The canal era proved so satisfactory that people took their steps more rapidly than ever before, and began measuring the hours by dollars and cents, and the value of life by the amount of labor performed. The feeling that something should be done to increase time and diminish space became universal, and not a few prospectors had their eyes open for the “old stone” that turned all it touched to gold.
The application of steam as the coming motor power for transportation and travel was pictured in the minds of many inventors in this country and in Europe; and trials of engines and their working abilities became the all-absorbing subject of the times, and as early as 1835 it could be seen that provincialism was passing away and that the citizens of Ohio felt that coaches, wagons and canal-boats were too slow and insufficient for advanced civilization.
The opening of a road between Manchester and Liverpool, September 15, 1830, and one in South Carolina the following January, gave the subject increased interest, although the efforts were exceedingly crude, and often bordering on the ridiculous. It was, however, a problem that had to be worked out, and every one having a mind for construction became a model maker of locomotives and railroad tracks. Even Peter Cooper built an engine and named it “Tom Thumb,” and in his attempt to test its superiority over horse-power was beaten owing to that “if” which always catches the rear contestant. It appears that in 1830 the Baltimore & Ohio road had a double track finished from Baltimore to Ellicott’s Mills, a distance of fifteen miles, and was utilized by means of horse-power. Mr. Cooper, who had built a small locomotive after his own mind to demonstrate to his own satisfaction the possibilities of steam as a motor power on roads, after making a number of successful trips to the mills and return, a race was proposed between “Tom Thumb” and its light open car, and a car and one horse of those run by the company occupying the road. The race was to start at the Relay House and end in Baltimore, a distance of nine miles.
On the 28th day of August, 1830, just seventeen days before the Manchester and Liverpool Exhibition, the start was made, and, as reported at the time:
“At first the gray had the best of it, for his steam would be applied to the greatest advantage on the instant, while the engine had to wait until the rotation of the wheels set the blower to work. The horse was perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead when the safety valve of the engine lifted, and the thin blue vapor issuing from it showed an excess of steam. The blower whistled, the steam blew off in vapory clouds, the pace increased; the passengers shouted, the engine gained on the horse; soon it lapped him; the silk was plied; the race was ‘neck-and-neck, nose-and-nose;’ then the engine passed the horse, and a great hurrah hailed the victory. But it was not repeated, for just at this time, when the gray’s master was about giving up, the band which draws the pulley which moved the blower slipped from the drum, the safety-valve ceased to scream, and the engine, for want of breath, began to wheeze and pant. While Mr. Cooper, who was his own engineer and fireman, lacerated his hands in vain attempts to replace the band upon the wheel, the horse gained on the machine and passed it, and although the band was presently replaced and steam again did its best, the horse was too far ahead to be overtaken, and came in the winner of the race.”
The numerous excursions, trial trips of engines, and public demonstrations made in the interests of improvements, from 1830 to 1840, on roads chartered in 1825-26-27-28, did not inspire confidence as good investments. They were looked upon chiefly as curiosities, mixed with great discomfort and danger, and received huzzahs and new patrons at each juncture, those making the trip one day surrendering their places with admiration to others, much after the plan of those who took in the curiosity show of the horse “having his tail where his head ought to be.” A railroad excursion of governors, senators, judges, lawyers, divines, doctors, and other good people—special guests of several hundred—to ride on strap-iron rails, housed in old coach bodies or on open platform boxes, with the bumping and jerking of trucks attached to each other by abundance of slack chain, a beer-bottle engine and pine knots to make steam, enables the imagination to see the likeness of the unfortunate colored fireman with respect, though a slave, for the exhibition of a sense of comfort before, if not after, he “punched up the fire and closed down the lever to the safety-valve and sat upon it to keep the steam and smoke out of his eyes.”
