Deserter Country: Civil War Opposition in the Pennsylvania Appalachians 9780823237562

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Deserter Country

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Deserter Country Civil War Opposition in the Pennsylvania Appalachians Robert M. Sandow

Fordham University Press New York 2009

Copyright 䉷 2009 Fordham University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sandow, Robert M. Deserter country : Civil War opposition in the Pennsylvania Appalachians / Robert M. Sandow.—1st ed. p. cm.—(The North’s Civil War) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8232-3051-8 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Pennsylvania—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Protest movements. 2. Pennsylvania—Politics and government—1861–1865. 3. Appalachians (People)—Pennsylvania—History—19th century. 4. Appalachians (People)—Pennsylvania—Politics and government—19th century. 5. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Protest movements. 6. United States—Politics and government—1861–1865. I. Title. F153.S24 2009 973.7’12097487—dc22 2008050384 Printed in the United States of America 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1 First edition

For Miyuki and Mark

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Contents

List of figures and tables Acknowledgments Introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6

Epilogue Appendix Notes Bibliography Index

ix xi 1 The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia 兩 14 Patterns of Protest: The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857 兩 28 The Limits of Patriotism: Early Mobilization in the Mountains 兩 44 The Rhetoric of Loyalty: Partisan Perspectives on Treason 兩 61 Everyday Resistance in Pennsylvania’s Deserter Country 兩 99 ‘‘Collisions with the People’’: Federal Intervention in Deserter Country 兩 117 Contested Memories of the Civil War 兩 139 Supplemental Figures 兩 147 179 219 231

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Figures and Tables

Figures A.1 A.2 A.3 A.4 A.5 A.6 A.7 A.8 A.9 A.10 A.11 A.12 A.13 A.14 A.15 A.16 A.17 A.18 A.19 A.20 A.21 A.22 A.23 A.24 A.25 A.26 A.27

Pennsylvania in 1860 Town Centers of the Lumber Region, 1860 Farm Values, Burnside Township, Clearfield County, 1860 Landform Regions of Pennsylvania Counties of Lowest Population Density, 1860 Imbalances of White Men Ages 20–39, 1860 Lowest Percentage of Total Land in Farms, 1860 Predominance of Farms under 50 acres, 1860 Counties of Lowest Total Manufacture, 1860 Lumbering as a Primary Manufacture, 1860 Greatest Output of Sawn Lumber, 1860 Capital Invested in Sawmills, 1860 Rivers and Creeks of the Lumber Region Masthead of the Raftsman’s Journal Rafting Scene on the West Branch of the Susquehanna, 1866 Irvin’s Mill at Curwensville, 1878 The Shift of the American Logging Frontier, 1840–1923 Pennsylvania White Pine, 1880 Total Enlistments by County Geographic Distribution of Three-month Volunteer Companies Geographic Distribution of the Pennsylvania Reserve Corps Prominent Occupations of Pennsylvania Three-month Soldiers The St. Mary’s Resolutions Constitution of the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ The 18th and 19th Provost Marshal Districts in Pennsylvania James V. Bomford Richard I. Dodge

147 148 149 150 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 167 169 171 172 173

Figures and Tables

x

A.28 A.29 A.30

Frederick A. H. Gaebel The Fishing Creek Expedition, Columbia County The Clearfield Expedition

174 175 176

Most Valuable Manufactures in Pennsylvania, 1860 Occupations of Pennsylvania Three-month Soldiers

177 178

Tables A.1 A.2

Acknowledgments

A project of this length is sustained by the guidance, friendship, and support of many people. While I am indebted to a multitude of friends, colleagues, mentors, and institutional staff, any faults of this work are my own. I am sincerely thankful for the vital funding I received through the George and Ann Richards Civil War Era Center and the Department of History at the Pennsylvania State University. In addition, I am grateful to the Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, Harrisburg, for a fellowship to research at the Pennsylvania State Archives as a scholar-in-residence. I also wish to acknowledge the invaluable assistance from many archivists and librarians who guided me through my labors, with special mention to those at the National Archives and Records Administration and the Clearfield County Historical Society. Richard T. Hughes of Clearfield was especially helpful in sharing his information on county history, introducing me to local people, and including me in remarkable events such as the commemorative re-enactment of ‘‘Bloody Knox.’’ At Penn State, I was aided by many encouraging professors and graduate colleagues. Professors Sally McMurry, Gregory Smits, and Deryck Holdsworth served as members of my dissertation committee. Professor Mark E. Neely, Jr. read the Introduction and Chapter 4 critically, offering keen insight and suggestions. Dr. Neely is the consummate iconoclast, driven to challenge even the most entrenched paradigms against the weight of historical evidence. He is a model historian in many ways. I am also obliged to Professors Carol Reardon and Gary W. Gallagher for their rigorous models of teaching and scholarship. My greatest intellectual debt is to my advisor, Professor William A. Blair, whom I consider a mentor and friend. His careful reading, thoughtful analysis, and intellectual prodding have improved this project measurably. I cannot imagine having completed this work without his generous direction and encouragement. I owe special thanks for the help of graduate friends at Penn State. Jonathan Berkey, Christina Ericson, Barbara Gannon, Tristan Jolivette, David Smith, and Mike Smith gave useful critiques on portions of the manuscript. Fellow Gettysburgian Scott Webster unselfishly opened his apartment to me on an extended research trip to Washington, D.C. Chris Ericson was an endless source of cheer

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during my studies. Andrew Slap helped me to survive graduate school and always lends his kindness and intellect to assist a friend. He listened and read about what he derided as my ‘‘cowardly lumbermen’’ long after the resolve of others had failed. I thank Paul A. Cimbala of Fordham University, editor of Fordham University Press’s series ‘‘The North’s Civil War,’’ for enthusiastically supporting this project through publication. I am also grateful to the careful editorial assistance of Eric Newman and Mildred Sanchez, the Press’s managing editor and the book’s copy editor, respectively. In addition, I acknowledge the efforts of Daniel W. Crofts, of the College of New Jersey, who generously read the manuscript and made numerous helpful suggestions for its improvement. Family members have made this project possible. I thank Nobuyuki and Hideko Ogihara for their generosity and kindness, overcoming the barriers of distance and language. Chris Galloway went beyond the duties of a brother and kindly read a chapter from my dissertation. Laurie Galloway probably wondered if I would ever finish but loved and encouraged me as a mother all the same. I give my greatest thanks to Miyuki for her unending patience and understanding in the completion of this work. This project has spanned key milestones in my life, as I became a teacher, a husband, and the father of Mark Takumi. For all the moments lost to them in this research and for the many other ways my life is made better because of them, I dedicate this book to Miyuki and Mark.

Deserter Country

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Introduction

T

his work is a study of war opposition, an ‘‘inner civil war,’’ in the Pennsylvania Appalachians. It pursues the basic question why some rural northerners opposed the Civil War even to the point of violence. In its conception, it combines a regional study of the northern mountains with an examination into the causes and meaning of wartime protest. It argues that specific social, political, and economic factors contributed to the prevalence of antiwar attitudes there. Although the Appalachian Mountains extend into the North, scholars of the Civil War have focused predominantly on their southern reaches—a region noted for the development of thorny resistance to the rebel government. Scholars of the Confederate war have drawn increasing attention to the complex struggle between Unionists, the disaffected, and Confederate Loyalists, most notably in the mountainous border areas. The people of the southern Appalachians were divided in their loyalty to Confederate independence. On the periphery of state authority, these communities developed strong regional identities nurturing traditions of autonomy and local government. Kinship and community fashioned the hierarchy of their loyalty. Wartime hardships intensified the internal divisions of the mountain South. Many southerners grew to resent the intrusion of the Confederate government with its increased demand for volunteers and seizure of military supplies. Yeomen farmers of the upland South lived more closely to the margins of subsistence, and the disruptions of labor and food threatened family survival. As border communities in the path of Union military advances, they faced additional pressures. When armies advanced and retreated, issues of loyalty had profound implications for the people who lived there. Soldiers on both sides justified the capture of food and sometimes the destruction of property belonging to the enemy. In the uncertainty of the Civil War, hardships and bitterness fractured neighborhoods into warring factions that continued their bloody feuds even after the armies departed.1 In its social and economic patterns, the heavily forested Pennsylvania Appalachians shared traits common to the South. The similarities of mountain experiences suggest that scholars rethink the boundaries of conflict. Like the southern mountains, a sparse population lived scattered across vast daunting

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woodlands. Railroads had not yet connected its interior with regional rail networks, leaving rural folk imperfectly connected to the market economy. Ties of kinship and community provided crucial aids to survival on the region’s poor farms. Traditions of localism in civic affairs cultivated self-reliance and a distrust of outside authority. Many people in the lumber region resented the expansion of federal authority during the war and its demands on household labor and finances. For some, poverty and the needs for family survival were justifiable excuses for avoiding military service. Additionally, the rugged terrain of the Pennsylvania Appalachians provided a safe haven for a spectrum of dissenting individuals including yeoman farmers, mobile laborers without the attachment of community and family, and true desperadoes with criminal intentions. Despite similarities, there were some very significant contrasts between the northern and southern Appalachians, with slavery being the most important. In the southern mountains, slaveholding was marginal and state politics was shaped largely by the contending interests of low-country planters and upcountry yeomen. Southern mountaineers did not reject slavery, however, and agreed fundamentally with its underlying racial assumptions and benefits for white society. Another major difference stemmed from changing economic conditions in the northern mountains, especially Pennsylvania. In the 1850s, capitalist entrepreneurs increased their exploitation of natural resources including coal, timber, and oil. Economic development transformed the remote regions of the state into battlegrounds of competing interests between entrepreneurs, small farmers, and mobile wageworkers. Readily available work attracted European immigrants, a population largely absent in the southern mountains. Differing circumstances affected the actions of ordinary people. Outside of the south-central portions of the state, Pennsylvanians did not suffer under armies of occupation. The lumber region did not become a war zone threatening the destruction of property and life. The central authority of the Confederacy also made far greater exactions upon its citizens than the Lincoln government, drafting a higher proportion of men and claiming the right to freely requisition military goods from civilians. Southerners, however, had the impetus to fight for their own soil and the protection of their families. The northern war was more distant, requiring greater ideological fortitude than that of the foe. Influenced by these dissimilarities, violence between civilians was arguably less intense in Pennsylvania than in the contested border regions of the Confederacy. Though nearly impossible to measure, personal harm was less frequent and behavior typically more limited to threats and moderate physical confrontations. This research uncovered no proof of civilian murders motivated by war

Introduction

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politics.2 Most violent actions were directed against representatives of the federal government. Pennsylvania differed from the southern mountains where the abundance of partisan organizations blurred the lines between civilian and soldier. Southern violence also reflected the disintegration of law and order that remained intact in the mountains of the Keystone State. Not only were the levels of hostility different, but so were the targets of aggression. In southern border communities, Unionists and Loyalists waged reciprocal campaigns of recrimination. Cycles of violence intensified the longstanding feuds between neighbors even after the war had ended. In the lumber region, violence typically went in one direction. It was the ‘‘loyal’’ citizens supporting the war who complained most bitterly of threats and intimidation. Except for the destruction of Democratic newspapers, the historical record reveals far fewer attacks by civilians upon Democrats. This research also looks beyond the Appalachian circumstances of the region to encompass political issues of loyalty and patriotism. It explores the sensitive issue of wartime dissent that has divided Americans throughout our nation’s history. In many ways, the subject of war opposition is timely and current events affirm the relevance of a people that question the causes and conduct of war. Much like the peace wing of the Democratic Party during the Civil War, opponents of America’s military conflicts today face charges of disloyalty and cowardice. Americans have never felt the same about expressions of antiwar sentiment and attitudes have shifted dramatically over time. The carnage and seeming fruitlessness of World War I disillusioned many in that generation into pacifism and isolation in world affairs. Much of that outlook was eradicated in the enthusiastic embrace of World War II, widely seen as a ‘‘Good War’’ against evil and totalitarianism.3 The Vietnam generation had inherited their parents’ patriotic ideals but struggled with the turmoil of a deeply divisive war that fostered pervasive antiwar protests. All these events and more have influenced historians of the Civil War to either examine or shun dissenters, to castigate or sympathize. There is no scholarly consensus, as the binary conceptions of disloyal traitor versus ‘‘loyal opposition’’ continue to shape writings on dissent, consciously or not. One of the enduring problems of interpreting political dissent during the war is the aggressive white racism of the Democratic Party that makes their antiwar sentiments so unappealing. A historian must not be their apologist but neither should their outspoken critique of the war be cast aside as the ranting of traitors and cowards. Why did some northerners oppose the war and go against the grain of a public discourse that emphasized ‘‘loyalty,’’ sacrifice, patriotism, and commitment to the Union cause? Interpreting these actions is difficult given the paucity of primary sources written by dissenters that could shed light on their

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reasons. This scarcity is more acute when examining northerners on the economic margins of society, both rural and urban. To make up for this lack, historians must try to recover the social, political, and economic context of their lives looking for meaning in their actions. Before peering into the history of Pennsylvania’s mountain communities, it is useful to outline how scholars have typically explained the motivations for protest. To explain dissent, historical interpretations generally draw on a number of categories of analysis stressing socioeconomic, political, racial, or what might be termed human factors. In truth, the motives for individual actions are complex; none of these factors can be mutually exclusive. Historians often emphasize elements selectively in ways that reflect their own viewpoints or the tenor of their intellectual times. Republicans fashioned the earliest dominant interpretation of Democratic opposition during the war itself. They charged Peace Democrats with treason and disloyalty, labeled them ‘‘Copperheads’’ for their scheming venomous attacks, and considered them a ‘‘fire in the rear’’ materially undermining the war effort. They branded war opponents as southern sympathizers and claimed that Democrats formed widespread secret societies, determined to resist the federal government with force of arms if necessary. Fantastic tales of a bugaboo society dubbed the ‘‘Knights of the Golden Circle’’ were a staple of the Republican press, warping the true goals and character of Democratic opposition. Republican conspiracy theories pictured widespread plots to remove Midwestern states from the Union through the formation of a Northwest Confederacy. Anxieties over sinister secret societies were a potent and psychologically arresting tool to shape voter loyalty.4 The paradigm of disloyal Copperheads continues to influence the literature on Civil War politics, and dominates popular history of the war. Certainly some Democrats were cowards, as Republicans asserted, but so too were many Republicans. Lack of courage is but one of many possible human weaknesses that may have impelled some northerners to oppose the war. For the historian, such individual motives present an almost insurmountable problem given the overwhelming human tendency to hide or deny our own faults. From the end of the Civil War to the period of World War I, few writers looked upon wartime opposition in a favorable light. A recent scholar of the Democratic Party referred to this silence on the subject as ‘‘malign neglect.’’5 After the Civil War, Republicans continued to hold firm to the depiction of disloyal Copperheads in support of their ‘‘bloody shirt’’ politics. Though this motif disappeared gradually from Republican speeches in the 1880s, its longevity suggests its lingering appeal among voters.6 Even as Civil War studies entered the dispassionate hands of professional scholars, there was no serious

