Chapter 46
The Campaigns of the Summer of 1861

Just like Abraham Lincoln, Leland Stanford faced two Democrats in running for governor—a southern Democrat and a Union Democrat. The campaign was a short one, lasting mainly just through the months of July and August.

Stanford had lots of supporters in the state besides me. Once I began to realize just how much support he did have, in fact, I wondered why he had thought of me at all.

Thomas Starr King, now a strong ally, traveled throughout the state speaking for Mr. Stanford. And as everybody was finding out, he was one of the best orators in the whole country. A group of San Francisco businessmen who were normally Democrats backed Mr. Stanford, too. Like him, they were strong supporters of the Union even if they hadn’t voted for Mr. Lincoln. A man named Levi Strauss was one of the most famous of these men, and since they were all influential, a lot of people took their advice when it came time to vote.

One person who wasn’t so enthusiastic, though it made me mad at the time he told me, was a certain individual out of my past I’d tried hard to forget—Robin T. O’Flaridy.

I had seen his byline occasionally—he called himself R. Thomas O’Flaridy. When we ran into each other one day in the Alta building, he took me aside and spoke softly to me.

“Corrie, do me a favor and take one last bit of advice from an old friend,” he said.

“An old friend?” I said, laughing. “After all you’ve pulled on me?”

“All in the past, Corrie,” smiled Robin. “Part of the business, you know. Surely you’ve forgiven me by now.”

“Oh, I suppose. How could I hold a grudge against a struggling fellow writer.”

“Struggling?” he repeated. “Did you see my piece on the new wharf?”

“Yes, Robin,” I answered, “and a great article it was, too.”

“That’s better.”

“So,” I said, “what’s the advice you have for me?”

A serious expression came over his face. For a moment it almost confused me because it was so very different than the normal Robin O’Flaridy look I had grown accustomed to.

“How much do you know about Leland Stanford?” he asked.

“I don’t know . . . quite a bit, I suppose,” I answered.

“I mean, how well do you really know him? How well do you know what kind of person he is?”

“I . . . I thought I did. I’ve spent time with him. I like him. He’s very kind to me.”

“Perhaps. But I have a hunch, Corrie, that he may just be using you for his own ends.”

“What! How can you possibly say such a thing?” I was annoyed.

“He’s a businessman, Corrie. I’ve been around this city long enough to know some things. The whole deal with the railroad—I tell you, Corrie, it’s not as clean and innocent as it seems. There are huge amounts of money involved. Huge, I tell you, and your friend Stanford and his cohorts are right in the thick of it.”

“What are you insinuating?” I asked coolly.

“I’m not insinuating anything other than that the railroad’s not primarily about politics—it’s about money. I have the feeling Stanford only wants to be governor to line his own pockets and get richer than he already is. I know about these guys, Corrie—him, Hopkins, Crocker. They’re businessmen, not politicians. All they are is a new breed of forty-niner, a new kind of gold miner. Some might even call them claim jumpers.”

“How dare you, Robin? I won’t even listen to you. Who would say such a thing?”

“Ever heard of Theodore Dehone Judah?”

“Of course I’ve heard of him.”

“He might agree with me.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. Why are you telling me this, Robin? Are you working for the Democrats in this election?” Again the same peculiar look came over Robin’s face.

“Look, Corrie,” he said, “I’m only concerned for you. Believe me, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Why do I have such a difficult time believing your sincerity?” I said sarcastically. Immediately I regretted the words. The look on his face changed to one of pain.

“I’m sorry, Robin,” I said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Well, Corrie, I do mean it. Concern for you was the only reason I said anything about it at all.”

“All right, Robin . . . thank you.”

“Just watch your step, Corrie. That’s all. And be careful about that Burton fellow too.”

“Cal?” I said.

“I’m not so sure about him either. I’ve heard—”

“I’ll watch my step, like you said, but I won’t listen to you say a word against Cal,” I interrupted, getting irritated again.

Robin seemed to think better of pursuing it, and he said nothing more. But the look on his face remained with me all the rest of the day. Strange as it was to say, I had the feeling he really was sincerely thinking of me. But then, I thought he was being sincere that night when we’d escaped from Sonora together, too, and he had double-crossed me!

I didn’t think much more about what he’d said, and continued working for the campaign as before. Mr. Stanford himself traveled through all the northern part of the state—through all the mining regions, from Weaverville up north on the Trinity River all the way down to Sonora in the south. Naturally he came to Miracle Springs too, where I got to stand beside him and speak to my own hometown.

I didn’t really do all that much for him, but Mr. Stanford took me with him to lots of the smaller places like Miracle Springs, introduced me to people as if I were more important than he was, and always let me say a few things, either about him or about Mr. Lincoln or the need to be loyal to the Union. He treated me so kindly, and told me—whether it was true or not—that I was helping his campaign a great deal.