While great enthusiasm existed in favor of railroads every-where during the thirties, the moneyed man and the man who desired to travel with comfort regardless of time did not take much stock in the enterprise. And the gentleman who wrote the following in his diary was one of a large class who viewed the present as complete, and that they could not endure pleasantly any discomfort that might repay to others in the future great pleasure:
“July 22, 1835.—This morning at nine o’clock I took passage in a railroad car (from Boston) for Providence. Five or six other cars were attached to the locomotive, and uglier boxes I do not wish to travel in. They were made to stow away some thirty human beings who sit, cheek by jowl, as best they can. The poor fellows who were not much in the habit of making their toilet squeezed me into a corner, while the hot sun drew from their garments a villainous compound of smells made up of salt fish, tar and molasses. By and by, just twelve—only twelve—bouncing factory girls were introduced, who were going on a party of pleasure to Newport. ‘Make room for the ladies!’ bawled out the superintendent. ‘Come, gentlemen, jump up on the top, plenty of room there.’ ‘I’m afraid the bridge knocking my brains out,’ said a passenger. Some made one excuse and some another. For my part, I flatly told him that since I belonged to the Corps of Silver Grays, I had lost my gallantry, and did not intend to move. The whole twelve were, however, introduced, and soon made themselves at home, sucking lemons and eating green apples. The rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant, the polite and the vulgar, all herd together in this modern improvement in traveling. The consequence is a complete amalgamation. Master and servant sleep heads and points on the cabin floor of the steamer, feed at the same table, sit in each other’s laps as it were in the cars; and all this for the sake of doing very uncomfortably in two days what would be done delightfully in eight or ten. Shall we be much longer kept by this toilsome fashion of hurrying, hurrying, from starting (those who can afford it) on a journey with our own horses, and moving slowly, surely and profitably through the country, with the power of enjoying its beauty, and be the means of creating good inns? Undoubtedly a line of post-horses and post-chaises would long ago have been established along our great roads had not steam monopolized every thing.
“Talk of ladies on board a steamboat or in a railroad car—there are none. I never feel like a gentlemen there, and I can not perceive a semblance of gentility in any one who makes part of the traveling mob. When I see women whom, in their drawing-rooms or elsewhere, I have been accustomed to respect and treat with every suitable deference—when I see them, I say, elbowing their way through a crowd of dirty emigrants, or low-bred homespun fellows in petticoats or breeches in our country, in order to reach a table spread for a hundred or more, I lose sight of their pretentions to gentility, and view them as belonging to the plebeian herd. To restore herself to her caste, let a lady move in select company at five miles an hour, and take her meals in comfort at a good inn, where she may dine decently. After all the old-fashioned way of five or six miles, with liberty to dine decently in a decent inn, and be master of one’s movements, with the delight of seeing the country and getting along rationally, is the mode to which I cling, and which will be adopted again by the generations of after times.”[27]
Information in regard to railroading in its true sense, was circumscribed to experiment, which retarded the progress of improvement. The belief in lasting solidity, making the expense of building the road-bed more than necessary, so much so that it was estimated in the Eastern States, that about ten miles a year were all one company could properly construct.
Most engineers at first fell into the same error—making heavy stone walls for the road-bed. The blocks into which the wooden plugs were driven for the spikes to hold the rails were frequently resting upon solid masonry, four feet high and two and a half feet wide. After done, it was discovered a mistake; that an inelastic road-bed and speed were incompatible and disastrous to the machinery, and the intelligent State of Massachusetts, from the time the first locomotive was put upon the track (March, 1834) until 1841, had shown little advancement in the proper application of steam, as well as construction of road-beds and rails.
Robert Fulton expected his discovery would find its highest usefulness as a motive-power on railroads, as it has done; but his brother-in-law and partner did not deem the thing practicable as long as the insuperable objections named existed, and all attempts were passed to others, as the following letter shows, with day and date:
“Albany, March 1st, 1811,
“Dear Sir: I did not until yesterday receive yours of February 25th; where it has been loitering on the road I am at a loss to say. I had before read of your very ingenious proposition as to the railway communications. I fear, however, on mature reflection, that they will be liable to serious objection, and ultimately more expensive than a canal. They must be double, so as to prevent the danger of two such bodies meeting. The walls on which they are to be placed should at least be four feet below the surface and three feet above, and must be clamped with iron, and even then would hardly sustain so heavy a weight as you propose moving at the rate of four miles an hour on wheels. As to wood, it would not last a week. They must be covered with iron, and that, too, very thick and strong. The means of stopping these heavy carriages without great shock, and of preventing them from running on each other—for there would be many running on the road at once—would be very difficult. In cases of accidental stops to take wood and water, etc., many accidents would happen. The carriage of condensing water would be very troublesome. Upon the whole, I fear the expense would be much greater than that of canals, without being so convenient.
“R. R. Livingston.”