Introduction

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inquiry or reevaluation of the antiwar movement until the 1920s. By the 1890s, reconciliation and the patriotic boost of the Spanish-American War encouraged a ‘‘nationalist’’ interpretation of American history that continued to view ‘‘Copperheads’’ as partisan obstructionists.7 Democratic opposition received a significant reinterpretation with the rise of ‘‘revisionist’’ history in the 1920s. Led by historians Avery O. Craven and others, revisionists were among those disillusioned by America’s entry into World War I. In many ways, they re-evaluated the past through the lens of their newly formed antiwar sentiment. They deemed the Civil War a ‘‘needless war’’ and praised the efforts of compromisers. They denounced abolitionists as agitating extremists and redeemed the image of Democratic opposition as a voice of sanity and restraint. They were critical of emotional appeals to patriotism and manipulation of the machinery of state in support of a war agenda.8 It is ironic that revisionists essentially championed the view held by wartime Democrats that the conflict was both avoidable and the product of extremists. Despite this more favorable view of opposition, however, professional historians wrote little about the wartime years, leaving the unfashionable subject to armchair military authors. America’s role in World War II influenced historians to reassert the paradigm of disloyal Copperheads. The public at large perceived the struggle as a ‘‘Good War’’ against evil and totalitarianism. While revisionism remained a viable force among academics, a number of studies reflected the shift in attitudes toward war and dissent. Two notable works on Peace Democrats emerged, both reinforcing the view of Copperheads as partisan traitors. The year 1942 saw the publication of Wood Gray’s The Hidden Civil War: The Story of the Copperheads and George Fort Milton’s Abraham Lincoln and the Fifth Column.9 As the only trained historian of the two, Gray’s work deserves the most scrutiny. After considerable research, he was essentially converted to the Republican view, accepting the secret societies and charges of subversion as fact. Gray excused the majority of rank-and-file Copperheads as poor, ignorant, and foolish but heaped calumny upon party leaders. He condemned them as willful manipulators who misled voters and endangered the nation.10 As the works of Gray and Milton won modest praise, Frank L. Klement was honing the most vigorous assault on the Republican depiction of Copperheadism. Klement was a prodigious writer whose dominant theme emerged with the 1960 publication of his book The Copperheads in the Middle West. Drawing considerable criticism from historians, Klement’s vast body of work undermined Republican charges of disloyalty and subversion. He characterized Midwestern peace advocates as agrarian conservatives in the Jeffersonian tradition motivated by a web of socioeconomic, religious, and regional conditions. He

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systematically surveyed and debunked the Republican Copperhead myth of secret societies and Confederate sympathies and crossed swords with scholars who challenged his assertions. Klement could not deny the darker side of Democratic dissent, and admitted that ‘‘Negrophobia’’ and the spirit of ‘‘partyism’’ could animate their actions. He tended to see these elements as more limited and episodic, stressing instead the party’s defense of civil liberties against dramatic changes in American government and society. Even those who disagreed with his fundamental assertions grudgingly acknowledged his depth of research and commitment to evidence. No serious scholar since can deny Republican exaggerations concerning their political foes.11 The idea that Democrats were merely disloyal traitors and southern sympathizers was also challenged by the rise of the ‘‘new political history.’’ Favoring quantification and analysis, scholars of politics plumbed voting statistics along with documentary evidence to assess party structures, methods, and voter behavior. One of the most significant works regarding the Democratic Party appeared in 1977 by Joel H. Silbey. His A Respectable Minority: The Democratic Party in the Civil War Era, 1860–1868, the only book-length treatment of the Democratic Party in the period, argued among other things that Democratic opposition was ‘‘respectable.’’ He depicted the party as divided between partisan ‘‘legitimists’’ and principled ‘‘purists’’ who struggled for control and power. He also asserted that Democratic leaders obeyed a ‘‘partisan imperative’’ that was constitutionally conservative in nature but consistently maintained their status as a minority. Klement among others criticized Silbey for ignoring the socioeconomic underpinnings of party loyalty.12 A Respectable Minority improved upon Klement in one important regard: it addressed the underlying racism of the Democratic appeal. Klement’s research accomplished a great deal but it played down a major theme of Democratic opposition—the pervasive white supremacy espoused by party leaders. Ohio Congressman Samuel S. Cox summarized the basic conviction of many in his party in an 1862 speech: ‘‘I have been taught in the history of this country that these Commonwealths and this Union were made for white men; that this Government is a Government of white men; that the men who made it never intended by anything they did, to place the black race on an equality with the white.’’13 Practically all mainstream historical writings on the subject avoided serious discussions of racism. Historians on the margins, often black authors, had written works in the years before World War II on race and the Democratic Party that appeared in sources such as the Journal of Negro History. They outlined the racist content of Democratic speeches and writings, identifying for instance the exploitation of ‘‘miscegenation’’ fears in the 1864 election.14 The Civil Rights struggle of the 1950s and 1960s encouraged some

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historians to look anew into Civil War–era racism. Jean H. Baker devoted an entire chapter to the issue of race in her 1983 book Affairs of Party: The Political Culture of Northern Democrats in the Mid-Nineteenth Century.15 Baker’s work was an important step in addressing a crucial motivation for Democratic opposition. Her study could not dispel the unappealing nature of the Democratic Party, and the tendency toward historical silence or disinterest attests to this fundamental problem. Despite scholarly attempts to dispel the paradigm of a disloyal opposition, the old view lingers on in both academic and popular history of the war. Klement felt himself persecuted throughout his career even though his evidentiary strength has won him many converts to the cause. James M. McPherson was one of those scholars who disagreed with Klement, and his Battle Cry of Freedom: The Era of the Civil War is a good example of scholarship that considers Peace Democrats a real threat to both the war and the Lincoln administration.16 The most recent and damning book on the Copperheads was authored by Jennifer Weber, a doctoral student of McPherson. Weber’s Copperheads: The Rise and Fall of Lincoln’s Opponents in the North reasserted the Republican paradigm of Democratic treason.17 Weber disagreed fervently with Klement and stressed the perils of Copperheadism. Her book argued that resistance was not a ‘‘fringe’’ issue but materially undermined the war effort by curtailing Lincoln’s powers, discouraging enlistments, and wasting military resources on the home front. Weber’s book breathes new life into the wartime Republican interpretation of Peace Democrats and will likely influence scholarship in the near future. The divergence of opinions on political opposition, however, underscores the need for historians to look at the broad social, political, and economic context, making often difficult evaluative judgments. More importantly, however, this study is an appeal to look more closely at the causes and developments of wartime dissent rather than to turn away from it in embarrassment and shame. The widespread scholarly neglect of Civil War Democrats suggests that the taint of aggressive racism has sunk their fortunes as low or lower than the incubus of disloyalty did in the post-Civil War era. In what ways do the actions of Pennsylvania antiwar protesters conform to the interpretations laid out above? To answer this question, this book will survey broader studies on dissent in the North, looking for informative patterns. While the conflict fostered widespread discontent in the North, scholarship has largely focused on the unrest of immigrant wage-laborers and northern industrial cities as hotbeds of violent protest. Those who lived through the Civil War contributed to this emphasis. General James B. Fry was the head of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau and one of the architects of the unpopular draft laws. In his final summarizing report of the Bureau’s achievements, Fry discussed the

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roots of army desertion placing blame for the practice on immigrants from abroad. He argued that a further investigation would likely reveal ‘‘that desertion is a crime of foreign rather than native birth, and that but a small proportion of the men who forsook their colors were Americans.’’18 In the aftermath of Union victory, it was reassuring for northerners to imagine that Americans were not the cause of bloody resistance. Historians have taken cues from Fry and others, focusing on episodes such as the New York City draft riots and the confrontation of Irish miners in the Pennsylvania coalfields. Their work leads us to miss the most important fact about northern opposition. The majority of war opponents were not the immigrants living in the North’s crowded manufacturing cities but the backbone of rural America. When historians have noted the distinction, they have often failed to stress its significance for the war’s causation or outcome.19 Popular resistance undermined the northern war, nearly bringing the Union to the brink of defeat. Socioeconomic factors clearly animated antiwar sentiment among many Pennsylvanians. Labor historians especially have stressed the importance of class tensions in furthering antigovernment protest. Their historical interests influence them to focus on the workings of class formation and identity. Iver Bernstein’s nuanced study of the New York City draft riots explains how predominantly Irish wage-laborers felt their own autonomy and livelihood threatened by Republican war measures.20 Their shared ethnicity and economic vulnerability formed a crucial context for the bloodshed and rioting that ensued in July 1863. In the mountains of the Keystone State, class and ethnic identity were less important but economic concerns remained central. The social and economic impacts of war accompanied other disruptive changes in the rural economy. The extension of market forces and of industrial lumbering in particular undermined the stability of small farmers and increased young men’s dependency on migrant wage-work. Reports identified lumbering farmers and migrant wage-laborers as the core of protestors. Antebellum farmers in the mountains of Pennsylvania faced the challenge of industrial logging. For generations, small farmers in this poor agricultural region supported their families by cutting timber and floating large-scale rafts to markets. In the 1850s, many mountain farmers felt their livelihoods threatened by new methods of industrial logging. Armies of lumberjacks cut down the great trees and tumbled the logs into the rivers. Choked with floating logs, the rivers of Pennsylvania no longer supported rafting. They perceived state Republican leaders as behind these dramatic changes, urging on the accelerated exploitation of the forests. The thousands of raftsmen that once plied the inland waterways dwindled steadily under the expansion of industrial logging but they did not go quietly. After repeated failures to share the river, rafting lumbermen fought back. When

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appeals to the legislature met deaf ears, locals took up rifles and axes to redress grievances through vigilantism. A brief raftsmen’s rebellion in the late 1850s represented a pattern of protest that area residents repeated during the war. If anything, wartime demands for lumber accelerated the death of the rafting culture. This underlying economic battle caused anti-Republican bitterness to simmer beneath the surface. While the groups overlapped, they responded to different economic concerns. Industrial exploitation of the region’s coal, oil, and wood also attracted migrant wageworkers facing their own economic concerns. Coal patches, lumber camps, and the boomtowns of the oil region were chaotic landscapes devoted to extracting the rich natural resources of Pennsylvania. They drew roving young men, willing to work difficult jobs in the hopes of someday getting ahead. Their labor accommodated a certain anonymity and mobility that left little record of their efforts. When called upon to serve in the war, they effortlessly melted away. In their case, a lack of community ties freed them from the peer pressures to uphold civic duties. Cut loose from community, they were free to pursue economic self-interest. While wartime inflation outpaced the rise in wages, it was easy to find steady work at higher pay than before the war. Army wages were pitifully low and accompanied by the real possibility of death. In comparison, few were willing to miss the opportunity for good-paying jobs. Employers encouraged this practice by protecting them from the watchful eyes of the provost marshals. Political culture also shaped the opinions and responses of rural Pennsylvanians. In recent decades, historians have placed great emphasis on the importance of republicanism for early Americans. Among other things, republicanism was a widespread ideology joining political and economic considerations together under the enduring slogan ‘‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’’ Accompanying these beliefs was a distrust of centralized authority that made citizens vigilant for signs of political corruption. The heated partisan politics of the era kept the fears of the people at the forefront of political life. Scholars have shown how different groups such as wageworkers and women adapted the ideas of republicanism to their own circumstances.21 Rural landholders were particularly concerned for the rights of property owners. In the lumber region, rafting farmers fought over the use of rivers that had been designated by law as public highways for generations. In 1857, a group of landowners and laborers resisted the encroachment of commercial logging that threatened their traditional lumbering practices. Speaking on their behalf, one self-made entrepreneur explained the threat of log driving in ominous terms. ‘‘They are not woodsmen, but men backed by speculators who would sacrifice everything for the chance to make quick money. If we let them have their way they’ll fill

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Introduction

the streams with logjams, and then when there’s nothing more for them to cut and float they’ll go, leaving us with our business and occupation gone and our property rendered valueless.’’22 The author of this statement saw a common plight for regional landowners, tradesmen, and laborers. This combination opposed the expansion of logging because it directly undermined their traditional property rights and they were prepared to embrace violence in defense of economic freedom. The fight for economic rights animated state and regional politics, and local people held sharply divergent views on the role of government. In typical Jeffersonian Democratic fashion, many rural Pennsylvanians clung tightly to the ideals of limited government. Even in their midst, however, others desired to harness the power of the local, state, and federal authority for predominantly economic reasons. The defense of the Union reluctantly forced the Lincoln administration to increase the power of the central government.23 A more cynical interpretation argues that the war provided a justification for some Republicans to adopt an ambitious economic agenda. The Republican-dominated Congress enacted national currency measures, conscription, income taxes for the wealthiest, and emancipation. In addition to wartime inflation, conscription pushed some local communities to increase taxes to pay bounties and relief funds. To support such dramatic changes of federal power, Republican leaders fashioned ‘‘Loyal Leagues’’ to teach Americans that patriotism required citizens to support their government through its hour of tribulation. For many northerners, however, opposing the Lincoln government and its war measures did not violate their sense of nationalism. Democratic leaders held to subtle arguments that distinguished American institutions of government from the administration that temporarily ran them.24 The Democratic editor of Clearfield summed up this view in a clever metaphor. Old Abe’ said, when on his way to the white house, ‘that he intended to run the machine as he found it.’ Now this, Tho’ a very homely expression, and a very indefinite definition of Government, is yet sufficiently illustrative of the distinction. The Machine ‘Old Abe’ spoke of is the Government, and the running of the Machine is the Administration; so that men may differ greatly as to the best way of running it, and yet find no fault with the Machine.25 In this way, opponents of the war could feel loyal to the nation even while defying Republican measures. A distinct regional identity also acted as a counterbalance to national loyalty. Strong ties of kinship and community bound people together in the lumber

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region. The sparsely populated mountains hindered ties to outside markets and fostered a reliance on localism in daily affairs. Federal officials were distraught over the group silence they encountered in neighborhoods throughout the region. When a deputy provost marshal from Clearfield was asked why he could not get reliable information from locals, he responded, ‘‘The people of this country have intermarried until they are nearly all related to one another and often this is the reason given for refraining to go.’’26 Scholars of the Confederate Appalachians have pointed to the important bonds of neighbors and family that sustained communities in the southern mountains. In the hierarchy of allegiance, the needs of the real community often outweighed those of the ‘‘imagined community’’ of the nation.27 Additionally, racial anxieties and prejudices clearly animated war opposition in ways that are difficult to assess. By the beginning of 1863, the Emancipation Proclamation added freedom for rebel slaves to the cause of Union, changing the nature of the conflict in the minds of many. Scholars have demonstrated the link between the Democratic Party and advocacy of white supremacy. Throughout the war, strains of racism became a staple of Democratic rhetoric. The northern Appalachians contained one of the smallest proportions of black people, and they struggled in the infant towns and wild districts as farmers, laborers, and migrants. With such small numbers of black residents, it is hard to envision a viable racial tension. Nevertheless, the specter of widespread black migration into the North was a potent Democratic campaign tool, playing upon both racist and economic fears. Lumber region Democrat newspapers echoed the same racist rhetoric prevalent in the northern ‘‘Copperhead’’ press. In June 1862, a brief article appeared in an Indiana County newspaper claiming that a Johnstown iron firm had recently employed several ‘‘contrabands’’ at a quarter per day. According to the author, their employment prompted an immediate strike that induced the ‘‘abolitionist gentlemen’’ of the town to remove the black workers. The article was a clarion call for white vigilance under the declaration that ‘‘the government was made for the benefit of white men, and the white men will not submit to be crowded out by the worthless runaway negroes of the South.’’ In a later issue, the author recanted the entire article as a falsehood but it was widely reprinted and undoubtedly served the Democratic Party well.28 Even in areas with few black people, the fear of economic competition could be considerable. Clearly this has economic implications, and is central to the story of the New York City draft riots. But in other contexts, the impact of racist rhetoric is less clear. We could see the racist rhetoric as a desperate ploy to earn votes or as evidence of deep-seated voter racism that refused to accept a world of social, political, and economic integration between white and black Americans.

