a bushel of fleas across a barn floor.(7) From the military point of view it was no time to attempt an advance.  Against the military argument, three political arguments loomed dark in the minds of the Cabinet; there was the clamor of the Northern majority; there were the threats of the politicians who were to assemble in Congress, July fourth; there was the term of service of the volunteers which had been limited by the proclamation to three months.  Late in June, the Cabinet decided upon the political course, overruled the military advisers, and gave its voice for an immediate advance into Virginia.  Lincoln accepted this rash advice.  Scott yielded.  General Irwin McDowell was ordered to strike a Confederate force that had assembled at Manassas.(8) On the fourth of July, the day Congress met, the government made use of a coup de theatre.  It held a review of what was then considered a “grand army” of twenty-five thousand men.  A few days later, the sensibilities of the Congressmen were further exploited.  Impressionable members were “deeply moved,” when the same host in marching order passed again through the city and wheeled southward toward Virginia.  Confident of victory, the Congressmen spent these days in high debate upon anything that took their fancy.  When, a fortnight later, it was known that a battle was imminent, many of them treated the Occasion as a picnic.  They took horses, or hired vehicles, and away they went southward for a jolly outing on the day the Confederacy was to collapse.  In the mind of the unfortunate General who commanded the expedition a different mood prevailed.  In depression, he said to a friend, “This is not an army.  It will take a long time to make an army.  But his duty as a soldier forbade him to oppose his superiors; the poor fellow could not proclaim his distrust of his army in public."(9) Thoughtful observers at Washington felt danger in the air, both military and political.

Sunday, July twenty-first, dawned clear.  It was the day of the expected battle.  A noted Englishman, setting out for the front as war correspondent of the London Times, observed “the calmness and silence of the streets of Washington, this early morning.”  After crossing the Potomac, he felt that “the promise of a lovely day given by the early dawn was likely to be realized to the fullest”; and “the placid beauty of the scenery as we drove through the woods below Arlington” delighted him.  And then about nine o’clock his thoughts abandoned the scenery.  Through those beautiful Virginia woods came the distant roar of cannon.

At the White House that day there was little if any alarm.  Reports received at various times were construed by military men as favorable.  These, with the rooted preconception that the army had to be successful, established confidence in a victory before nightfall.  Late in the afternoon, the President relieved his tension by taking a drive.  He had not returned when, about six o’clock, Seward appeared and asked hoarsely where he was.  The secretaries told him.  He begged them to find the President as quickly as possible.  “Tell no one,” said he, “but the battle is lost.  The army is in full retreat.”