Ordinary business men, and even accomplished engineers, manifested as little knowledge in regard to the principles of science in railroading as they did in regard to the telegraph. Both were new fields for experiment, and both operators made many ridiculous mistakes.
When William D. Wesson announced he would demonstrate the practicability of sending and receiving messages over his wires stretched on poles from Chillicothe to Columbus, and vice versa, many persons had business into the city on that day, but ostensibly to witness the wonderful performance.
Early in the morning advertised for free messages, an honest patron of science living on the line a short distance out of town went up one of the poles and hung a letter on the wire, and secreted himself in view of the missive and in vain watched it all day, that he might obtain the secret of the process.
Another individual of inquiring mind on his way to the city boasted he intended to know before he returned how the thing was done. On his way home he was accosted by a neighbor who wished to know how it was possible to send a message to Columbus with safety on one of those little wires. The Squire said to himself it was no longer a mystery—he was a justice of the peace, and above the average as a lawyer—saying: “You see, they have a machine that rolls and compresses a letter into a little bit of an oblong roll, which just fits into a little brass cylinder, and when ready to send it is pushed up to a kind of machine all full of cog-wheels and ticking clock-work, and the man at the head says, ‘All ready—go’—and he touches a button, and the electricity runs out on the wire, and strikes the head of the cylinder in which the letter is placed, and it goes, chebang, to the other end of the wire, and drops into a basket.”
All this was worked out by the mental process of the Squire, who actually believed he had solved the process of telegraphing, as much as the engineers did that of railroading when they constructed the track of solid masonry.
In 1837, the horse-car running from Toledo to Adrian, Michigan, on oak rails was remodeled, road-bed improved in grades, rails strapped, an engine to take the place of horses, “and a beautiful new passenger coach to supply that of the old coach bodies.” It was also advertised the road would be “running regularly on and after October 1, 1837,” and that the “speed would be greatly increased, and would be able to carry passengers and the United States mail at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, making the entire distance, thirty miles, in two hours.”
New Passenger Car on the Toledo & Adrian Ry. 1837.
A fair likeness of the new passenger coach is here given, which, in days of primitive railroading, was looked upon as a step in the right direction. But this road was soon obliged to again suspend operations, temporarily, for other changes—many discouragements stood in the pathway to prosperity. Strap-iron rails on parallel timbers and stonemasonry and solidity proved failures, and the locomotive added no advantage over the horse, as existing conditions would not tolerate great velocity, the very thing in chief that would insure supremacy over a canal.
And England was twenty years in search of an adjustment of road and machinery by which velocity could be increased without an increase of danger. But the discouragements were so numerous, many hopeful workers abandoned the field. Only six years previous to George Stephenson’s locomotive, “Rocket,” making twenty-nine and a half miles in an hour, a book was published on “Railways,” in which the author says: “That nothing could do more harm toward the adoption of railways than the promulgation of such nonsense, as that we shall see locomotive engines traveling at the rate of twelve, sixteen, eighteen, and twenty miles an hour.”[28]
This may have been intended for Americans as well as Mr. Stephenson, for the “promulgation of such nonsense” did not cease, and power and speed increased with the increase in size of the parts of the machinery insured. So rapidly was this increase, that strong attempts were made from time to time to fix a legal limit at some point below twenty miles—in England.
In the United States, however, the faster the better, and from five rose to fifty, and then began looking around for rails and road-bed that would withstand the racket.
All the expense and experiments were not thrown away; true, investments and results failed for many years to inspire that confidence which opens the money vaults of the capitalists, but, not in the least discouraged, artisans, scientists, and genius, under any and every name, worked on and on, and when asked gave the coalminer’s answer to the House of Commons: “I can’t tell you how I’ll do it, but I can tell you I will do it.” The engineers, machinists, and model-makers kept at work, and so many improvements had been suggested to Peter Cooper’s locomotive that the first thing of the kind that had ever been made in the United States became transformed from a little competitor of the horse into a mammoth institution breathing impatiently for a track on which might be tested its speed and wondrous power.