12

Introduction

War opposition in the northern mountains deserves study because of the sheer lack of research. Focusing on a region within Pennsylvania is also justified by the political, military and economic importance of the state and the threat posed by widespread resistance. Pennsylvania merited the title Keystone State for its sizeable population, rich resources, abundant manufactures, and proximity to the nation’s capital. Pennsylvanians closely contested each wartime election, and Democrats nearly captured the state house in the crucial year 1863. The Democratic-dominated Supreme Court also offered one of the most important constitutional challenges by a state to the national conscription laws. While Pennsylvanians contributed enormously to the Union war effort, they were also among the most violent opponents of the war. Of all the areas of opposition within the state, many contemporaries regarded the vast mountainous northwestern lumber region as the worst. A political colleague explained part of its significance to Republican Governor Andrew Gregg Curtin. The greatest drawback to the draft to recruit the army is the lumber regions. . . . Every loose fellow who is or expects to be drafted runs off to the lumber shanties into the mountains and remote districts where he finds employment and high wages. In this way the vagrants hide and lay concealed from the officers who find it impossible to catch or discover their dens.29 Ella Lonn’s classic study of Civil War desertion considered this Pennsylvania wilderness to be the North’s only true ‘‘deserter country’’ where people joined together to challenge government officials and shield army fugitives.30 Military officials wrote frequent reports bemoaning the extent and severity of resistance in the Pennsylvania Appalachians. Opponents of the war killed a number of government officials and ‘‘loyal’’ northerners felt their lives and property threatened by a ‘‘reign of terror’’ from which they beseeched federal protection. In answer to the unmitigated violence and intimidation of mountain folk, the military ordered an expedition turning the home front into a battlefront. The reelection of Abraham Lincoln was a key turning point in the antiwar movement putting an effective end to violent opposition. In the months before the election, Lincoln pessimistically predicted his own defeat. ‘‘This morning, as for some days past, it seems exceedingly probable that this Administration will not be re-elected.’’31 The provost marshal of western Pennsylvania argued that a military expedition to the deserter country could effectively bolster the war effort by subduing Democratic votes. In his request for troops, Marshal Richard I. Dodge pressed the urgency of quick action. ‘‘It is of the utmost importance that troops be moved against these people at once: First, they will all vote for the opposition.’’32 When Pennsylvanians went to the polls, they

Introduction

13

elected Lincoln by a civilian majority of less than six thousand votes in a state of nearly three million people. Many Civil War histories perpetuate the myth that the defeat at Gettysburg signaled the death knell of the Confederacy. A truer turning point may have come in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and in the thousands of communities across the North, where Lincoln’s Union Party won political victory. A Note on Methodology A historian must strive to be honest and transparent in his methodology and sources. This study grapples with the perspective of dissenters and opponents of the war who unfortunately left scant trace in the documentary record. The collections of archives and regional historical societies shed little light upon their inner thoughts. The papers of leading wartime Democrats from Pennsylvania are dreadfully silent or missing and suggest a process of self-censorship or neglect regarding the sensitive issue of opposition. The extant letters and diaries of the period overwhelmingly represent soldiers and their families, who held Copperheads with a disdain often greater than that for their Confederate foes. Regrettably, the poorest class of mountain folk who played a major role in violent resistance generated few letters and diaries. The paucity of direct sources would discourage many from proceeding. Social historians overcome such challenges by drawing on a variety of sources including manuscript censuses, legal documents, newspapers, and organizational or government records. I have used this approach with Pennsylvania’s mountain communities to fashion an interpretation of its dissenters. It is important to realize the shortcomings of these sources, however. Much of the narrative material for this study is drawn from the region’s partisan newspapers. In using these newspapers, it is wise to regard partisan bias and the limits of nineteenth-century journalism and to ask whether editorial comments represent the opinions of their constituents or are meant to influence them. Court records are often revealing but rarely contain verbatim transcripts of testimony. Another major source of information came from government records, particularly those generated by the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau as it administered the draft laws. Many of these military bureaucrats performed under adverse conditions and no doubt sought to carry out their duties conscientiously. Nevertheless, they represent the view from the other side of protest and reflected the fundamental duty to enforce public obedience to federal authority. These official records are indispensable, however, and vital to our understanding of this murky subject. In the end, I hope I have judiciously weighed and balanced sources for a compelling interpretation of wartime events.

1

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

n 1846, the prolific German travel writer Franz Von Loher observed how the Pennsylvania wilderness had shaped the character of mountain dwellers. Riding his horse into the Allegheny Mountains, he was soon overcome with ‘‘a deep sylvan desolation.’’ ‘‘Such thick and endless forests,’’ he mused, ‘‘are like a dark power of nature, depressing to the spirit. And to try singing is to hear oneself in the echoes of the first verse, and to sink back into the heavy silence of nature.’’ The forest enveloped Von Loher and he began to see his journey as one of time as well as space. Life in the wilderness seemed to trigger a reversion of cultural progress. ‘‘The longer in the forest, the further from European civilization.’’ As civilization receded from view, Von Loher contrasted the effect upon the people. ‘‘In valleys, which communicate with a much-traveled thoroughfare, farmers already have elegant homes and gardens. Yet these beginnings of culture are like a few specks scattered about the forest that runs for hundreds of miles unbroken over stretches of hills and mountains in which there are, even now, wooded acres and craggy slopes where no human sets foot the year round, where only deer and bear roam.’’ The urbane, welltraveled Von Loher could not help but pity the dwellers of the forest.

I

I went into several of their cabins and found a completely backwoods character. People live alone in the dark of the forest, cut off from all the happiness of fellowship. Life is a monotonous battle with nature every day, and thoughts go no further than the thicket that hems in home and field. To these people, axe and rifle are treasures; self-confidence and the Bible, the only sources of ideas and solace in this desolation. Silence and emptiness of wilderness, which surround these people unremittingly, fill their souls with a dismal religiosity.1 Throughout history, humans and their environment have been locked in an intimate embrace, making it essential to understand the significance of place in human affairs. In the mountains of Pennsylvania, the environment helped shape distinct social, political, and economic tensions that provided a fertile ground for Civil War opposition. From the narrow river valleys to the remote mountain districts, the people of the lumber region responded to the war in

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

15

dramatically different ways. While opposition was a direct response to wartime conditions, it also occurred within a diverse people confronting the challenges of an expanding market economy. Internal divisions between residents of the Pennsylvania Appalachians also reflected different ideologies and opposing loyalties. While conflicting political ideologies were significant, economic inequalities also contributed to wartime protest. In the Appalachian highlands of Pennsylvania, the environment placed considerable obstacles in the path of economic progress. The imposing terrain separated settlements over great distances and left residents with tenuous ties to outside people and markets. It was a region of befuddling contrasts, dominated by mountains, rivers, and seemingly endless stretches of old-growth forest. Although land was cheap and plentiful, it took a lifetime of exertions to clear the dense woodland and establish farms. Climate and mountain soils doomed most of the farms to marginal quality at best. Early settlers established reasonably productive farms in the narrow flatlands along rivers and streams. Later immigrants, however, were forced onto some of the state’s worst agricultural lands, where the dreams of family comfort proved illusory. To offset the disadvantage of small farms, agriculturalists sold timber in downriver markets. Lumber region farmers relied on the symbiotic relationship between forestry and agriculture that accompanied early settlement. While the region’s vast woodland resources would turn select capitalists into millionaires, small farmers did not share the wealth. Their simple technology and lack of capital relegated them to a minor role in the lumber trade. With only their own labor to exploit, most area farmers became marginalized as industrial exploitation of the wilderness expanded in the 1850s. Pennsylvania’s Appalachia was a multilayered society, representing distinct and often contested political and economic interests.2 The economic potential of the region attracted people whose goals for settlement and permanence differed. On the eve of the Civil War, the lumber region was both a rural backwater and an industrializing landscape with unique consequences for wartime opposition. In the small farming communities a rural, agricultural economy predominated. Poorer farming conditions were offset for a time by the vigorous exploitation of the forest. Community bonds drew different groups of people into networks of exchange and reciprocity. In that sense, the mountains of Pennsylvania shared characteristics of the southern Appalachians. Residents engaged in a dual economy, supplementing exchanges of goods and labor with occasional market transactions. The bonds between families and friends were crucial in sustaining community members through hard times.

16

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

In contrast, capitalists exploited the mountains with industrial development that threatened the livelihoods of area landholders. Beginning in the 1850s, large-scale logging dramatically increased the number of wageworkers in the region. The discovery of oil and later of bituminous coal in northwestern Pennsylvania provided additional work for thousands of young men hoping to get ahead someday.3 While many of these day laborers came from local farming families, the mobility and anonymity of wage work was the antithesis of settled community life. Industrial exploitation of the wilderness created temporary workers’ communities, characterized by an aggressive masculine culture and a fluid workforce. The terrain and resources of the Pennsylvania Appalachians shaped the economic and political conditions for both the rooted and the rootless. Small farmers who relied upon rafting feared economic marginalization in the face of expanding industrial logging. State Republicans were the foremost advocates of large-scale lumbering and their opponents had a history of violent backlash that predated the Civil War. In the late 1850s, raftsmen literally fought back against loggers in defense of their customary use of the rivers. Wageworkers presented a different challenge to Republican authority during the war. Cut from the ties of community, mobile wage laborers were free to pursue economic self-interest. Many of these hard-working young men were hesitant to forgo wartime wage increases for the poorly paid and dangerous job of soldiering. In both cases, the environment of the region contributed to unique social, political, and economic circumstances at the root of wartime opposition. Refined travelers like Franz Von Loher failed to see the social and economic diversity of the Pennsylvania Appalachians. The Bavarian affirmed that the desolate mountains stalled economic and cultural advancement that could be deemed ‘‘civilization.’’ Von Loher held a decidedly middle-class image of culture, measured in the visible material progress of prosperous farms and factories. Observing the lives of early settlers, he dismissed their toil and communities as dismal and meaningless. Yet the people of the mountains varied greatly depending on one’s vantage point. Social distinctions were manifest from the area’s earliest settlement and magnified by the expansion of the market economy in the mid-nineteenth century. The region’s oldest and most influential families bought land along the narrow river valleys of the Susquehanna’s West Branch and Allegheny River systems. Early investment in the most valuable properties insured a place of social and political prominence for their offspring. Elite families improved their standings by promoting the social and economic development of the region. They played paternalistic roles in community advancement, organizing internal

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

17

improvement companies and supporting charitable and civic projects. In addition to their work as boosters, these local elites grew wealthier through land investment, manufacturing and mercantile endeavors, and exploitation of the region’s abundant resources. With so much at stake, these successful families garnered prominent positions in politics, adopting a predominantly Whig outlook supporting state-sponsored economic improvement. They stood in the forefront of plans to develop the region’s transportation and industrial potential. Though not all were Republicans, local elites were conspicuous in support of the war effort. The Philadelphian Thomas L. Kane was representative of this group. Born into a wealthy and politically influential family, his father was a judge and his brother a famous arctic explorer. In 1856 Kane settled in Elk County as one of the directors for the Sunbury and Erie Railroad venture. He had ambitious plans for an agricultural estate supported by revenue from mining coal, raising sheep and cattle, and cultivating large tracts of land. Builders had cleared the land and piled materials for constructing his new mansion house when war broke out.4 Kane earned lasting fame as the primary organizer of the Pennsylvania ‘‘Bucktails,’’ a regiment of mountain soldiers who wore deer tails as an emblem of their wild nature. Men like Kane aspired to wealth and status, and saw the resources of the mountains as commodities. Their wealth and connections brought them a disproportionate share of profits, reflected in their fine homes and more elegant lives.5 The majority of inhabitants lived more modestly than Kane. Later migrants typically became tenants or owners of smaller upland farms, composed of simple log homes and barns. Most people did not live in towns but in scattered agricultural settlements. Williamsport and Lock Haven, both situated on the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, were the only towns with more than 2,500 people.6 The small towns like Clearfield represented the spear points of Von Loher’s civilization thrust into the forest, and formed the economic, social, and political hubs of their rural hinterlands. Area farmers went to town to trade with country merchants, to hear political speeches and vote, to pay taxes and attend court, or to get their likenesses taken by itinerant photographers. Social institutions in the countryside went little beyond churches and rudimentary schools. Those at the bottom of the social pyramid were most susceptible to failure. The descriptions for sheriff sales in local newspapers recorded the humble farms of the indebted, characterized often by their small clearings and log barns and dwellings. For those families that could not make ends meet, moving out of the region offered a solution. In one township of Clearfield County alone, 46 percent of the farm families listed in 1850 were gone a decade later.7

18

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

Ethnic diversity complicated the social structure of the Pennsylvania Appalachians and created the potential for conflicting group loyalties. With slightly less than one in ten residents of foreign birth, the lumber region approximated the average of counties outside the urban centers of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.8 Scots-Irish settlers were prominent among early settlers but the work of lumbering also attracted men of English and French backgrounds from New England and the Canadian provinces. Germans made up a significant minority, accounting for most of Elk County’s nearly 30 percent foreign-born population. In addition, smaller numbers of other immigrant groups, including Scandinavians and Irish, lived in the region. Though some Irish became agriculturalists, the census of 1860 also recorded mobile Irish laborers. In St. Mary’s, Elk County, dozens of Irishmen were preparing the path of the ambitious Sunbury and Erie Railroad project and lived in boarding houses. Ethnic ties provided an additional security to group settlements but sharpened the divides between strangers and friends. During the war, ethnic loyalties offered the potential to undermine national allegiance. The mountainous geography of the lumber region shaped local patterns of settlement and labor. While not as high as the southern Blue Ridge and Great Smoky Mountains, the northern Appalachians formed an imposing land mass that constricted westward expansion in the colonial period. They were the eroded remains of ancient continental collisions extending more than 2,000 miles from Maine through Georgia. In Pennsylvania, the Appalachian highlands encompassed the central ridge and valley region as well as the jumbled Appalachian Plateau that dominates the western and northern areas of the state.9 The lumber region occupied the highest elevations of the Appalachian Plateau and sheltered extensive remnants of old-growth white pine and hemlock forests. The lumbering of these majestic trees gave the region its name and employed thousands of agricultural laborers during the slack winter months. The distance from early settlements and the difficulties imposed by rugged terrain delayed migration into the Appalachians for decades. Philadelphia lay on a narrow coastal plain bordering the more fertile soils of the piedmont. Throughout the nineteenth century, the piedmont served as the state’s breadbasket, surpassing all other regions in agricultural production. In the mid-eighteenth century, as state officials concluded additional purchase treaties with Indian tribes, settlement extended farther north and west in layers. Here settlers found a series of sandstone ridges and limestone valleys stretching westward to the mountains. The Allegheny Front marked the transition from ridge and valley region to the higher jumbled mountains of the Appalachian Plateau.10 Running diagonally from northeast to southwest, the front was an imposing

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

19

challenge to settlement of the state’s western half. In the debate over land matters, many legislators considered the northern region to be wastelands. In 1784, Pennsylvania purchased the northwestern mountain region from the Six Nations of the Iroquois, opening the door to migration. Principal landholders of the region tried to promote community building but settlement progressed slowly through the 1820s and 1830s. The early pioneers survived by sheer tenacity alone, with limited connection to the outside world. They lived in harsh isolation, far in advance of roads, stores, mills, and community. An early settler of Potter County wrote: ‘‘It was very lonesome for several years. People would move in and stay a short time and move away again. It has been but a few years since settlers began to stick.’’ By 1820, Potter County had only 186 people in a ‘‘few straggling settlements.’’11 A number of factors encouraged more permanent settlements in the 1820s. State and land agents, along with settlers, improved roads through the forest, built bridges, and helped link people together. Better transportation routes encouraged investments in stores, mills, hotels, and other community supports. State officials helped by politically organizing the region with its own local governments to promote regional growth more directly. Group migration formed a number of the ethnic communities in the region, often as an escape from hardship and persecution. German exiles from the European revolutions of the 1840s established several settlements, including Germania in Potter County. Laboring men formed farming communities while skilled tradesmen made homes in the infant towns such as Coudersport.12 In 1844, German Catholic leaders formed the German Union Bund Society and established the St. Mary’s settlement in an area of low hills bordering Elk Creek. Some of their members had been victims of nativist attacks farther east, fomented by anti-Catholic, anti-immigrant Know-Nothing politics in Baltimore and Philadelphia. Others migrated directly from revolutionary Europe in response to booster literature that extolled the region’s supposed virtues. St. Mary’s founders allayed potential immigrants’ fears for health and farm productivity. ‘‘No better proof of the health of this colony can be had than a little journey through its streets. From every house, one can see red-cheeked and happy-looking people, as we are used to seeing them in Bavaria, Westphalia, and other parts of Germany. . . . In one word, nature seems to have taken especial care to prepare this land for the growing of fruit for wine and grains and for all kinds of industrial enterprises.’’ Founders instituted policies to further attract and comfort migrants, including provisions for church attendance, shared labor, and schooling.13 The population grew steadily, aided by facilities such as a community building, sawmill, church, store, hotel, convent, and brewery.

