my name taken off the church book for it is a shame and disgrace to the cause of Christ for it to be there.” This statement no doubt exaggerated his shortcomings, but the mounting carnage of the war surely encouraged introspection and self-doubt. Even soldiers who anticipated a better world to come wrestled against the fear of death. For despite the obvious confidence produced by Fredericksburg, Gen. Frank Paxton knew that many men would never see the return of peace. “So darling,” he wrote in closing a long letter to his wife, “I live upon the hope that this war may some day end, that I may survive it, and that you and I may spend many a happy day together.”64
Worries about the army’s (and the country’s) spiritual state in part grew out of a loneliness that ate away at morale even in a victorious army. Élan developed from shared sacrifices and glorious victories but also depended on individual dispositions and emotional health. Sometimes word from home only added to the sadness that afflicted so many soldiers in camp. “I read over your letter a moment ago,” a young South Carolinian wrote to a favorite aunt, “but its contents were so tinctured with a feeling of melancholy, that it added very little to cheer me up.” When families described the pain of separation, soldiers had to steel themselves to persevere while hoping against hope for a happy reunion in the not too distant future. Even vivid images of a wife and child became bittersweet as soldiers felt both a powerful sense of duty and a gnawing fear of dying far from home.65
Swirling emotions buffeted these men, but love remained a powerful anchor. A soldier gently teased his wife about inviting a woman to warm up his tent. A couple suddenly realized that their deep affection for each other came without limits or conditions, unchangeable even in the face of war. A major who recalled the last night spent with his wife in the syrupy language of the era (“you never seemed lovelier to me than on that night”) also noted with a barely suppressed eroticism how her “lips rival its [sic] purest carnation.” An Alabama lieutenant imagining his wife sitting before a fire in her dressing gown claimed to be “homesick” but was obviously feeling horny.66 Impulses both carnal and tender filled and overflowed letters, but the real world of war and inescapable burdens intruded on the most romantic reflections.
Home troubles could not be put on hold for the war’s duration, and separation may have healed some old wounds but surely reopened others. Like the Federals, the poorly paid Confederates worried about their loved ones suffering from want of necessities. Some men coldly urged their wives to economize, while others relied on their spouses’ judgment to allocate the family’s shrinking resources. Distance complicated such problems and made misunderstandings more likely. The imperious General Pender often hurt his long-suffering wife, Fanny, with some ill-chosen words, and neither of them ever quite forgave or forgot. The travails of childbirth in the midst of war caused great anxiety at home and in camp, but even simple stories of a youngster’s latest antics sometimes proved more sad than comforting. In Lexington, Virginia, Margaret Junkin Preston noticed how children’s games had turned warlike, filled with shooting Yankees, taking prisoners, hobbling about on crutches, and punctuated with military jargon.67
Separation only intensified ordinary human miseries that in turn affected soldiers’ attitudes and actions. Memories of children who had died before the war still devastated couples separated in their grief and no longer able to comfort each other. Christians might affirm that such trials strengthened the soul, but the deaths of relatives at home only added to the war’s already overwhelming sorrows. Knowing he would likely never see many of his relatives and friends again, an Alabama surgeon reverted to an all-too-true cliché: “Man is a [sic] few days and full of trouble.” Husbands and wives seemed worn down by care, and nightmares about the future were a constant reminder of life’s transitory nature.68
Distraught soldiers, worried sick about their home folks or simply fed up with army life, took unauthorized furloughs, but compared with the steady exodus from the Federal camps, the desertions from Lee’s army seemed less serious. Reports of Virginians slipping away right before Christmas could be expected, and many likely returned after the holidays. Although Jackson acknowledged that some men went home to help their hungry families, he favored shooting deserters. But during the winter of 1862–63 only a few executions took place.69
Most volunteers still answered duty’s call. So long as they could scrounge up enough to eat, enlisted men enjoyed the comparative ease. Yet idleness eventually lost its charms. “Nothing doing,” a Virginia artillerist noted in his diary. “Time hangs heavily on our hands. Camp life is decidedly dull and monotonous and even a lazy man gets tired of it.” Military life held few attractions as days and weeks in winter camp stretched out in a fellow’s imagination. Ambitious young men had plenty of time to think about their futures. “Though a humble private I have high aspirations,” one of Barks-dale’s Mississippians confessed. “My heart often asks myself why cannot I be a great man.”70
Watching the sluggish Rappahannock on picket duty left many a soldier alone with his thoughts. Even with a brush shelter and a fire, this was always an uneasy time, one of Jackson’s veterans recalled. Despite the relatively mild days, the nights grew cold and damp. Exchanging news and insults with the Yanks across the way and rumors about impending movements made a man uneasy.71 The army would not languish in camp forever.
On the other side of the river the thoughts of Burnside’s men likely flowed in similar channels. For both armies, morale remained a critical question at the beginning of a new year. Federals pondered the army’s future, their attitudes shaped by the horrors of Fredericksburg, a loss of trust in their leaders, monotonous hardships, the steady toll of disease, worries about home folks, and lack of pay. Desertions thinned the ranks and revealed the depths of demoralization, but the Army of the Potomac remained formidable, a badly shaken but still mighty host whose presence kept Lee and his commanders on alert. Suffering from many of the same problems of a winter encampment, the Confederates, too, made the best of listless days, taking their fun where they could find it, keeping up with the news from home, and marking time until the next campaign began. Their spirits remained high as faith in Lee and his generals overshadowed ominous shortages of men and supplies. Perhaps the fighting was over for the winter, as so many Rebs and Yanks hoped. Yet still feeling the pressure from Washington and painfully aware of the impatience and demoralization in the North, Burnside had little choice but to try his luck again.