The locomotive came—the heavy iron rails were in sight—but no one had yet suggested a satisfactory road-bed and rests for the rails. It had baffled the attempts of engineers. At this critical juncture a voice was heard from the wilderness—an axman, an Ohio “Squirrel Hunter”—one who had constructed many miles of substantial wagon roads through new sections of marshy country by means of “corduroys”—placing pieces of split timber, or sections of a younger growth, sixteen feet long, in close contact at right angles to the line of intended road-bed, then pinning long pieces of split saplings on the upper surface near the ends of the cross-ties on either side, and filling the interstices with earth, gravel, rotten wood, or other material, making a substantial and elastic track.
At a meeting of the president and directors of a section of unsatisfactory strap-iron road, this man appeared before the board with a model showing the relations of road-bed, cross-ties, and rails as now in use, claiming the plans proposed would insure the desirable essentials to safety, speed, cheapness, and durability, by giving elasticity and securing an absolute gauge at high rates of speed.
Seeing the model, and hearing the common-sense arguments and practicable philosophy of the “Squirrel Hunter,” all present clapped their hands and cried—“Eureka!”
Before the close of the session, a resolution was adopted in favor of “cross-ties and heavy iron rails.” With the correct idea for construction, it required but little time to satisfy the most credulous that velocity and power could be obtained with safety, and time saved; for time was fast becoming an important factor in the prosperity of the state. Charters were granted for roads in every direction, and each important village had aspirations for “a railroad center;” and capital, by millions, flowed into the state, and in a short period Ohio found herself with eight thousand five hundred miles of railroad, representing a capital of more than five hundred and fifty million dollars.
The officers of the first railroads felt or seemed to feel and act like ordinary people. This, however, was long before the procuration of a prohibitory tax on foreign steel rails. On one occasion, in 1849, the passengers on the line of coaches from the South, bound for Cleveland, Ohio, found on arrival at Columbus that “a new and expeditious route” had just been opened to Sandusky City, and thence to Cleveland, Buffalo, and other points east and west.
This “new and expeditious line” consisted of stage-coaches from Columbus to Mansfield, from Mansfield to Sandusky by the new railroad, and thence by boat to all other points. The railroad was part of the incomplete first through line from the lakes to the Ohio river, and was completed from Sandusky to Mansfield, fifty miles. The writer was one of the second installment of passengers sent over the new route. Four coaches left Columbus at an early hour, loaded with passengers and baggage, to make the connection at Mansfield, nearly seventy miles, over rough mud roads.
All went well until the Delaware county corduroys were reached. Here the leading coach got off the track and was down, with one wheel in the mud up to the hub. Getting out of this difficulty caused the time-table to be broken, and on reaching Mansfield in the evening we found the train to Sandusky had just left—so recently that the smoke of the motor was still visible in the direction of the lake.
The arrival of this caravan created no little excitement in the small town of Mansfield (Secretary Sherman’s home). Thirty angry passengers to be detained until the next day at a fifth-class hotel, destitute of accommodations, was not considered in the storm of invectives that were hurled in every direction, after taking in the situation. Accusations were publicly made that the landlord and the directors of the railroad were in partnership to rob the public by assertions enticing them into this trap.
The party was in no mood to remain idle, and at once took possession of the large room called “the parlor,” elected a chairman, adopted resolutions, and made a report and placed it in the hands of the printer, headed with familiar English epithets, warning the public to shun this impious swindle—making the most imposing specimen of literature, on large sheets, ever printed in that highly-intelligent town.
Before eleven o’clock that night the bill-posters had finished their work, as no more space could be found on which to spread the attractive sheets. About this time four good-looking, elderly gentlemen appeared and announced that they represented the president and directors of the road; that they were sorry the break of connection had occurred; that such a thing would not occur again, and asked, if they should reimburse all the fares paid at Columbus and give each a through ticket to place of destination, and pay the hotel expenses while detained in Mansfield, would the party surrender all the posters in their possession and call it even?
This was agreed to—posters surrendered and fares adjusted, and the whole party invited to a well-prepared but unexpected supper, which wound up with a jolly good time, and the dissatisfied were sent on their way next morning in full praise of the “new arrangement,” which became the most popular and best-patronized through fare route of any previous combination of the kind ever made in Ohio.