20

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

While some colonization efforts survived, others failed from poor land, bad management, or both. Most notorious among failures was an ill-situated colony of Norwegians begun in 1852 in Potter County. The renowned Norwegian violinist Ole Bull had a vision to create a ‘‘New Norway’’ in the Pennsylvania mountains, and gave speculators thousands of dollars for large tracts of dark hemlock forest. On visiting the mountainous area, Bull became rhapsodic at its similarity to Norway, and planned four interconnected communities. Despite grand designs and significant investments, early immigrants were skeptical. One of the doubters was a Lutheran minister named Jacob Aall Otteson, who arrived with the first wave of migrants. Writing to a friend in Norway, he cautioned: ‘‘It appears to me that the forest is so dense and the hillsides so steep that it can scarcely become good arable land, but good only for cattle grazing, and especially good for goats. I am firmly of the belief that Ole Bull means well but he is no businessman, and added thereto are politico-democratic plans wholesale in the game also.’’14 Bull was passionate about music and the plight of his fellow countrymen, but had been victimized by unscrupulous land agents into purchasing miserable farmland. Though area journalists took issue with the statement, a Milwaukee newspaper summarized the Norwegians’ troubles. ‘‘There is doubtless good land in Potter County, but this has been appropriated, long ago. The unsettled portion is so notorious for its poor soil, being hilly, timbered with hemlock, and of a soil so notoriously sterile that the American farmer would not settle upon it, save in the last extremity.’’15 Bull’s colony failed within two years, as dissatisfied Norwegian immigrants went westward into the Great Lakes region. Ole Bull’s saga reveals how critical timing was in successful settlement. Pennsylvania was the second most populous state in the Union, but at the outbreak of the Civil War few people lived in the densely wooded mountains. In 1860, the northern half of the Appalachian Plateau remained the least populated area in the state. Though constituting nearly one-quarter of Pennsylvania, fewer than 6 percent of its residents called this area home. Settlement at the edge of the region was thicker than at the center, where the number of people dwindled to less than eight per square mile.16 The sparseness of settlement contributed to the region becoming a ‘‘deserter country’’ during the Civil War. Federal officials complained repeatedly that their small staffs were inadequate to administer military policies over so widespread an area. The expansive wooded mountains offered ideal hiding places for deserters and draft evaders. Poor roads and great distances from headquarters made it difficult to apprehend fugitives from the army. The obstacles to federal enforcement were increased by the cooperative habits of residents. People living in the more remote areas shared intimate connections of kinship and

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

21

community. They willingly colluded to harbor deserters and deny assistance to federal marshals. While the density of inhabitants remained low, economic opportunity at mid-century attracted migrants to the region at a greater rate than the rest of Pennsylvania. In the decade before 1860, the population of the mountains increased roughly 15 percent faster than the state as a whole. The Appalachian frontier offered abundant, cheap land and wage labor that attracted young men, creating a gender imbalance of men over women. In both the lumbering districts and coal-mining regions of eastern Pennsylvania, men in their twenties and thirties outnumbered their female counterparts. Correspondingly, older agricultural areas of the south and southeast contained a preponderance of women in those age ranges.17 The excess of young men increased the burdens on military authorities during the war. Federal officers were required to place these young men on the draft rolls and arrest those who failed to report for duty. The War Department computed draft quotas for each district after the initial enrollment was completed. Military officials faced challenges getting authentic information about these rootless young men. In many cases, employers purposefully hid information about their workers from officers. When drafted, it was easy for the men to slip away without a trace, leaving more permanent residents to make up deficiencies in the inflated draft quotas. The burdens of war strained the economy of mountain communities creating economic tensions that contributed to antigovernment protest. The poorer communities of the Appalachians were ill-suited to shoulder the costs of war. Wartime policies took labor from the fields and increased the pressure on local communities to pay bounties and provide relief. Republican war measures were set in a larger context of economic centralization that threatened the livelihoods of area farmers. State Republican leaders were chief proponents of industrial expansion and the exploitation of forest resources using methods that generated violent protest in the 1850s. Appalachian society was in transition, as market forces and industrial logging threatened to upset the established economic relations of the region. Further tensions were caused by the fact that economic growth and wartime burdens struck local people in different ways. The mountains of Pennsylvania severely limited the production of regional farms, setting them apart from the bulk of farmers within the state. A recent state atlas characterized the Appalachian Plateau as ‘‘a sterile, stony upland deeply carved by streams into a chaos of narrow valleys, knobs, and isolated tablelands.’’18 In every measurable category derived from the agricultural census, lumber region farms trailed those of other agricultural areas in the state. Appalachian farms were on average smaller and had less improved acreage than

22

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

their counterparts elsewhere. Their owners grew less marketable crops, raised fewer livestock, owned less machinery, and had the most tenuous ties to outside markets.19 The Civil War accelerated the use of machinery on farms, spurred on by the market expansion of railroads and the shortage of agricultural laborers. Appalachian farmers, however, were the least able to invest in these labor-saving devices and they missed much of the impact of an agricultural revolution.20 Farms in the relative flatlands next to waterways fared better than more marginal lands, distant from water and on higher elevations.21 Less favorable soil types, temperature, moisture levels, and consecutive frost-free growing days directly affected the livelihood of area farmers. In the north-central tier of the state, moisture surpluses were too high and soil temperatures often too low. Much of McKean and Potter counties, as well as parts of Warren, Tioga, and Elk, were an inhospitable zone. Nearly half of the region had the shortest frostfree growing period in the state.22 Early settlers to McKean, Potter, and Elk found that roughly a third of this area was useless for settlement. Situated above 2,200 feet was a large connected tableland known to residents as ‘‘the Big Level.’’23 Few people penetrated this area until the era of railroad lumbering in the 1870s and 1880s. Less productive farms were paralleled by relatively low levels of manufacturing in the mountains, with much of that manufacturing oriented toward an agricultural economy. With the exception of timber sales, manufacturing played a small part in the regional economy. Counties at the center marked the rock bottom of state manufacturing.24 Regional artisans supported the work of agriculturalist, and included blacksmiths, shoemakers, leather tanners, saddle and harness makers, millers, and wagon makers. Sawing timber generated more money than any other manufacture. It accounted for more than half the value of manufactures in most counties, and in aptly named Forest County, timber was the only product. By 1860, area lumbering concerns had invested more money and were cutting more wood than any other area of the state or nation.25 While sawmills were the most abundant manufacturing site, the majority of sawmills were small, water-powered mills run by a few men as circumstances allowed. However, most of the annual lumber from the mountains was processed at a handful of steam sawmills located on the West Branch of the Susquehanna or on the Allegheny. Here lumber companies concentrated capital investment, technological innovation, and new business management to carry on industrial scale lumbering in the region. The immeasurable forests that attracted investment by lumbering firms were a crucial regional commodity for the mountain farmers. From the beginning of Appalachian settlement, an indispensable symbiotic relationship existed

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

23

between lumbering and farming. The words of a well-known logging song attested to the interconnectedness. And when upon the long-hid soil the white Pines disappear, We will cut the other forest trees, and sow whereon we clear; Our grain shall wave o’er valleys rich, Our herds bedot the hills, When our feet no more are hurried on To tend the driving mills, Then no more a-lumbering go, O! We’ll tell our wild adventures over, And no more a-lumbering go!26 Wood was indispensable to pioneer families as a source of fuel and building materials. It was also one of the few products worth the labor of bringing it to markets. Farm families supplemented household incomes by selling timbers, shingles, potash, or other wood products. The most valuable tree in Pennsylvania was the white pine. North America’s white pine forests blanketed southern Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, upstate New York, and the Great Lakes region of northern Michigan, Wisconsin, and a small portion of Minnesota. In the northern sections of the Allegheny Plateau, climate and soils nurtured their growth in a region of nearly 10,000 square miles. These giants of the forest grew straight and tall, reaching into the sky over 150 feet in many cases. Hemlocks were also abundant but settlers were slow to realize their potential, particularly as a source of tannin for curing leather. Despite their remoteness from the state’s earliest settlements, these ancient stands of white pine and hemlock gave way steadily to the colonist’s axe and were hauled away by horse and ox. In their place, settlers built houses, farms, and communities, replicating the society from which they had come. Two vital waterways served as indispensable agents of transformation: the Allegheny and Susquehanna Rivers. Taken with their many branches and tributaries, these river systems served as highways into a trackless wild that had long resisted encroachment from the east.27 Timber cutting was essentially farm labor, exerted during slack periods in the agricultural season. In late October and November, farm laborers began work in the woods, felling trees and squaring timbers with broadaxes. When

24

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

the winter snows fell, woodsmen used sleds and teams of horses or oxen to drag the timbers to navigable waterways. In late winter and early spring, rising temperatures melted the snow and raised the river to rafting stage. Using the water level as a guide, lumbermen would begin fashioning long rafts of squared timber and wait for sufficient water to launch the crafts into the swollen streams. With a small crew of ‘‘raftsmen’’ onboard, they would guide the raft on the difficult journey downriver to large sawmills and their waiting lumber buyers. Sale of rafts and the presence of country merchants illustrate that mountain residents had some connections to the market economy; nevertheless, patterns of labor suggest that the populace had not emerged fully into a capitalist culture. The agricultural season regulated life in the mountains, where farmers orchestrated their labors in harmony with the weather and growing cycles.28 The summer months were the busiest for farm laborers. In mid-May, after the last killing frost, farmers began planting corn. In June, they started potatoes, followed by buckwheat in the first week of July. Harvesting began even as other crops were being sown. Haymaking was begun in June and carried through to the harvest of wheat in July, followed by oats in August, and corn in September.29 Economic exchanges among people also illustrated that the cash economy had not yet come to dominate. These rural people supplemented neighborhood exchanges with market transactions.30 Newspapers reveal how this dual economy worked in the lumber region. Although cash circulated as a medium of exchange, transactions more commonly involved an exchange of goods or services. The value received might be instantly realized at the time of trade or written down as a note or bill for a future claim. The notes themselves could then become a medium of exchange within the community. They were backed by trust and considered void if the initial bargain was not completed. Newspaper notices appeared occasionally to alert the public to breeches of faith. One man warned readers not to buy or ‘‘take on assignment’’ a note for $75.00 he had given to another man on the basis he ‘‘did not receive value therefor[e] and will not pay it unless compelled by due course of law.’’31 In another notice the author refused to pay a note of $24.60, which had been issued more than five years previous.32 This circumstance suggests the circulating longevity of these informal debts. Merchant advertisements indicate the range of commonly exchanged commodities or services in these cash-poor rural areas. Farm products or even worn out household items could be traded for labor or goods. The exchange often reflected the basic resources needed by merchants and artisans. A dealer in metalware announced, ‘‘old copper, rags, brass, lead, pewter, oats, and in fact

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

25

everything you have will be taken in exchange for goods—even to Cash.’’33 Upholsterers took in straw and corn husks, furniture makers eagerly sought lumber of all kinds, tanners sought hides, woolen factories exchanged for wool, and jewelers accepted old gold and silver. The exchanges could be made for finished goods or work including wool carding, blacksmithing, milling, or timber sawing. If a customer could not exchange needed resources, marketable goods were often acceptable as a substitute. Grain or country produce was a common article of exchange but practically anything was negotiable, such as flaxseed, potatoes, beans, wool, pelts and furs, fuel wood, turkeys, pork, beef, grains of all kinds—in sum, every kind of imaginable agricultural commodity. Readers could even use these goods to pay the subscriptions for their country newspapers.34 Agriculturalists used a minimum of cash in daily transactions. Currency was not a single stable medium in the era before national bank notes. The value of individually issued bank notes fluctuated based on the public’s perception of the bank’s monetary health. Using cumbersome reference works, financiers calculated exchange rates for the varied assortment of notes. Rural Americans took their chances when accepting a bank note without a sense of its true worth or exchangeability. Some notes circulated even after the bank itself had closed, leaving a worthless piece of paper. The risk was compounded by the profusion of counterfeit notes.35 A paper published outside the lumber region noted: ‘‘Counterfeit money is now so plenty that in almost every payment, in small change, there is apt to be some bogus specimen among it.’’36 In addition to the myriad of bank notes, private merchants sometimes distributed their own fractional currency, dubbed ‘‘shinplasters.’’37 It is impossible to know the extent of currency circulating throughout the lumber region. When the body of a drowned raftsman was found in the Susquehanna River, a newspaper reported the contents of his black leather wallet. It is suggestive that he was carrying a combination of six handwritten notes, bills, and receipts totaling $227.54 but only $1.00 in cash.38 These rural Pennsylvanians were clearly connected to the market economy, yet reliant for survival on older patterns of community support and exchange. The distinct economy of the region and the nature of mountain life fostered a peculiar regional identity. Mountain people could still recognize themselves as northerners, as Pennsylvanians, and as Americans, but their local identity created an additional layer of allegiance with implications for wartime opposition. Lincoln framed the conflict as a war to preserve the Union and appealed to the national loyalty of northern citizens to sustain it. Yet to many throughout the North, the fighting became remote from daily life. The plea for national loyalty that seared hot at the war’s beginning, faded over time as northerners

26

The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia

resumed their lives. As federal war measures began to affect neighborhoods, traditions that emphasized community and a distrust of outside authority contributed to resentment and government opposition. The people of the Pennsylvania Appalachians were self-conscious of their own peculiar identity. Outsiders perpetuated negative stereotypes of mountain folk, believing that the wild environment shaped the character of the people who lived there. This dim view accorded with Professor Von Loher’s impressions that the isolation of the wilderness acted as a counter to civilization, dulling inhabitants to simple-mindedness at best, and at worst savagery. Observers characterized the woodsmen as rough and uneducated, eager to fight and fond of hard drinking. When they traveled to towns or agricultural communities outside the region, people took note of their rough appearances and distinctive clothing. Much of the regional stereotype was based on perceptions of the lumbermen as prodigious fighters and drinkers. A letter to a Clearfield newspaper complained that rafting ‘‘kept half the population of Clearfield drunk down the river through the better part of the year.’’ A classic study of alcohol in early America asserted that lumberjacks turned to drinking as a social outlet for the difficulties and isolation of their winter work.39 Fighting reflected the aggressive masculine culture of the lumber camps and the dangerous work of lumbering. Every spring, thousands of lumbermen descended the Allegheny and Susquehanna Rivers on their rafts, creating social chaos in the river towns along the way. Observers wrote critical editorials in local papers, bemoaning the sorry behavior of watermen. They wrote disgustedly of cockfights, street brawls, drunken watermen and ‘‘young females of a rather suspicious character.’’40 Even during the war, Republican officials echoed popular stereotypes, allowing these perceptions to influence policy-making. Federal marshals assumed that the men of the mountains were ignorant, well armed, and violent. In response, they overemphasized the threat of resistance and the need for overwhelming military force to subdue opposition. During the war, a political colleague wrote to the Republican Governor, Andrew G. Curtin, discussing the difficult nature of mountain men: The greatest drawback to the draft to recruit the army is the lumber regions east west north and south. . . . Every loose fellow who is or expects to be drafted runs off to the lumber shanties into the mountains and remote districts where he finds employment and high wages. In this way the vagrants hide and lay concealed from the officers who find it impossible to catch or discover their dens.41

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In a report written shortly afterward, the provost marshal of Western Pennsylvania wrote to his superior in Washington about the difficulties he and his marshals faced. West of the western range of mountains and extending nearly to Lake Erie is a vast wilderness (nearly one-sixth of the State), covered with virgin forests of hemlock and pine. The inhabitants, living almost entirely from the proceeds of their labor as lumbermen, are ignorant and easily imposed upon by designing politicians, but are hardy, vigorous, and make good soldiers.42 Many mountain folk contributed to these stereotypes by embracing the rugged ideal. At the outbreak of the war, Republican entrepreneur Thomas L. Kane enlisted soldiers from the lumber region, praising his ‘‘hardy backwoodsmen’’ in speeches. The heart of the lumber region was known as ‘‘the wild-cat district,’’ and these men reveled in their image as skilled hunters, adopting bucktails as badges of distinction on their uniforms. In describing the character of mountain men, gazetteer author Eli Bowen wrote, ‘‘The lumbermen are essentially original characters. A more devil-may-care set of fellows never handled an axe or swung an oar; good-natured, robust, and hard-working, they have an inexhaustible fund of humor and forest adventure, which does much to smooth down their exterior roughness.’’43 Whether thought of as faults or virtues, the peculiar identity of mountain people set them apart from outsiders. It reinforced the physical separations that made the lumber region different from other areas of the state.