The other campaign of that summer was not such a pleasant one. It was taking place twenty-five hundred miles away—and was not a political campaign, but a military one.

The attack on Fort Sumter had taken place in April. But for the next two months nothing happened. Both North and South were busy recruiting, training, and building up their armies. I later heard that the moods of the general public were very different during this time.

In the South, wealthy landowners and the leaders who had organized the Confederacy were all confident—confident that right was on their side, certain that they were doing the just and honorable thing, confident in their strength, sure of victory. Somebody I later interviewed told me it was a self-righteous kind of confidence. God and the Bible were on their side, so how could they do anything but win? The young soldiers of the southern army, though not so religious or philosophical about it, mostly felt the same way.

But hundreds of thousands of people in the South, however, neither leaders nor soldiers nor landowners, were shocked by what had happened. They believed that slavery was permissible. They believed in the ways of the South, in southern culture and their southern heritage. But whether it was worth waging a war over, such people had grave doubts. Surely, they thought, some more sensible solution or compromise could be found than to have to kill over it! Though most of these people remained loyal to the Confederacy, many of them wondered if their own leaders—Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens and General Beauregard, who had attacked and toppled Fort Sumter, and General Robert E. Lee and Thomas Jackson, and all the political leaders who had defected from Washington in favor of the Confederacy—weren’t doing just as much to destroy the South as the evil Yankees and their sinister head, Abraham Lincoln. These people were scared.

As for the slaves in the South, most of the ones I talked to later didn’t have the slightest notion that all the fighting was for them. They were at least the outward symbol of why the Civil War was fought, but they didn’t know it. Freedom for them might as well have been a word in a foreign language. Even if they had freedom, they wouldn’t have known what to do with it. In the meantime, their lives went on as they always had—a life of drudgery, toil, and hopelessness.

Above the Mason-Dixon Line, however, the mood was far different. People there were mad. It was time the South was put in its place, slavery put an end to, and the country made one again. The South could not be allowed to get away with attacking the very foundation of Freedom itself—the United States government. They wanted something done. They called for retribution, for punishment of the South.

Therefore, when news came that the new Confederate Congress was going to meet for the first time, and not down in Montgomery, Alabama, but up in Richmond, Virginia—only a hundred and ten miles south of Washington—the anger of the North rose to explosive heights. The call went out—the southern Congress must not be allowed to meet on July 20!

The New York Tribune took up the banner and repeated what it called the “Nation’s War Cry” in every edition it printed: Forward to Richmond! Forward to Richmond! The Rebel Congress must not be allowed to meet there on the twentieth of July! By that date the place must be held by the National Army!

President Lincoln, as well as everyone on both sides, thought that the war would be short. Here was a chance, he believed, to deal a quick and decisive blow to the upstart Rebel army and cripple the new government of the Confederacy by taking control of its new capital—all at once!

But standing in the way, between the northern army and Richmond, were 30,000 Confederate troops. Lincoln gave the order to advance, defeat the Rebel army, and move south to take Richmond.

The battle of Bull Run near Centreville, Virginia, took place July 21.

The two armies were approximately equal in size. All kinds of maneuvering went on among the generals of both sides, trying to trick the other. But down on the fields where shots were being fired, young inexperienced boys who were hardly trained and who had never fought before were shooting guns and killing one another! Which side would panic first?

It turned out that the southern leaders were more skilled in battle tactics than those of the North. After hours of fighting on that hot summer’s day, by attacks and counterattacks, they fooled the blue units of the Federal army into thinking they had more reinforcements than they really did. The boys in blue panicked and finally turned around to flee. The gray units surged forward after them.

A full retreat was on, all the way back thirty miles to Washington! The severity of the conflict was still so little understood that hundreds of northerners had ridden out toward the battle in buggies and carriages to watch. These sightseers crowded the roads, making the safe retreat of the army all the more difficult. Suddenly toward them came a streaming mass of fugitives! They turned and fled in panic too, as back to the capital rushed tens of thousands of soldiers and citizens, with the victorious and shouting Confederate army behind them!

The South had won the first major battle of the campaign. Many brave young Union soldiers had been killed.

Fortunately for the North, the southern leaders did not press the victory and keep going. Otherwise they might have taken Washington itself. For either side, Bull Run might have ended the contest early.

But it would not.

This was no small conflict that had any chance of being resolved politically or easily or quickly.

A full-fledged war had begun. The North was shocked by the southern victory. But the defeat at Bull Run only made them all the more determined. Lincoln sent out a call for more men.

Everyone was beginning to realize that this was going to be a long and difficult war.