Railroads developed their importance rapidly, as did also the officers and employes. The systematic training and experimental management of roads have accomplished wonders in nationalizing the people of the United States. And by the reports of the Commissioner of “Railroads and Telegraph,” no necessity exists any longer for Ohio roads to compromise or give drawbacks to patrons in order to hold their influence and business. At least it would seem so, when the roads within the state, in 1894, carried twenty-seven million, two hundred and thirty-one thousand passengers, and fifty-nine millions, six hundred and thirty-nine tons of freight—earning sixty million, one hundred and forty thousand, eight hundred and thirty-one dollars; giving employment to fifty-four thousand, seven hundred persons, whose salaries amounted to a fraction less than thirty million, six hundred thousand dollars in aggregate. All this great wealth and industry has arisen from exceedingly small and crude beginnings.
Profitable private enterprises resulting from railroad investments in the states, at the commencement of the fifties, awakened a dozing Congress to the national importance of the subject, and in 1853, the Government commenced a road at an estimated cost that would have made the head of a Thomas Jefferson swim with constitutional objections—involving an expenditure of one hundred and thirty millions, with an additional five millions for engineering. It proved a success; the expenditure of labor enriched the people, and the road helped save the United States as a nation.
With canals, railroads, turnpikes, large crops, quick and cheap transportation, growing cities and increasing knowledge, wealth and happiness, to Ohio the sky was clear overhead, and every thing prosperous, West, East and North, until 1860. Something was transpiring South—Northern men were returning from the slave states with the belief the country was on the verge of a civil war—a gigantic insurrection. Some, to whom such opinions were rendered, believed, but most Northern men made light of the idea of the South seceding, as there appeared no justifiable cause for secession or rebellion.
But there was that quarrel about the black spot on the face of the Goddess of Liberty, which had grown large and was giving pain and mortification to all her Northern friends. It was evident the disease was destroying the life as it had the beauty, unless something was done to remove or check its growth.
Consultation after consultation had from time to time been made by the wise men of the nation, ending in disagreement in regard to the etiology, pathology and treatment. Still it was evident, to both North and South, that something must be done. And the South, claiming the patient, assured the country the affection and disaffection could be removed by the law of nature Samuel Hahnemann made—“similia similibus curantur,” and retired with the intention to capture Washington before the North could make resistance, and then proclaim the slave-power, the true and lawful friend of Liberty, and insist upon a hasty recognition of the Government of the United States, by the foreign ministers at the federal capital and the leading powers of Europe. But the Southern blood could not be restrained, and the premature overt acts defeated the scheme, saved Washington, and led to the recovery of universal freedom in the United States through a prolonged and bloody law.
General Sherman says in regard to the cause of the War of the Rebellion, that “The Southern statesmen, accustomed to rule, began to perceive that the country would not always submit to be ruled by them;[29] and they believed slavery could not thrive in contact with freedom; and they had come to regard slavery as essential to their political and social existence. Without a slave caste they could have no aristocratic caste.... That the northern politicians, accustomed to follow the lead of their southern associates generally, believed that the defeat of Fremont, in 1856, as the Republican candidate for the presidency, had insured the perpetuity of the Union; the southern politicians, generally, believed that the date of its dissolution was postponed during the next presidential term, and that four years and a facile President were given them to prepare for it. And they began to do so.
“Accordingly, during Mr. Buchanan’s administration, there was set on foot throughout the Southern States a movement embodying the reorganization of the militia, the establishment and enlargement of state military academies, and the collection of arms, ammunition, and warlike materials of all kinds.
“The Federal Secretary of War, Mr. Floyd, thoroughly in the interests of the pro-slavery conspirators, aided them by sending to the arsenals in the slave states large quantities of the national arms and military supplies; the quotas of the Southern States under the militia laws were anticipated in some cases by several years; and he caused large sales of arms to be secretly made, at low prices, to the agents of those states.[30]
“The pro-slavery leaders then began, quietly, to select and gather around them the men whom they needed and upon whom they thought they could rely.
“Among the men they fixed upon was Captain Sherman.... It was explained to him that the object of establishing the State Military Academy at Alexandria, was to aid in suppressing negro insurrections, to enable the state to protect her borders, ... and to form a nucleus for defense in case of an attack by a foreign enemy.”