2

Patterns of Protest: The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857

T

he wartime opposition in mountain communities fit recurrent patterns of social protest evident in the antebellum period. At the root of protest lay social and economic changes imperiling their society. The development of industrial lumbering signaled a transition toward a fuller market economy. Large-scale lumbering began in the 1820s and expanded greatly in the 1850s and 1860s, altering the way wood was cut and sold. The changes in lumbering accelerated the pace of forest exploitation and innovated methods of log driving that competed with rafting. The floating logs impeded rafters’ access to markets and violated their sense of customary use of the rivers. With a mindset of republican ideology, the watermen fought back against restrictions and the corruptions of power that favored industrial lumbering. For over a decade rafters and loggers battled over the free navigation of waterways with loggers emerging triumphant. The raftsmen’s attacks increased in severity from legal to extra-legal actions until the power of the state forced them to concede. The dramatic transformations in the regional economy threatened the survival of poorer farmers and gave urgency to wartime dissent. In the spring of 1857, raftsmen from Clearfield County waged a war against their new nemesis, the loggers. This fight culminated in a skirmish dubbed the ‘‘raftsmen’s rebellion.’’ During the protest, their leaders legitimized resistance in a language of republican liberty.1 In March 1856, raftsmen met in Clearfield, adopting resolutions that expressed their grievances. The floating of loose saw logs . . . and running rafts in the usual way, cannot be carried on at the same time. One or the other must cease, and it becomes a question only, of whether the free and uninterrupted navigation of these valuable highways shall continue open for the enjoyment of the mass of the people, or be monopolized by a few. . . . If the Legislature, to whom we have a right to appeal, turn a deaf ear to us, we must take other means to redress our wrongs.2 These resolutions echoed the central tenets of republican faith that freedom meant unfettered economic opportunities for the ‘‘mass of the people.’’ There was a moral imperative behind the belief that government protected the many

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against the ‘‘monopolies’’ of the few. Lastly was the assurance that if government failed to ‘‘redress our wrongs,’’ the people held the right to protect their own freedom through nonpolitical actions. Republicanism was a durable and adaptable concept in American political culture. As a political philosophy, it meant different things to different people but the sanctity of private property resided at the heart of all definitions. Secure property anchored a network of individual liberties, public participation in politics, and economic advancement expressed in the immortal Declaration of Independence as the ‘‘pursuit of happiness.’’ The rhetoric of republicanism fueled the raftsmen’s rebellion of 1857, and served as the precursor for wartime dissent. In the American context, republicanism provided both a moral and political framework for protest. It was a philosophy cherishing representative government as the protector of liberty and the common weal.3 The ideology elevated property as a guarantee of independence, considered essential to civic virtue and political participation. A man who owned his own property did not owe allegiance to another and held an economic stake in good government. Although republicanism offered the hope of individual economic and social progress, it also exalted civic responsibility. A foundational study of the concept stressed, ‘‘the sacrifice of individual interests to the greater good of the whole formed the essence of republicanism.’’4 Republican governments were fragile experiments, doomed to failure through the corruption of power. To preserve a republic required a virtuous citizenry, ever vigilant for signs of despotism. Such an outlook fostered a conspiracy-minded politics, in which politicians perennially raised the specter of corruption to bind party members together.5 The raftsmen’s protests represented an agrarian vision of republicanism that differed markedly from the republican ideals of wage-earning laborers. Some scholars have termed rural republicanism ‘‘proto-populism’’ emphasizing the rights of small producers.6 Yeomen farmers held different concerns about the expansion of market capitalism than did wage laborers.7 To be sure, rural wage laborers abounded and agricultural laborers worried about issues of pay and dependency. The main thrust of rural-republicanism, however, centered on the independence derived from land ownership rather than a search for equitable wages.8 Yeomen idealized the independent producer and jealously guarded against anything that threatened that ideal.9 The expansion of the market economy and the growing power of financial elites incited yeomen fears over autonomy and security. In the Pennsylvania lumber region, industrial lumbering emerged as the chief villain in the drama of economic survival. In the early nineteenth century, it was not industrial loggers but instead landholding farmers who supplied most of the timber coming out of the Pennsylvania Appalachians. For decades, they used spring freshets to navigate long

30

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rafts to markets on the lower Susquehanna and Allegheny Rivers.10 Landowners and hired hands built and piloted the rafts, selling them to lumber merchants as a product of the agrarian economy. Early settlers moving into heavily forested areas relied on wood sales to supplement the income of their fledgling farms.11 It was once common to see rafts and flatboats gliding gently along the nation’s waterways. As a young man, Abraham Lincoln himself piloted a raft down the Mississippi River to New Orleans.12 Rafting played such a key role in the regional economy prior to the Civil War that it was an icon. Bank notes and maps depicted rafts and the unusual watercraft gave impetus for the name of Clearfield’s Republican newspaper, the Raftsman’s Journal, showing a raft on its masthead.13 One of the first companies of recruits from the lumber region called themselves the ‘‘Raftsmen’s Guards’’ and departed from Warren in May 1861 aboard flat-bottomed skiffs bound for Pittsburgh.14 Postwar cartographers included rafts as decorative vignettes on county maps and atlases. An 1878 illustration of a lumber mill in Clearfield County showed several rafts gliding gently along on a glassy surface.15 In the foreground, a train travels in the opposite direction burdened with lumber. It was ironic that the illustrator depicted these two forms of transportation going in different ways. The bucolic depiction of an industrial landscape de-emphasized a crucial point. Railroad lumbering of the 1870s hastened the demise of both the forest and rafting. While farmers ceased to be a major supplier of timber in older communities, timber remained a crucial commodity for agriculturalists in the Appalachian Plateau. In other areas of the state, proceeds from timber became less important over time as farmers depleted original woodlots and diversified their farming practices. By the time of the Civil War, timber was a less important commodity for most of Pennsylvania’s farmers outside of the mountains. In the lumber region, abundance of wood and the poor quality of many mountain farms made selling timber a necessity. The 1864 report of a key military bureaucrat attested to the continued economic importance of rafting. ‘‘They are all dependent for the support of themselves and families upon the proceeds to be derived from the sale of these rafts. The fear of losing them will cause the disaffected citizens to lay down their arms and disavow and discontinue connection with the deserters.’’16 After years of rafting tradition, mountain folk looked upon free use of the river as a right of property owners. Property law also protected timber rights against poaching and infringement, and land sales typically addressed specific forest rights in deeds.17 Customary use allowed farmers whose property did not adjoin waterways access to the nearest creek. Anyone within a reasonable distance of a navigable stream could take part in the timber trade. Streamside

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property was the most valuable, particularly when it offered convenient landing areas to assemble and launch rafts. Nevertheless, it was customary to give free passage to more distant farmers, perhaps charging a small fee for the privilege of using a landing area. Navigable waterways thus served as the crucial pathway to timber markets. The abundance of streams and creeks in the lumber region ensured that thousands of area people took part in annual rafting. One historian estimated conservatively that before the Civil War 30,000 men rafted on the West Branch per year.18 When a raftsman landed his timber at Marietta in April 1855, he noted in his journal, ‘‘The whole landing for about 4 miles in length is landed from 15 to 20 rafts deep.’’19 Marietta was the largest but not only timber market on the lower Susquehanna, and here watermen tied up more than 1,000 rafts in what local papers considered a record number.20 Two years later, observers estimated 500 rafts moored at Lock Haven, the first primary lumbering stop outside the Allegheny Plateau.21 For most farmers, selling their rafts at a decent price was not a speculative enterprise but a subsistence necessity. The value of a large raft could surpass the wages of an agricultural worker for an entire year. In the market year of 1855, a Clearfield County raftsman noted in his journal that he had sold a spar raft for $400 and a board raft for $290.22 Typical prices fluctuated significantly.23 Another source recalled that in 1862, white pine half-rafts sold on average at Pittsburgh from $175 to $300 depending on size.24 Once paid, the owner of the raft repaid the laborers who helped build and pilot the raft, as well as any other fees incurred along the way. The days of rafting were numbered, however, as new methods of logging eclipsed their profitability. Pennsylvania’s lumbering supremacy during the 1860s reflected its vast resources of forestland. The timing of that domination, however, rested on the spread of industrial logging in the 1850s that quickened the pace of forest exploitation. Lumbering became ‘‘big business,’’ managed by alliances of entrepreneurs and finance capitalists, and operated on a grand scale in terms of forestlands, workforce, technology, and invested capital. Where timber had once been a staple of the agrarian economy, industrial capitalists now increasingly monopolized it. Industrial lumbering differed markedly from agrarian lumbering not just in scale, but also in its goals and impact on the landscape. Farmers who sold timber envisioned settled prosperity in a community of agriculturalists. In place of the forests, they imagined livestock grazing in meadows and acres of thriving cropland. Lumber-barons did not concern themselves with the consequences of large-scale lumbering. Logging reflected a culture of resource exploitation for the sake of amassing wealth. The work of loggers and raftsmen also reflected

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different values. Loggers were skilled wage laborers placed under the constraints of industrial time-discipline. When they finished one project, they moved into another temporary residence and began the process again. Their self-identity as wageworkers pushed them toward unionization in the 1870s. Rafting farmers neither were permanent wage earners nor bound by the necessities of timediscipline. They did not hold a distinct working-class identity and might classify themselves lumbermen in one census and farmers in the next. The pace of their work was also slower and more labor intensive. Rafts required the additional work of squaring timbers by hand and lashing ‘‘sticks’’ together. Loggers worked in greater numbers and at a faster pace, exhausting forest resources more quickly. The quickening pace of forest exploitation was an important context of Civil War–era opposition. The war coincided with massive industrial logging that made the Keystone State the center of the nation’s timber market. During the 1860s, Pennsylvania held claim as the epicenter of a constantly shifting logging frontier.25 On the eve of the Civil War, timber cutting was a 10 million–dollar industry in Pennsylvania, with an additional 10 million dollars invested in capital.26 Large-scale lumbering did not originate in Pennsylvania but was developed during the 1820s in New England and the eastern provinces of Canada. In the Maine woods, entrepreneurs first combined financial capital with advanced milling technologies to increase the output of lumber. Though these new methods and technologies were begun in Maine, these early ‘‘lumber-barons’’ quickly spread them beyond New England. More capital-intensive technology and facilities characterized industrial lumbering, as well as wage-earning labor force and new methods of harvesting and processing. Logging work attracted lumberjacks who continually moved with the shifting of the logging frontier. Entrepreneurs invested capital in land and mills and developed management and marketing systems to process and distribute lumber as quickly and cheaply as possible. The appearance and scale of industrial lumbering changed over time, reflecting technological developments and accumulations of capital. A change in the appearance of sawmills reflected the shift from small to large-scale lumbering. The sawmill was the nucleus for producing lumber. Early sawmills were small and powered by the force of water. They were widely distributed across the rural landscape close to streams and sources of timber. As nearby forests became exhausted, early mill owners could even disassemble the small mills and move them to new locations. In the lumber region, entrepreneurs built mills on small streams that could only power the up-and-down saws of the mill at times of high water. Observers called them ‘‘thundergust’’ mills and they employed only a few men at most, producing sawn lumber primarily

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for area building markets or to fashion into board rafts. In order to make the most of nearby forests, the wise lumberman selectively culled the large trees, allowing the remainder to grow more quickly and supply future trees.27 Selective forest use was a marked contrast to later logging practices that denuded thousands of acres of land in a rapacious process of clear-cut forest exploitation. At first, entrepreneurs located their new steam sawmills near the source of wood, nestled among the old water mills. Beginning in 1830, engineers introduced steam engines into sawmills, freeing their owners from the inconstancy of waterpower and increasing dramatically the output of lumber.28 In 1850, none of Clearfield County’s ninety-six sawmills were steam powered. A decade later, entrepreneurs had built six steam mills while thirty-two water-powered mills had closed. The steam mills produced on average 4.6 times the annual output of water mills, and accounted for 30 percent of county production.29 However, while steam sawmills were overtaking their neighbors in competitiveness, they themselves faced competition from mill owners who used a different strategy—one of log driving. In addition to new sites of manufacturing, industrial lumbering also created flourishing lumbering towns such as Williamsport and Lock Haven. Lumberbarons built elegant mansions along tree-lined streets within sight of their steam sawmills clustered along the river’s edge. Entrepreneurs placed the new lumber centers at more convenient transportation nodes, located to intercept river traffic from a much broader watershed. Outside of the Appalachian highlands, the enlarged lumber towns of the lower Allegheny and Susquehanna Rivers shipped finished lumber across the nation and the world. The new methods of driving logs threatened the livelihoods of rafting farmers and symbolized the industrialization of lumbering in the mountains of Pennsylvania. It was not the intention of entrepreneurs, however, to put the raftsmen out of business. They developed the techniques of log driving to supply the mills with timber more efficiently. The process maximized the use of the waterways, delivering raw materials to sawmills in record quantities. Before the use of log driving, sawmills depended on timber from farming lumbermen, who adjusted their work in the forest according to their estimate of potential markets. Such conditions lead to timber famines and lost revenue. Even when farmers worked diligently, poor weather and low water levels could keep timber from the mills. It was in the lumber-barons’ best interests to improve the system of forest exploitation. Although its origins are uncertain, the method of free-floating logs from the point of harvest to production began in Maine as early as 1813.30 The system made its first appearance in Pennsylvania during the 1850s.

