The Civil War was America's greatest crisis, for it imperiled the republic both from within—the struggle between North and South—and from without—the threat of intervention by England and France. Whichever side won the war would largely determine the direction of the republic, and, as pure as the British and French claimed their neutrality to be, their actions would likewise shape its future to their advantage.
Thus the story of the Civil War cannot be complete without an exploration of its international dimensions. Yet historians of Blue and Gray diplomacy remain small in number, particularly compared with the military and political historians of the conflict. Battles, generals, and politicians all helped to determine the outcome of the war; but so did diplomats. Had the Confederacy secured recognition from England (and then France and perhaps others), it would have gained the right as a nation to negotiate alliances, both military and commercial; call on its allies to help challenge the Union blockade; and float loans necessary to finance the war. With the outcome hanging in the balance during the critical first eighteen months of the fighting, recognition might have tipped the scales in the Confederacy's favor and ended the war by the close of 1862 or in mid-1863 with southern independence. But despite the countless discussions about intervention in London and Paris, Washington and Richmond, that moment never came.
The Confederacy's failure to win recognition did not by itself determine the victor in the war. But its inability to gain acknowledgment as a nation certainly contributed to its defeat. If so, why did the Confederacy fail to win recognition?
Jefferson Davis was a poor diplomat, according to many writers. He did little to help the Confederacy's case, both in his demeanor and in his actions. He appeared cold and stubborn, often inflexible about changing decisions, rigidly formal, and out of touch with his people. He was among the first to see no chance for recognition, yet among the last to concede defeat. So occupied with military matters, he did not give needed attention to foreign affairs. Davis remained shackled to legality, never understanding the European powers' emphasis on national interests over international law and criticizing British neutrality as pro-Union in thrust because it was not pro-Confederate.1
Abraham Lincoln, on the other hand, personified a diplomat, as shown in his appointments, his realization that international (and domestic) law became flexible in wartime, and his ability to make meaningful public pronouncements. What he lacked in knowledge, he made up with a determination to learn. Admittedly, Lincoln miscalculated the British response to his wartime objective of preserving the Union, expecting the government and public to understand his political obstacles to tying slavery to the war effort. He also mistakenly assumed that the British government and people would react favorably to the Emancipation Proclamation and drop all thoughts of intervention. Yet, in his defense, they ultimately realized that he had taken a major step toward abolition regardless of the document's lack of moral emphasis. In this and other public declarations such as the Gettysburg Address and his First and Second Inaugural Addresses, Lincoln's words inspired listeners to seek those higher goals envisioned by the Founding Fathers.2
Nevertheless, the realistic considerations helping to shape a policy of foreign intervention far outweighed the role of personalities. Slavery was always an obstacle in British thinking, as the Earl of Donoughmore asserted to Mason in the spring of 1865. Confederate diplomacy was inept, according to many writers, beginning with Davis's choice of emissaries abroad and continuing with King Cotton Diplomacy and a long record of fiscal and commercial mismanagement. Richmond's leaders helped to undermine foreign relations by refusing to use cotton as collateral for loans until too late in the war, failing to develop a centralized purchasing program in Europe, and deciding against regulating business in the national interest. Another factor was Russia, which never seriously considered intervention and thereby undercut any Anglo-French action by eliminating itself as the only foreign power trusted by the Union. New research suggests that the great majority of British and French workers, and doubtless the bulk of British and French citizens, did not support the Confederacy despite their need for cotton. The Confederacy never proved its claim to independent status by winning decisively on the battlefield. And, finally, Seward's repeated threats of war helped to ward off intervention.3
Was there ever a moment in the war when recognition was a distinct possibility? There were, in fact, two such times: in late August 1862, when Palmerston supported a mediation immediately after Lee's victory at Second Bull Run, and in early 1863, when Napoleon appeared ready to recognize the Confederacy as well as install the Maximilian government in Mexico. In both instances, the European leaders had become convinced that a combination of interests justified intervention—the British to stop a war that threatened the Atlantic economy and shocked the conscience of Victorian England; the French to protect Mexico from Union invasion, improve the lot of Latin peoples, and build another Napoleonic empire. Yet in both instances, the interventionists backed away when the Union rebounded with battlefield victories and the Lincoln administration repeated its threat to wage war against the intruder.
The central question remains: Was there anything the Confederacy had that either the British or the French considered so vital to their interests that it was worth fighting a war with the United States?
Both European powers opposed slavery, wanted to end what they considered a senseless war in which southern separation was a fait accompli, and shared a humanitarian and economic interest in stopping a conflict that committed monstrous atrocities at home while inflicting collateral damage on other nations. Yet none of these considerations shook the foundations of British and French security. The risk of war with the United States was always greater than the benefits gained from supporting Confederate independence.
Thus the answer to the question is no; yet it took more than two years for both British and French policymakers to reach this conclusion. In the meantime, their talk of intervention posed a serious threat to the republic, both North and South, by adding another dimension to the crisis Americans already confronted from within.
Once the British and the French realized they had no vital interests worth fighting for in the American war—the British in the fall of 1862, the French during the following spring—the Confederacy had lost its last chance for recognition and the war's outcome would turn only on the battlefield—where the Union held insurmountable advantages in manpower and material resources.
In one of those all-too-rare instances in history, a country—in this case England, followed by France—resisted the temptation to intervene in another country's domestic affairs. The Civil War demonstrates the dangers of foreign interference. So often the intervening power does not understand the issues and cannot determine who is “right”; finds it impossible to establish trust by eliminating suspicions of self-interest; is unable to render a fair, informed verdict that satisfies all sides; does not understand what caused the hostilities in the first place and thus cannot offer mutually satisfactory terms of peace; and must resort to force. Secretary for War Lewis in England had reminded his colleagues of these considerations, convincing them of the dangers in making a rash decision for recognition that might drag the British (and others) into the American war.
And so the Confederacy's greatest fear came to pass: To win recognition, it had to win in battle; but to win in battle, it had to have the foreign aid that could come only from recognition. In more ways than one, the South had fought a lost cause.