Captain Sherman did not remain long in his high salaried office before he saw enough to convince an intelligent mind war was near at hand, and on January 18, 1861, he sent in his resignation to the Governor, as follows:
“Sir: As I occupy a quasi-military position under this state, I deem it proper to acquaint you that I accepted such position when Louisiana was a state in the Union, and when the motto of the seminary, inserted in marble over the main door, was: ‘By the liberality of the general Government of the United States—the Union—Esto Perpetua.’ Recent events foreshadow a great change, and it becomes all men to choose. If Louisiana withdraws from the Federal Union, I prefer to maintain my allegiance to the old Constitution as long as a fragment of it survives, and my longer stay here would be wrong in every sense of the word. In that event, I beg you will send or appoint some authorized agent to take charge of the arms and munitions of war here, belonging to the state, or direct me what disposition should be made of them.
“And furthermore, as president of the board of supervisors, I beg you to take immediate steps to relieve me as superintendent the moment the state determines to secede, for on no earthly account will I do an act, or think any thought, hostile to or in defiance of the old Government of the United States.”
Up to this date, Captain Sherman was not much known as a lawyer or statesman, and as a military genius, the South found they had mis-measured his patriotism and that which constituted his make-up. Few, if any, had heard the reply of the little fatherless boy to the minister who hesitated to give him the name of “a heathen,” (Tecumseh,) in baptism.
“My father called me Tecumseh, and Tecumseh I’ll be called—If you won’t, I’ll not have any of your baptism.”
This was the character of General Sherman, whose talents were as bright as was his life, pure and courageous. At the commencement of the war he was assailed on all sides, by the petty jealousies indigenous to public life; but nothing could retard his progress to the front, any more than it could his march to the sea—one of Ohio’s legitimate “Squirrel Hunters” born with his hand on Esau’s heel.
The war came, and on the 12th day of April, 1861, the first gun was fired. The Government was not alarmed, but was firm in the determination to preserve the Union at all cost, and looked upon the prospects of final success of secession as impossible against the will of the vast population and resources of the North-western States, and held to the truth of General Jackson’s answer to Calhoun: “Secession is treason, and the penalty for treason is death.”
At the outbreak of the Rebellion, the State of Kentucky had a governor named Beriah Magoffin. He had by some unknown means escaped the familiar Kentucky military title, and was known simply as “Beriah Magoffin, the Secessionist.” Beriah concocted a brilliant scheme, and gave out a manifesto that “Kentucky will not sever connection from the National Government, nor take up arms for either belligerent party, but arm herself for the preservation of peace within her borders, and a mediator to effect a just and honorable peace.”
But when the President of the United States called on Kentucky for volunteers to defend the Union, he received the reply: “I say emphatically that Kentucky will furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of subduing her sister Southern States.” On hearing of the reply of Governor Beriah Magoffin, the Governor of Ohio immediately telegraphed the War Department, “If Kentucky will not fill her quota, Ohio will fill it for her.” And within two days, two regiments were on the road to the credit of Kentucky, and other regiments came in so rapidly, that within a few days after the announcement of quotas, the Adjutant-General stated the offers of troops from Ohio were enough to fill the full quota of seventy-five thousand men allotted to the entire country.
The people of Ohio, and especially some in Cincinnati, became indignant at the muddle in which Kentucky had placed herself, causing Cincinnati to occupy an extra-hazardous position. The Governors of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois foresaw the tempting prize Cincinnati would be to the Confederates, and early urged the policy of seizing Louisville, Paducah, Columbus, Covington, Newport and the railroads. But this wise suggestion was postponed in its execution for want of troops, until the opportunity became lost. Columbus was strongly garrisoned, Buckner had committed his treason, Bowling Green was fortified, Tennessee was gone, and Kentucky held back all the armies of the West until March, 1862.[31]
Still, for the kindness, Kentucky came near getting Ohio into trouble during the second year of the war. And this, too, at a time when the Union forces were scattered and disseminated by disasters, disease, and desertions until the War Department showed an inability to maintain many important positions, especially in the border states. Rebel raids were moving in several directions. John Morgan, with his cavalry, found the City of Cincinnati defenseless and virtually besieged. Rough secession citizens were rioting, mobbing, and destroying property of peaceable persons of African descent, requiring “one thousand” extra policemen to save enough of the boodle to make an inducement for rebel raiders to call that way.
The cultivated hatred and unlawful acts toward the colored race prevailed to such a large extent by Cincinnati rebels and sympathizers, that the sentiments of officials were so uncertain that, when danger was in sight and the city came under the management of men who had actually taken side with the Federal Government, the police were required to take the oath of allegiance in a body as their official certificate of loyalty.