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The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857

Log driving represented a larger trend in American industry characterized by specialization and the evolution of more efficient stages of production. The premise behind the log drive was simple. Lumber companies bought large tracts of forestland and hired armies of loggers to fell the trees during winter and prepare the logs for driving in the spring. Lumberjacks cut the trees into short sections and left the logs ‘‘in the round’’ piled along the waterway. When spring thaws raised the river to flood stage, workers launched the logs into the stream where currents carried them along to the lumber mills. With careful organization and labor, loggers could transport the whole season’s lumbering downriver in a matter of days. Log drives created problems for rafters that threatened their access to markets. During drives, timber often jammed together at bends and obstacles, requiring lumberjacks to break the jams apart to keep the drive moving. The current spread logs across the entire surface of the river, making it impossible for rafters to pass around logging obstructions. Some jams halted river traffic entirely for days, while lumberjacks worked busily to break the impasse. If water levels fell during the delay, rafting might prove impossible for rafters on the upper reaches of rivers and streams. Area landowners became alarmed at the damage and carelessness resulting from the first log drives that destroyed neighboring property along the route. Aggrieved property owners saw lumber firms as unwilling to compensate for damages and it was widely reported that loggers were unscrupulous in their drives, sweeping up timber piled by raftsmen.31 Log drives also imperiled rafting profits. Timber prices reflected supply and demand and the earliest suppliers of wood received the best prices. Delays allowed others to glut the market and forced later rafters to accept reduced prices. More importantly, however, log drives supplied the market with unimaginable quantities of raw wood, further undermining the value of rafts. Log driving created additional obstacles such as log booms that impeded rafting navigation. Sawmill owners required a means to capture the logs as they came down the river. Engineers designed structures known as ‘‘log booms’’ to trap incoming logs and allow workers to sort them for processing. Log booms were essentially large corrals built in the river at broad sections of calmer water. Aggressive boom engineers could take half or more of the breadth of the river and would extend a ‘‘shear arm’’ across the remainder to divert all river traffic through the boom. Raftsmen would be charged tolls or ‘‘boomage’’ to pass through the boom, whether accidentally swept in or not. When the boom was full, observers marveled at the immense expanse of timber. The large booms could hold millions of feet of logs at a time, far exceeding the amount of timber that farmers could raft in a given season. It is no wonder that entrepreneurs

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and river communities vied to construct larger booms to capture more of the market. In Pennsylvania, the large boom at Williamsport came to dominate every other lumber venture, generating wealth and bitterness in equal measure. Appearing first in New England, boom use migrated with the shifting logging frontier and became a standard fixture in timbering by mid-century. In the late 1830s, entrepreneurs from Maine solicited investors for a boom project on the West Branch. The project languished for a decade, however, until its originator won support from financiers on the strength of his vision. A small group of lumbermen and capitalists formed the Susquehanna Boom Company in 1846, selecting the smoother waters above Williamsport as the site for their new project. Engineers completed a temporary boom in 1849, with the first log drive occurring in spring of 1850.32 The success of the Williamsport boom inspired competition, and rival boom corporations finished projects farther upriver by 1851 at Lock Haven and at the mouth of Pine Creek. In a short period, log driving became the primary method of tree harvesting, causing immediate tensions between loggers and raftsmen. Raftsmen greeted booms and log drives with suspicion as well as concern for their economic welfare. In a legal sense, watermen interpreted log drives as a violation of customary use rights that had regulated freedom of the timber trade for decades.33 State law designated rivers as public highways, but logging limited the free navigation of waterways. Decades of custom gave these principles the added weight of moral authority. Rafters evaluated log drives with a sense of ‘‘moral economy’’ that protected the rights of the many against unfair abuses or ‘‘monopolies’’ of power. To protect their customary rights, raftsmen resorted first to law, and then to violence. Watermen equated big business lumbering with speculation, considering it an artificial manipulation of the market for personal gain. In 1856, a spokesman for the rafters made the case against loggers plainly. ‘‘They are not woodsmen, but men backed by speculators who would sacrifice everything for the chance to make quick money. If we let them have their way they’ll fill the streams with log jams, and then when there’s nothing more for them to cut and float they’ll go, leaving us with our business and occupation gone and our property rendered valueless.’’34 Republican ideology considered speculation an evil that violated the moral economy. Speculators were opportunists, who capitalized on the labors of others for personal profit.35 Lumber-barons did not intend to settle the forestland they exploited but left behind a shattered, timberless barren. Opponents also condemned the new boom charter as favoritism and monopoly for the wealthy at the expense of the virtuous masses. In 1852, Democratic Governor William Bigler of Clearfield praised ordinary citizens and railed

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against ‘‘the dangerous tendencies of monopoly, and the corrupting influence of money.’’ He warned occupants of the State House to be prudent in bestowing corporate charters. ‘‘Legislation should give to all citizens an equal opportunity of enjoying the natural advantages which surround them. Corporate power and special privileges too often produce the reverse result, and should therefore only be granted to facilitate the accomplishment of great public purposes, not within the reach of individual means.’’36 Many inhabitants of the Keystone State shared the concerns of the mountain counties over the legislation of property rights. While local issues differed, landowners cared immensely about public access to roads, bridges, canals, rivers, and railroads. Most rural Pennsylvanians supported economic growth but were suspicious of the special privileges of corporations.37 Rafters’ grievances reflected a specific American context in which legal elites were undermining traditional property rights. In the antebellum period, lawyers and judges gradually transformed the concept of property rights to promote economic development. Early notions of property gave owners a ‘‘dominion over land’’ that suited a nation of farmers. Laws against nuisance limited economic developments that might injure a neighbor’s enjoyment of land. Property rights safeguarded use of adjacent waterways making it illegal to diminish or obstruct their natural flow. In the 1820s, the needs of industrial entrepreneurs challenged this anti-developmental conception of property, particularly concerning water rights. Legal elites supported the nation’s industrial growth by reinterpreting property laws in favor of large-scale manufacturers. Nuisance suits and compensation claims threatened to burden capitalist ventures such as factories and railroads. Rather than change the property laws themselves, judges altered their application and made private companies immune to injury suits. They argued that economic development was a public good offsetting damages to the few. On the eve of the Civil War, courts were responsible for ‘‘balancing the utility of economically productive activity against the harm that would accrue.’’ Yet the courts were predisposed to favor ‘‘any productive activity.’’ This tendency had a sinister quality that rafters likely understood. Economic development, which enriched the few, threw its financial burdens ‘‘on the weakest and least active elements of the population.’’38 In Pennsylvania’s Appalachians, the campaign against log drives was not a battle of classes but a fight over economic control with broader repercussions between those who lived there and those who did not. Elites and common folk both played roles in the attack on log driving. At a meeting orchestrated by community leaders in July 1856, a select committee outlined the initial campaign in a set of resolutions claiming to speak for the masses. Lawyers for the

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raftsmen argued that saw logs were a nuisance, obstructing river traffic and thus prohibited by law. Resolved, That the people of Clearfield, Elk, and Centre counties, with a degree of unanimity unexampled are opposed to floating loose logs upon our public highways, and intend to employ every means within their power to prevent it. With a view to maintain their rights in this respect the meeting pledges itself to memorialize the Legislature, as the first means of preventing the nuisance, and secondly, to prosecute every man who puts loose logs in the stream.39 People of the lumber region sent in numerous petitions to safeguard customary freedom of the waterways. They sought laws against additional dams and river obstructions, regulations for the height of dams, and incorporation of companies to improve rafting channels. Direct attacks on boom corporations took the form of petitions to prohibit saw logs or ‘‘floating-logs’’ in the rivers.40 Invoking laws against public nuisance, community elites from Clearfield formed a committee to prosecute cases of obstruction ‘‘against all and every person, whether owner, contractor or laborer, engaged in putting loose logs into the river or any of its tributaries in the counties of Clearfield, Elk and Centre.’’41 Supporters of boom corporations did not sit idle in the face of attack and eventually won the legal battle over logging. Their representatives mobilized supporters, who remonstrated against any laws curtailing their operation. At a meeting in Lock Haven in early 1857, proponents of log driving passed their own resolutions that condemned rafting as wasteful. Resolved, That experience has demonstrated that square timber rafting is a losing business, and a clear waste of the productions of the country. Besides the great loss of the best part of the log in juggles and chips, experience proves that it involves the loss also of the timber actually got to market, for in no period of five consecutive years, have the manufactures of square timber received more for their products than they expended in work and labor, and in taking them to market.42 Constituting stronger networks of political and economic power, boom corporations and industrial forestry won the battle in the State House. A bill to regulate the number and time of log drives failed in the 1855 session.43 Rafters won only minor concessions, including bills that prevented obstructions on smaller streams and organized companies to improve navigation.44 Another bill

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allowing the Sunbury Lumber Company to construct a boom on the West Branch of the Susquehanna failed in 1857. While the failure would seem a triumph on the part of raftsmen, denying the right to build another boom was more a matter of limiting competition than appeasing the anger of watermen.45 Overall, the legislature supported boom corporations and the future of industrial lumbering. Supporters argued that entrepreneurs had already invested too much money, and that ultimately the wealth of the lumber industry enriched the entire state. Such arguments hardly satisfied the poor watermen who saw their livelihoods threatened by the corruption of economic power. Nearly two decades later, an article on the decline of Susquehanna rafting put it succinctly, ‘‘the power of the corporations triumphed then as they do now.’’46 Community elites organized the rafters’ protest movement using established rituals of nineteenth-century political organization. These included meeting publicly, electing representatives, drawing up resolutions, and petitioning the legislature for action. In March 1856, a meeting in Clearfield adopted resolutions that clarified their grievances. ‘‘The erection of booms in the Susquehanna river impedes the navigation thereof, causes detention and loss to our citizens, and . . . must eventually destroy the timber and board business of Clearfield County, render valueless our forests and deprive our citizens of their means of support.’’47 Following another tense rafting season, the organization met again on July 4. Despite pleas by a few leading citizens for a peaceable remedy, the group composed more strongly worded resolutions foreshadowing a showdown. Their language reflected the principles of republicanism that guided their logic.48 We will use all peaceable and lawful means first, to obtain our rights in the navigation of our public highways, in the hope of obtaining legislative action to that end, but that peaceably or forcibly, the nuisance must be abated. If the Legislature, to whom we have a right to appeal, turn a deaf ear to us, we must take other means to redress our wrongs.49 When legal remedies failed, raftsmen made good on their promises to redress wrongs through other means. They used increasingly drastic measures in an attempt to sabotage logging work and halt the operation of the large-scale mills. Hoping to destroy the high-speed saw blades, men drove iron spikes and scraps of metal into logs. The legislature made such practices illegal and loggers tried to deter ‘‘ironing’’ of logs by peeling their bark. Without the bark, it was easier for mill operators to spot and remove the dangerous metal fragments.50 Raftsmen found other ways to harass their foe including abuses of local authority. In one case, officials who supported the watermen arrested a logging boss

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fourteen times in a single day. When the drive commenced, saboteurs stretched a cable across the river to impede the drive.51 When these petty measures to deter logging failed, rafting farmers escalated the methods of their protest. Continued battles in the legislature met with bitterness and frustration as the majority of legislators supported the interests of lumber-barons. These raftsmen saw no alternative and turned to violence, asserting in July of 1856, ‘‘We cannot allow our mills to rot down, and our property to be rendered worthless, until we have made the last effort to save ourselves.’’52 Over the winter of 1856, vigilance committees spied on the loggers’ progress while newspapers carried the warnings ‘‘Log-floaters Take Notice.’’53 In late April, as the snow and ice of winter melted, the editor of the Raftsman’s Journal predicted a violent backlash by area rafters. ‘‘Heretofore they have borne it as meekly as they could, but it seems with some ‘forebearance has ceased to be a virtue,’ and they have determined to apply a corrective themselves.’’54 Taking the warnings seriously, loggers hesitated to begin their drive until their employers gave the order to float logs on the next flood. On the evening of April 29, the logging boss warned his men against ‘‘striking a blow, even if you do get a few knocks.’’ ‘‘You men all understand that we are likely to have trouble, and I want to caution you along certain lines. . . . Our right to the use of the streams is equal to theirs and cannot be lawfully taken from us, but they are greatly in the majority with everybody in the community on their side, and what we want to do is to show we are peaceable and want nothing more than to be let alone.’’55 The battle came on May 1, 1857, as reports arrived of log drivers pushing their logs into Clearfield Creek. Nearly fifty rafters formed a military company, elected officers, and took up guns and axes to move against the enemy ‘‘to scare the log-floaters off, but not to hurt them unless in self defence.’’ Marching to the logging site, the men were chagrined to discover the roughly two dozen lumberjacks working on the opposite side of the broad creek. The leader of the company yelled across the river to them, ‘‘You men lay down your tools and leave at once.’’56 When the loggers ignored the order, the nervous watermen opened fire sending their opponents scurrying into the woods. Having routed their foe and injured three lumberjacks, the rafters crossed over the creek and destroyed the loggers’ camp.57 They permitted the lumberjacks to take away their clothing, but gave them a stern warning. If any of them returned, the watermen would show neither mercy nor give any quarter. The rafters had won the battle but the log drivers would win the war. Log drives ceased temporarily on Clearfield Creek but the work continued elsewhere. Authorities arrested forty-seven raftsmen and sent ten to trial in August on charges of riot. Five loggers also went to court in countersuits for nuisance

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The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857

caused by logjams. In testimony, witnesses cited more than six different places where ‘‘the logs gorged and rendered it impossible to pass with lumber and that several rafts were injured, and many detained by the logs.’’ Although the court found all fifteen men guilty, the judge handed out light fines.58 For the moment, the court’s decision seemed to vindicate the actions of the raftsmen and buoyed hope that the use of force could prevent the advance of logging. With each lumbering season, however, the increase of logging operations confirmed the end of rafters’ supremacy on the water. Log drives signaled a new era in the history of mountain lumbering.59 When raftsmen attacked log drivers on Clearfield Creek in the spring of 1857, they sought a forceful solution to the nuisance of floating logs. It is unclear what long-term resolution they envisioned to solve the conflict permanently. The local judges sympathized with the plight of the watermen and gave them the lightest punishment allowable to soothe tensions between the two groups. Raftsmen and loggers would have to learn to share the rivers in pursuit of timber wealth. Both sides continued to use the state and local courts as battlegrounds over the details of use-rights. Raftsmen, however, could never challenge the legitimacy of log driving or turn back time to the era when rafting dominated the lumber markets of the mountains. Though reduced in numbers, rafters continued to navigate the rivers filling niche markets for spars, large timbers, or specialty wood. By the 1870s, a national report on forestry estimated that Pennsylvania farmers ran 2,000 to 2,500 rafts annually but remarked, ‘‘in former days a great number of boardrafts came down with the spring floods.’’ One editorial lamented the decline of rafting: ‘‘That the business has seen its best days is no longer to be questioned, and this is for the best of reasons—the want of timber. The vast forests of Clearfield County are getting pretty well cleared out, not by rafting but by ‘logging.’ . . . Had the system of logging never been adopted, Clearfield could to day be one of the richest counties in the state. . . . If logging had never been introduced here, Clearfield would have pine trees enough to day to pay off the state debt and plenty of them left.’’60 For lack of good timber, the rafting business declined considerably in the postwar period, until by 1907 there were no more than 150 rafts.61 Bitterness remained between raftsmen and log drivers, as the two groups continued to fight over use of the waterways. In 1873, local newspapers reported a huge logjam and estimated 600 to 700 rafts caught up in the immense pile. Raftsmen were defiant and angered, and resigned themselves to worsen the plight of the loggers. ‘‘So strong is the feeling of the raftsmen against their enemies that many of them say they are willing their timber should remain in the jam till fall just to punish the log men.’’62

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As rafters were losing economic ground, region Democrats emphasized a partisan dimension of the battle between loggers and raftsmen. They encouraged their supporters to view industrial lumbering as the handiwork of Republican political ideology. With this approach, they were misrepresenting the whole truth for political gain. In reality, there was no consistent party position on the rights of raftsmen. They represented a small constituency in the headwaters of the Allegheny River and the West Branch of the Susquehanna. By the 1850s, Democrats and the fragments of the Whig Party in Pennsylvania held similar economic stances toward protectionism and internal improvement. Even while Republicans came to favor manufacturing development, state legislators of both sides tended to look toward the needs of their own clientele. In the Democratic counties of the lumber region, voters were predominantly of the producer class in the wood market. Farther down the rivers, industrial processing became a major economic influence in local politics. Representatives of the West Branch towns of Lock Haven and Williamsport, for instance, championed the rights of boom operators and sawmill owners rather than those of mountain raftsmen. Even here, though, state politicians showed no consistency on the issue of corporate charter rights. Those who supported the erection of booms in their own districts might oppose their creation in neighboring areas, owing to potential competition. With the political ascendancy of the new Republican Party in the late 1850s, it was easier for mountain Democrats to perceive Republicans as the source of their economic woes. The election of 1858 had signaled a fundamental shift in political power in Pennsylvania and across the North. Democrats lost a dominance in state politics that stretched back into the 1840s. The economic depression of 1857, as well as national political traumas over the expansion of slavery, swayed enough voters to support a regime change. The Civil War heightened political tensions and added to Democratic acrimony against the Republican administration. While Pennsylvania’s dispute over industrial lumbering began in the 1850s, the expansion of logging remained a hotly contested issue during the war. In addition to war-induced suffering, fights still raged over the fair use of the rivers and the economic rights of mountain farmers. State legislators from the mountain counties denounced logging as a threat to their poorer citizens. Ideals of republicanism dominated their remarks on behalf of the rights of small property holders. In the height of war in 1863, representatives debated plans for a new boom on the West Branch above Williamsport. Republican Senator Harry White represented diverse farming and lumbering interests in Armstrong and Indiana Counties. His position in the debate proved that the parties had no hard-line stance on rafting rights and that representatives were responsive to hometown