The rebel element was disappointed that John Morgan and cavalry did not attempt to take the city, which was joy and gladness to the Union portion of the inhabitants. But new and more alarming trouble to the loyal citizen was approaching. The Union forces had just met with disaster at Richmond, and General Kirby Smith had entered Lexington with Morgan and started an army for Cincinnati.
Bragg was just crossing the Kentucky line for Louisville, and no time could be lost. Cincinnati was without preparation or means of defense, and all was literally blue around recruiting offices; government troops were powerless, for want of time, and the emergency was great, for the rebels were near at hand.
If the Federal forces were ever at any time subject to despondency and discouragements it would have been excusable during July and August of 1862. General McClellan had been recalled from the Peninsula, Pope driven back and forced to seek refuge in the defenses of Washington, raids were menacing the borders of the free states, and many were claiming the war “a failure.”
General Wallace had been placed in command for the protection of the cities of Cincinnati, Covington, and Newport, and arrived in Cincinnati at nine o’clock at night, September 1st. And after consultation with Governor Tod and the mayors of the above-named cities, wrote his proclamation of martial law, and after midnight sent it to the city papers.
While this was going on, the Governor was busily engaged at the telegraph station. He knew the power and the loyalty of the “Squirrel Hunters.” As one of their number, he asked them to come—to come without delay, and to come armed—and then telegraphed to the Secretary of War, that a large rebel force was moving against Cincinnati, “but it would be successfully met.” He had faith in the expected troops. Though fresh from the rural districts, they all knew how to shoot; all fellow “Squirrel Hunters,” never known to turn their backs to the enemy with the trusty rifle in hand.
History tells the result. Whitelaw Reid says of the next morning:
“Before daybreak the advance of the men that were thenceforward to be known in the history of the state as the ‘Squirrel Hunters’ were filing through the streets.”
The citizens knew little or nothing of what had been transpiring throughout the night, and when aroused by the tramp, tramp, tramp, and as they gazed out upon the dimly-lighted streets, the greater their wonderment grew. Armed men, with all shades, colors, and kinds of uniforms! No one, awakening from sweet slumber, could say from what country, place, or planet, such a vast multitude could have dropped during the night. It could be seen the army was not blue enough for federals, nor gray enough for rebels; and “good Lord, good devil,” was about all that could be said.
In due time the morning papers came, announcing the city under martial law and protected by the “Squirrel Hunters” of Ohio, and the excitement became so great that many expressed themselves much after the fashion of “the little woman who went to market all on a market day.”
For patriotism, executive ability, and business talents, Governor Tod had few equals. With him the line of duty was always clear. Before General Wallace had written his proclamation of martial law the Governor was on his way to Cincinnati. From this point he at once telegraphed to the people, press, and military committees, saying: “Our southern border is threatened with invasion.... Gather up all the arms and furnish yourselves with ammunition for the same.... The soil of Ohio must not be invaded by the enemies of our glorious government. Do not wait. None but armed men will be received.”
“From morning till night the streets resounded with the tramp of armed men, marching to the defense of the city. From every quarter of the state they came, in every form of organization, with various species of arms. The ‘Squirrel Hunters,’ in their homespun, with powder-horn and buckskin pouch, ... all poured out from the railroad depots and down toward the pontoon bridge. The ladies of the city furnished provisions by the wagon load; the Fifth-street market-house was converted into a vast free eating saloon for the ‘Squirrel Hunters.’ Halls and warehouses were used as barracks.”
Pontoon Bridge, Ohio River.
As soon as it was known the city was under martial law, the sounds of hammers and saws came up from the river, and in a few hours a pontoon bridge was stretched across to Covington, and streams of wagons loaded with lumber and other materials for fortifications were passing over; and on the 4th of September Governor Tod telegraphed to General Wright, commander of the department: “I have now sent you for Kentucky twenty regiments. I have twenty-one more in process of organization,” and the next day said to the press:
“The response to my proclamation asking volunteers for the protection of Cincinnati was most noble and generous. All may feel proud of the gallantry of the people of Ohio. No more volunteers are required for the protection of Cincinnati.”
The exertions of the city were, however, not abated. Judge Dickson organized a colored brigade for labor on the fortifications. This with the daily details of three thousand white citizens, composed of judges, lawyers, merchant princes, clerks, day-laborers, artists, ministers, editors, side by side, kept at work with the ax, spade, pick, and shovel, and all promised the same wages—a dollar per day—went on most enthusiastically.