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The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857

economic concerns. White argued against the act as an unfair monopoly obstructing free use of the waterway. ‘‘Many an honest raft[s]man who has gone into the country and bought his little farm is swinging his axe, hoping to be able to pay for that farm out of the proceeds of some raft. But if you pass this bill, you will place a restriction upon commerce there, aim a fatal blow at the interests of the lumberman, and in doing so you will cripple the interests of the State at large.’’63 He described the measure as a battle of competing interests and warned of the bitter local opposition to further obstructions. The audience in troublesome Clearfield County looked to its powerful Democratic leaders William Wallace and William Bigler to safeguard their interests. State Senator Wallace eloquently condemned the act as an economic shackle. I represent . . . the fine producing region of Clearfield, Elk and Cameron. Those are the counties in which this lumber business grows, and from which it is produced. In those counties we have the men who till the soil, fell the forest and make the lumber. They are the men who saw the boards, and they desire the use of these streams that the Almighty has made to flow from the hills and mountains of our State into the great Atlantic. These men desire to use them, and I, as one of their representatives on this floor, protest against thus encumbering these streams, which bear to the broad bosom of the Atlantic the products of those hills, fields and forests. We are here to protest that those streams shall remain unfettered, that obstacles be not thrown in the way of those hardy lumbermen or their property thrown upon the shore or driven upon logs, and they themselves made homeless and houseless, by reason of the loss of their property.64 The streams in question, however, were already ‘‘fettered’’ by the mid-1860s. Without the power to stop the transformation of lumbering, Wallace could be seen as giving lip service to raftsmen. In any event, it served his political needs to keep the grievances of mountain people fresh in their minds. The attack upon rafting rights became another in a long list of charges leveled against Republicans. In their correspondence, military officials recognized that rafting farmers and migrant wage laborers were the primary forces of resistance. In late 1864, Richard I. Dodge, the provost marshal of western Pennsylvania, reported that the opposition of raftsmen had reached alarming proportions. To his superior in Washington, he wrote, ‘‘I am reliably informed that there are at this time from 1,200 to 1,800 deserters, delinquent drafted men, and disloyal citizens, armed and organized, engaged in lumbering on Clearfield River, in Clearfield and Cambria Counties. . . . Many of their rafts are completed, and only await

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the rise in the river to proceed to market. If the rise occurs before the troops reach there, many of these men will escape down the river on their rafts.’’65 For this distinct segment of the antiwar movement, antebellum threats to their economic rights had specific bearing on wartime opposition. The rafters’ rebellion of 1857 was an ominous foreshadowing of wartime opposition, when watermen were again the source of violent dissent. Wartime hardships would exacerbate fears of economic vulnerability and push regional farmers again into patterns of protest. As in 1857, political channels failed to solve the economic dilemmas of Appalachian people, pushing some to embrace violence in defense of self-interest.

3

The Limits of Patriotism: Early Mobilization in the Mountains

n July 1862, during the second summer of the war, a lone recruiting officer made his way to the scattered settlements of northern Jefferson County in search of fresh soldiers. The situation was a marked contrast to the previous year, when recruiting had been brisk. Though not hopeless, the war dragged on without a sign of immediate Union victory, sapping northern morale. His urgent patriotic enlistment appeals met with a chilly response. The Brookville paper reported that in one community his speeches ‘‘failed to arouse the patriotism of the young men, until a number of young ladies, ashamed to witness the tardy response of the former . . . stepped forward and signified their willingness to enlist, if the gentlemen were afraid to go, and put their names on the enlistment papers.’’ Despite this emasculating peer pressure, only six young men volunteered. The editor of the Brookville Republican used this as an object lesson. ‘‘We wonder what plan could be get to work to induce enlistments in Brookville, where there are enough young men to form half a company, and who have no reason why they should not at once respond.’’1 What did it mean that at least fifty of the town’s young men were not in the army a year after the conflict had begun? In mid-1862, a number of newspaper editors and public leaders of the region bemoaned the sorry state of patriotism. After traveling along the West Branch through Lock Haven, Jersey Shore, and Williamsport, one observer remarked, ‘‘the apathy of the people seems somewhat strange when we compare it with the intense excitement which prevailed in every community during the war fever of last spring and summer.’’2 How do we characterize such a visible ‘‘war fever’’ if it dissipated so quickly? Standard narratives of the war’s opening months emphasize an intense outburst of patriotism. These portrayals are based on contemporary accounts and the selective memory of local commemorations. After the attack on Fort Sumter, voices of doubt were lost in the reporting of exuberant public celebration. Induced by military pageantry and emotion-stirring speeches, men volunteered by the score in defense of the Union. Years after the last guns fell silent, local histories memorialized community sacrifice in a cliche´d narrative of collective patriotism. Many of these accounts reached the melodramatic heights of one such example. ‘‘When, in 1861, the iron lips of Moultrie’s guns spelled upon our sky in letters red as blood, ‘civil war,’ the sons of Clearfield, breathing a

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Early Mobilization in the Mountains

45

spirit of patriotism as pure as the atmosphere of the hills around them, rushed to the Nation’s capital to uphold the honor of the flag, and preserve intact the republic.’’3 In the postwar period, communities collected donations and placed monuments in towns throughout the North to honor those who had served and died. Their commemorations reflected a view of the communal past as they wanted it to be remembered. Muted in this public celebration were the stories of violent opposition, of the murder of military officials, and of communities bitterly divided over their support of the war. This sacred and formulaic text obscured the profound ambivalence felt by many Pennsylvanians during this period of enthusiasm. Beneath an exterior marked by military pageantry and visible patriotism lurked the potential for hesitancy, doubt, and despair over the meaning and cost of war. Despite the thousands of enlistments during the first year, the historical record suggests that there was not a universal rush to the colors. As members of a democratic society, Americans have always reacted ambivalently to conflict and war, and the Civil War was no exception. In the lumber region of Pennsylvania, the rage militaire touched off by the onset of war encouraged some young men to join the cause. While patriotic motivations drew them into the armies, others remained aloof or cautious. Patriotic ardor evaporated quickly as expectations for an easy victory disappeared and the public cost of war mounted. From the war’s outset in April 1861 through early March 1862, more than 130,000 Pennsylvanians left their homes as soldiers. These initial volunteers made up more than a third of the 344,408 enlistments from the state—the second highest number of soldiers sent to the Union army. The volunteers of 1861 and 1862 were in many ways the most crucial northern soldiers of the war. Soldiers forced into the army by later drafts and bounties lacked the ideological conviction and martial fortitude of their predecessors. Early recruits did more fighting and their letters and diaries suggest a strong sense of duty and republican principles.4 Nevertheless, nearly two-thirds of Pennsylvania’s wartime volunteers hesitated to join the ranks in the first enlistment drives. According to the 1860 census, the state held over 555,000 men of military age yet only one in four volunteered during the first year.5 More importantly, throughout the war nearly 40 percent of the state’s military age population chose not to serve. Low enlistment levels were particularly acute in the counties of the lumber region, which contributed some of the lowest proportions of citizen-soldiers in Pennsylvania.6 Why did so many men remain aloof in the opening months of the war? No simple answer adequately addresses the motivations of such a large and disparate group. When considering whether to enlist, Pennsylvanians weighed a

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Early Mobilization in the Mountains

complex spectrum of social, economic, and political factors that varied by location. Conflict created an economic depression that made many urban wageworkers temporarily unemployed. In the predominantly rural mountains, however, farm labor was needed to plant and harvest crops during the summer and fall. Mountain farmers also had practical concerns for the welfare of home folks when breadwinners joined the army. Many editorials encouraged farmers to plant extra food, urging it as a patriotic alternative to military service. The ranks of initial volunteers swelled for a time with skilled tradesmen but fewer farmers. Despite Lincoln’s appeal for volunteers in a war to preserve the Union, political views gave many Democrats pause. The editorials of Democratic newspapers blamed alleged Republican abolitionism for causing the war and expressed serious misgivings about coercing southern states back into the fold. In votes by Pennsylvania soldiers in 1861, Republicans outnumbered their political opponents nearly four to one, suggesting a serious political imbalance in the army.7 Volunteer enthusiasm was also sapped by more mundane causes. Military authorities placated the democratic heritage of citizen-soldiers by allowing them to elect their lower ranking officers. The passion for command fostered competition and rumors of mistreatment. Magnifying these imagined concerns for a soldier’s welfare were very really shortcomings caused by an ineffective mobilization system. State and federal authorities were unable to adequately feed, clothe, and equip such a rapid and large-scale volunteer force. Reports of hungry and ill-clothed soldiers dampened eagerness on the home front. The impact of other forces cannot be measured, including the shock of Union defeat at Bull Run. These ambivalent responses at the war’s beginning illuminate more pronounced rifts in public opinion that developed over time. The tremendous war effort only intensified the economic, political, and social pressures on residents of the lumber region. Voices that remained silent in the early months of war were raised in opposition by the summer of 1862. In Pennsylvania’s Appalachia, the sound of martial pageantry reverberated among the scattered settlements. The editor of the Smethport paper described the mood of the town’s several hundred citizens. ‘‘The usual quiet of our village has been somewhat broken, and for two weeks we have been surrounded by the excitement incident to the recruiting and mustering [of] military companies into the country’s service.’’8 In a pattern repeated throughout the region, enthusiastic Union meetings raised seventy recruits from five surrounding townships of McKean County. These first soldiers from the county swore their loyalty oath, ate a hearty breakfast, and suffered one final round of speeches before departing eagerly for the ‘‘seat of war.’’ ‘‘You are of a people who love

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the pursuits of peaceful and quiet life. Why have you now donned the habiliments of war, and prepared yourselves to make your fellow countrymen bite the dust? The flag of our country has been assailed.’’9 The 120 men of the Washington Cadets left Clearfield with full stomachs, carrying their hand-sewn flag and Bibles given by the local bible society.10 Similar poignant scenes played out in other counties of the region. Public meals, handmade flags, ceremonial speeches, and token reminders of home reflected the intimate bonds between soldiers and their community. National affairs impelled their service but soldiers ultimately represented their neighborhoods, marching, fighting, and dying surrounded by the folks from home. Newspaper accounts of war fever highlighted the most visible patriotism, obscuring the doubt and hesitancy that lay beneath. These early reports accentuated the experience of town dwellers, whose responses occurred under the watchful gaze of urban journalists. Events from the countryside filtered into newspapers as secondhand retellings of the rural response. In Pennsylvania’s towns, more than in the countryside, citizens could be seen putting aside their regular lives in a frenzy of militarism. Regardless of location, public military pageantry seemed to read from the same script. The national colors blossomed in abundance from buildings and public spaces. Local notables ascended festooned stages to deliver fiery patriotic speeches. Young men took on the garments and accoutrement of soldiers and filled the air with the sounds of marching and military music. Ladies did not blush in their support but played prominent roles in the theater of patriotism. They sewed uniforms, blankets and flags, cooked meals for departing soldiers, and took active part in public ceremonies where they represented virtue and feminine ideals. Though innocent of war’s harsh reality, many citizens responded enthusiastically with a conspicuous patriotism. In an odd way, the beginning of the Civil War was cathartic of sectional tensions that had been building for years. While sober minded citizens composed jeremiads predicting death and destruction, others felt a constructive release from the anxiety of the secession crisis. When Confederate forces opened fire on Fort Sumter in April 1861, months of apprehension gave way to an outpouring of patriotic enthusiasm. With the Confederate banner flying atop Sumter, Union President Abraham Lincoln sent out the urgent call for 75,000 militiamen to suppress the rebellion. In cities throughout the North, citizens staged clamorous Union meetings in an orgy of filial piety to the nation. For the many who did not embrace military service, the causes varied. An organizational chaos in the system of mobilization discouraged untold numbers. Many expressed universal concerns about the welfare of soldiers in arms

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Early Mobilization in the Mountains

while other factors were more acute in the lumber region. Residents there were affected more by the distance from state training camps, the sparseness of settlement, and rural isolation. These geographic conditions magnified the distinctions between the community and outsiders. The flood of Pennsylvania volunteers taxed state resources to the breaking point, raising alarm over the treatment of soldiers. The Republican paper of Clearfield lamented the shoddy condition of state uniforms and equipment. ‘‘It appears that much dissatisfaction exists at the miserable way in which the Pennsylvania troops have been supplied with clothing and food under the State authorities. . . . In truth, it is said that the Pennsylvania troops are the most miserably clad, of all volunteers called into the service.’’11 Despite the best intentions of government leaders, lumber region newspapers were justly concerned about the shortcomings of money, material, and experience. State officials hurriedly established initial rendezvous points for incoming soldiers at Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia. The War Department set Pennsylvania’s quota at less than fifteen thousand, but nearly twenty-one thousand volunteers responded in the first ten days. Feeding, clothing, and housing this huge mass of untrained soldiers was a nightmare of administration and shortages of food, uniforms, and blankets prompted outrage throughout the state.12 The mood in camp became despondent, particularly for those men wondering whether the governor would accept their service under the current quota. Some soldiers deserted their initial companies to join more promising outfits or to return home. An anonymous member of the Washington Cadets reported to the Clearfield papers that several men of the company had deserted their camp of instruction in early June. The stalwart remnant shook it off, asserting, ‘‘Fortunately those who left us were the least worthy members of the company, and we are well rid of them.’’13 Infrequency of pay added to the misery of the state’s three-month volunteers, sparking a near riot at the capital in late July. Having received no wages, thousands of three-month volunteers arrived penniless in Harrisburg at the expiration of their enlistment term. The War Department quickly mustered them out of service without first paying their wages. Among the disgruntled were several companies from the lumber region, including two companies of Brookville Rifles in the Eighth Regiment and a company from Clearfield in the Fourteenth. Denied the means of returning home and lacking food and shelter, the men slept anywhere they could find space and waited for federal paymasters to arrive. Days passed before the first troops started receiving money and the process went slowly. The weather was uncharacteristically hot and many soldiers resorted to stealing to eat. On July 27, a crowd of soldiers gathered at Market Square and set fire to an effigy labeled ‘‘paymaster’’ strung up on a

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lamppost. They intended to seize weapons from the armory before a regiment from Camp Curtin arrived to quell the disturbance.14 Curtin wired Secretary of War Simon Cameron frantically: ‘‘The paymasters are threatened with violence, and the people in the town much alarmed. . . . Something must be done. We have not force to protect the town and property here.’’15 Tensions subsided as the men began receiving back pay. One Democratic editor considered the incident disastrous to public patriotism. ‘‘This failure on the part of the government to pay and dismiss the three months volunteers will seriously affect the prompt reenlistment of the men.’’16 For potential lumber region recruits, poor transportation and the great distance to training camps magnified anxiety over treatment of soldiers. As one commentator remarked, ‘‘Much fear exists in the minds of the recruits of falling into the hands of persons who are unable to provide for them.’’17 Rumors circulated that the government mistreated soldiers at the large camps. Articles reported that schemers and sharps preyed upon the uncertainties of these men, inducing or tricking many to desert their units and join other companies. Communities were concerned for the physical welfare of their loved ones and eagerly read soldier letters describing conditions in camp. Entering into a regiment of strangers seemed perilous and isolating. In an effort to exert more control over these recruitment shortcomings, community leaders from throughout the state wrote to government authorities requesting that training camps be placed nearby. Joshua Howell of Uniontown, Fayette County, argued, ‘‘If you only had your camp fixed soon at Uniontown . . . I have no doubt we could get enough men in this county to make three companies.’’18 The sparseness of mountain settlement discouraged enlistment because it increased the disagreeable likelihood of joining a company of strangers. In the thinly populated lumber region, small neighborhoods often lacked enough men to fill an entire company of one hundred. Though drawn by patriotic motives to volunteer, many men hesitated to join up with outsiders. When a recruiter visited St. Mary’s in August 1861, he reported ‘‘all sorts of obstacles and opposition.’’ He was exasperated to find ‘‘most of the young men in the county formed into small companies, just large enough to keep them from going—and it seems that no offer or arrangement could induce the officers to come to such terms as would effect a union and send one full company.’’ Two men swore an oath that they had been bribed $5 each ‘‘if they would not go to the rendezvous’’ after enlistment. Faults in the system caused a native of Clarion County to grieve: ‘‘The result must and will be disheartening and dispiriting to the patriotic uprising of our hardy population, for all future military purposes.’’ The situation in the lumber region was even worse than the one described by