The engineers had given shape to the fortifications. General Wallace was vigilant night and day, as the rebel forces gradually moved up as if intending an attack. The Squirrel Hunters were drilled during the day and manned the trenches every night, and it was no longer a possibility that the forces under General Kirby Smith could take the city. But, owing to a few skirmishes, Major-General Wright, commander of the department, thought it prudent to call for more “Squirrel Hunters,” as it was believed a general engagement was near at hand. The papers of the city, September 11th, announced that before they were distributed the sound of artillery might be heard on the heights of Covington, and advised their readers to keep cool, as the city was safe beyond question.
It was under these circumstances Governor Tod sent the following telegram to “The Press of Cleveland”—“To the several Military Committees of Northern Ohio:
“Columbus, Sept. 10, 1862.
“By telegram from Major-General Wright, commander-in-chief of Western forces, received at two o’clock this morning, I am directed to send all armed men that can be raised immediately to Cincinnati. You will at once exert yourselves to execute this order. The men should be armed, each furnished with a blanket and at least two days’ rations. Railroad companies are requested to furnish transportation of troops to the exclusion of all other business.”
The expected attack did not come. “General Wallace gradually pushed out his advance a little, and the Rebel pickets fell back. By the 11th, all felt that the danger was over. On the 12th, General Smith’s hasty retreat was discovered. On the 13th, Governor Tod checked the movements of the Squirrel Hunters, announced the safety of Cincinnati, and expressed his congratulations.
“Columbus, September 13, 1862.
Eight o’clock A. M.“To the Press of Cleveland:
“Copy of dispatch this moment received from Major-General Wright, at Cincinnati: ‘The enemy is retreating. Until we know more of his intention and position, do not send any more citizen-troops to this city.’” And the Governor’s dispatch to the Cleveland Press, accompanying the good news from Major-General Wright, says: “The generous response from all parts of the state to the recent call, has won additional renown for the people of Ohio. The news which reached Cincinnati, that the patriotic men all over the state were rushing to its defense, saved our soil from invasion, and hence all good citizens will feel grateful to the patriotic men who promptly offered their assistance.”
The clear-minded Governor Tod, without troops, guns or works of defense, telegraphed the Secretary of War that a large Rebel force was moving on Cincinnati, “but it, would be successfully met;” thirteen days after wired the following:
“Columbus, September 13, 1862.
“To Hon. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War,
Washington, D. C.“The Squirrel Hunters responded gloriously to the call for the defense of Cincinnati—thousands reached the city, and thousands more were en route for it. The enemy having retreated, all have been ordered back. This uprising of the people is the cause of the retreat. You should acknowledge publicly this gallant conduct.”
The entire North-west resounded with praises for Governor Tod and his thoughtful and successful expedient. To the “Squirrel Hunters,” it was not an entirely new thing; they had often heard of the times when their fathers were the actors at Cleveland, Fort Meigs and the Miamies, and bore their honors with a degree of modesty becoming their military equipments. When Lewis Wallace, Major-General commanding, bid these gallant men farewell, he said: “In coming time, strangers viewing the works on the hills of Newport and Covington, will ask, ‘Who built these intrenchments?’[32] You can answer—‘We built them.’ If they ask ‘Who guarded them?’ You can reply—‘We helped in thousands.’ If they inquire the result, your answer will be—‘The enemy came and looked at them, and stole away in the night.’ You have won much honor; keep your organizations ready to win more. The people of Ohio appreciated this noble act of the ‘Squirrel Hunters,’ in saving the City of Cincinnati, by turning back the Rebel army and prevented the destruction of property by a dissolute and desperate army.”
And the Ohio Legislature, at its next session adopted the following resolution:
“Resolved, By the Senate and House of Representatives of the State of Ohio, That the Governor be and he is hereby authorized and directed to appropriate out of his contingent fund a sufficient sum to pay for printing and lithographing discharges for the patriotic men of the state who responded to the call of the governor and went to the southern border to repel the invader, who will be known in history as ‘The Squirrel Hunters,’
“James R. Hubbell,
Speaker of the House of Representatives.
P. Hitchcock,
President pro tem. of the Senate.
Columbus, March 11, 1863.”