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an Armstrong County man: ‘‘Every hamlet and neighborhood contains [a company] of 20 to 30 men who will not join an unaccepted company because they naturally prefer their own.’’19 Rural isolation also prevented scores of mountain residents from being accepted for service in three-month regiments. In the first ten days of mobilization hysteria, hastily formed companies raced to rendezvous points hoping to claim the honor of being the first to respond. Newspapers paid homage to the eager young men who flocked to the colors, and postwar histories memorialized them as the state’s ‘‘First Defenders.’’20 Yet of the 260 companies of threemonth soldiers from Pennsylvania, only eight originated in the lumber region, and these entirely from the southern tier counties of Jefferson, Clearfield, Clinton, and Lycoming.21 None of the staunchly Republican northern tier counties had a single company accepted in the initial call for troops. This outcome did not reflect a lack of enthusiasm among the citizens of those counties. In actuality, untold numbers of men along the northern border found it easier to enter into New York State to enlist there.22 Proximity to the central rendezvous points at Harrisburg, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh played a key role in the initial rush to enlist. State authorities accepted soldiers as quickly as they arrived, and communities along the state’s railroad network had a clear advantage. Counties astride the Pennsylvania Railroad, as well as those on the branch lines into the northeastern coalfields, had a higher proportion of men accepted in the initial quota of three-month volunteers. In 1861, the lumber region was the most inaccessible portion of the state, touched only peripherally by outside railroad connections. Although news of Sumter and Lincoln’s call for troops traveled quickly through the mountains, rural distance delayed volunteers from reaching muster-in points. Ultimately, it was easier for urban areas and counties with denser populations to coordinate volunteers, creating a bias in enlistments. After leaders filled the initial state quota, volunteer companies from throughout Pennsylvania continued to arrive at camps of instruction. Curtin implored the legislature to enlist these additional soldiers at state expense as defenders of the Commonwealth. In mid-May, the state assembly authorized the formation of the Pennsylvania Reserve Corps, composed of thirteen infantry regiments, as well as one of artillery and one of cavalry. When the federal government later requested additional troops to serve three-year terms, Curtin proudly offered the Pennsylvania Reserves. Although soldiers of the Reserve Corps came from throughout the state, small counties such as Forest, Sullivan, Potter, and Fulton were not represented and lagged behind in contribution.23 The state militia system was in shambles and ill prepared to fill the state quota effectively. Before the incident at Charleston, Curtin had urged the state

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legislature to revitalize the militia. He argued that during its long peacetime tenure it had ‘‘become wholly inefficient.’’ Shortcomings in men and serviceable equipment plagued its chaotic administration. He implored legislators to update state weaponry, create a military bureau, and revise militia laws in preparation for the impending national emergency.24 In quick response, state authorities fashioned an ad hoc system of mobilization, solving some problems but creating others. In the spectrum of factors limiting mobilization, imperfect administration hindered volunteerism. State and federal government ineptitude likely dampened early war enthusiasm. A historian of Pennsylvania mobilization asserted that men were plentiful and war sentiment high, thus ‘‘it must be concluded that the Federal government let the enthusiasm of the northern states wither away.’’25 It is doubtful, however, that officials caught in the emergencies of war could have remedied the faults in the system. Direct control by the federal government was both unprecedented and unfeasible. Curtin faced the challenge of placating the entire population of the state. Citizens from every corner beleaguered his office with requests for military commissions or access to the state’s paltry military equipment. Many complained of unfairness and appealed to his sense of equanimity while a number of Republican colleagues asked frankly for special consideration. Civil War historians have praised the political engagement of northern volunteers while overlooking the problematic consequences. To the dismay of professional Union officers, the North’s citizen-soldiers never abandoned their democratic traditions to embrace military discipline. These men were not able to disengage soldiering from politics, and volunteering was a clear political statement in support of the war. On the one hand, it is well argued that deeply held political ideologies about republican government motivated men to enlist and sustained them through the conflict.26 But as others have noted, the decision to avoid enlistment or to desert the armed forces could also be a political action rooted in deep-seated ideology.27 Choices of service not only reflected a soldier’s view toward the cause but also about its leadership and administration. Citizens held ideals of leadership and demonstrated their concerns for good officers by vigorously defending their right to elect them. At the beginning of the war, military authorities accommodated democratic tradition by allowing the men to elect their own leaders.28 Military discipline was alien to these democratic-minded citizens and tensions arose when their traditions of civic autonomy clashed with military order.29 In a thought-provoking essay, David Donald mused that the Confederacy ‘‘Died of Democracy.’’ He wrote: ‘‘The real weakness of the Confederacy was that the Southern people insisted upon retaining their democratic liberties in wartime.’’30 While many have taken issue

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with his statement, scholars have not stressed enough that a heritage of democracy challenged the northern war effort as well. The election of officers influenced decisions to enlist and created an unsavory competition for rank with negative ramifications. The War Department sparked dissatisfaction when they proposed guidelines for elected officers. On May 3, Lincoln issued a proclamation calling for more than 42,000 three-year volunteers, marking the inception of the first three-year troops. In a circular letter to northern governors dated May 22, Secretary Cameron reminded them of their right to appoint all regimental officers but counseled ‘‘the necessity of an absolute adherence in your appointments to the following suggestions.’’ In an effort to promote ‘‘sound health,’’ lieutenants could not be older than twenty-two and captains could not be older than thirty years old. He further required that all regimental field officers, namely majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels be West Point educated ‘‘or known to possess military knowledge and experience.’’ The War Department guidelines interfered with the tradition of electing officers. Those older than the prescribed age asked: ‘‘Are we to understand from said order that companies raised are not to have the privilege of electing their own officers. . . . It may make a vast difference with the result of our efforts if we are not to have the privilege of indicating our own officers to take the command.’’31 Soldiers considered the election of officers as a sacred extension of their democratic society and felt justified to leave the service when denied that right. In late June, two companies from Pittsburgh deserted their camp of instruction after their chosen officers were passed over. The companies had gone to New York State to enlist and complained of the poor care they received. ‘‘Our troubles began on the Pennsylvania Road, when Captain B. failed to furnish us with the provisions as he had promised. On arriving at the Camp, we were fed on bread and drugged coffee. We received no clothing. The climax was topped by our officers being superceded, whereupon we resolved to leave the Camp, when the General drew his pistols, put on a treble guard, and threatened to shoot the man that would offer to go, without first refunding his passage money.’’32 The tradition of electing officers created intense competition for soldiers, adding an unsavory layer to the process of volunteerism. Recruiters were motivated men for whom patriotism and personal ambition served complementary roles. A man who could gather others to the cause might be rewarded with a captaincy or better. The wise potential leader used paternalism to cement bonds with his men. Officers with financial means sometimes spent their own money to feed and clothe their soldiers until accepted into service. On arrival in Harrisburg, the Raftsmen’s Guard of Warren County praised the generosity of their Captain Roy Stone, the son of a successful lumberman. After Stone arranged a

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breakfast of hot coffee, sandwiches and cakes, a private wrote back to the Warren newspaper, ‘‘Long may he wave; and may his shadow never grow less.’’33 The Washington Cadets paid tribute to their leader in a letter to the hometown newspapers. ‘‘All that we have yet received has been through the kindness of our Captain and the citizens of your town.’’34 Predictably, the frenzy for leadership also created opportunities for corruption and deceit. For a brief period, competition was intensified when both state and federal officials authorized recruiters to raise troops in Pennsylvania simultaneously. On July 25, Congress called for 500,000 three-year volunteers, counting among them 75,000 more Pennsylvanians. Simon Cameron, the federal secretary of war from Pennsylvania, authorized regular army officers to commence recruiting directly into federal service. These federally recruited units were designated ‘‘independent regiments,’’ autonomous of state control. Cameron’s federal recruiters enticed volunteers with guarantees of acceptance and all the necessary equipment and arms. They counseled listeners that soldiers waiting in the state camps lacked proper food, clothing, and equipment and lived in unhealthy quarters. By August, Cameron-appointed regiments outnumbered Pennsylvania regiments two to one. Alarmed by the state of recruiting, Curtin implored President Lincoln to intercede. Recent acts of the state legislature made it unlawful for volunteers to leave the state without the governor’s consent. Curtin reported that in the twenty-six days since the Congressional call Pennsylvania had not raised one complete regiment, only fragmented companies. He complained that federal mustering officers were refusing to muster in anything less than a complete regiment, making the independent regiments more attractive. The War Department’s authorization of at least fifty-eight individuals resulted in ‘‘nothing but continued embarrassment and confusion.’’35 Cameron defended his actions on the belief that ‘‘the State had already enrolled the number of men which the Governor had been called upon to furnish.’’ Simmering beneath the surface of this exchange was a long-standing political rivalry between the two. Both men were leaders of Republican factions within the state and the tension between them reflected their opposing ambitions. Cameron conceded on this occasion and resolved the issue by a special order from the War Department, placing all independent recruiters under authority of the Pennsylvania governor. State authorities were instructed to confirm the existing War Department commissions after the men had filed their muster rolls with Pennsylvania officials. Cameron did not designate any more Pennsylvania officers but would not remove those he had already authorized.36 State leaders received numerous complaints illustrating the deceit employed by some army recruiters. Officers commissioned by the War Department were

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guaranteed their rank, denying enlisted men the right to elect their captain. An officer from Perry County wrote that the practice ‘‘is intended to [break] down the military spirit if it should go on [and] for this reason the men say they want something to say in reference to who shall command them.’’ Enterprising men scoured the state in search of recruits, sometimes employing underhanded tactics, such as lying about the men’s chances of being accepted or by disparaging state handling of troops. Some did not consider it unethical to entice men to leave a unit to join their own. A man from Wilkes Barre, Luzerne County, claimed that ‘‘there is too many officers or (would be’s) in this county and it is difficult to keep the men from being stolen.’’ In Clarion County, a man told the governor that officers in independent regiments cheated him twice by stealing away his men. The recruiters had argued that ‘‘men going out under the patronage of the state administration were and would be so meanly fed, clothed and armed that they would be a disgrace in the army.’’37 These reports likely dampened enlistment fervor in immeasurable ways. Despite the intensity of war fever, many mountain folk thought deeply about the economic consequences of military service. Unmarried men without business prospects were prominent in the first wave of volunteers.38 For some men, masculine duties to family and country pulled them in opposing directions. Those who supported families imagined the results of their absence and often gave priority to the needs of loved ones. Men who felt obligated to serve their country sought other means to express their patriotism. In Clearfield, as in other parts of the state, married men could join unofficial home guard units as an alternative to serving at the front. Fearing the loss of agricultural labor, newspaper editorials also encouraged farmers to stay home and produce food as a vital act of patriotism. Still other men weighed military service in light of their immediate economic prospects. The opening of hostilities interrupted Pennsylvania’s normal trade and manufacture for a time, and left many skilled workers and wage laborers without steady work. Facing a dim economy, these men enlisted in greater numbers than farmers and farm laborers, who were vital for summer planting and harvesting. Communities of the lumber region were poorer, causing soldiers extra concern over the welfare of family and friends. The Republican newspaper of Clearfield carried a letter from several area soldiers detailing the plight of their loved ones. A number of the men were alarmed by rumors of uncharitable treatment. ‘‘We are all poor men,’’ wrote a local soldier, ‘‘and our families depended upon our labor for their support. We thought we could trust those who made these promises [to help our wives and children] . . . Since then, in every letter received, our wives complain of ill treatment. . . . When in need of anything, they say they are told to pay money or do without it.’’39 Four soldiers from a

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small community feared that their homes would be seized and sold to pay store debts. In their letter to the newspaper, they appealed to communal civic virtue against the store owner, who became a colonel in the army. ‘‘We had enlisted in the service of our country, and intended to pay all our just debts as soon as we could command the means. But without waiting to give us an opportunity of arranging them, he meanly sued us after we had been sworn into the service, and we suppose if he can get judgments against us in our absence, he will be mean enough to sell any little property we have left behind.’’40 To overcome these financial concerns, one earnest man suggested that the government give him a lump sum of $1,000 to encourage volunteers on the spot at $10 apiece. He counseled the state: ‘‘We have plenty of men I say plenty of good reliable men but why have tha not gon becaus tha cant leave their famleys just as comfertable as tha wish.’’41 At this early stage of the war, not everyone gauged patriotism solely by enlistment.42 Men with family obligations could show their love of country in alternate ways. The abundance of laborers who volunteered caused many northerners to worry about the upcoming harvest. Many farmers postponed enlistment and newspapers contributed to their hesitancy. Editors counseled agriculturalists to view growing food as an act of patriotism, in which everyone contributed their own effort to the war. Fearing that the loss of farm workers would cause a shortage of foodstuffs and subsequent high prices, the editor of the Brookville Republican urged his readers: ‘‘Let every man plant and sow every available acre of ground within his reach.’’ Such labor, he counseled, was both patriotic and profitable.43 The Democratic paper in Clearfield considered the hesitancy of farmers a widespread but temporary condition. ‘‘The country papers say that after harvest volunteers will flock to the various regiments now forming in all parts of the Northern States by thousands. At present most of the young men are engaged in gathering the crops.’’44 The economic trauma of war affected urban wageworkers differently than farm laborers. With the eruption of secession, the uncertainty of national economic affairs created a temporary depression that hit wage earners hardest. Large numbers of coal miners, iron workers, and day laborers of all sorts were unemployed.45 In the lumber region, the market for rafts was ruined in the spring of 1861, leaving the hundreds of young men who normally piloted them without work. In early June, a correspondent from Blair County urged the governor to accept a company of these Clearfield rafters with sound reasoning. ‘‘Accepting of them, would save our agricultural districts, upon which I fear too large drafts have been already made. These men are out of employment, owing to the want of a market for lumber, because of the condition of the country.’’ The economic downturn affected urban workers most. Writing in

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late May from Brownsville, Fayette County, a man argued, ‘‘It is quite a mistake, to take, or enlist men from the rural districts, while there are so many good Mechanics totally out of employment; for the farming interests are not suffering.’’46 The occupations of early volunteers reveal a predominance of urban skilled wageworkers with uncertain economic prospects.47 Yet while even meager pay attracted unemployed wageworkers, laborers from rural areas were needed on the home front. In Pennsylvania, among the earliest recruits, farmers and farm laborers were under-represented while skilled and unskilled workers were more numerous. Farmers and farm laborers made up nearly 43 percent of the northern male population, but accounted for only slightly more than seven percent of the enlisted men of this sample.48 Over time, farmers embraced the cause in a proportion roughly equal to their numbers but their initial hesitancy reflected at least three factors. May and June were critical months in the agricultural year requiring maximum labor. Units enlisted after the harvest showed a higher proportion of volunteer farmers. Poor communication and scattered settlement also made it more difficult to organize recruiting in the countryside. Unless they lived reasonably close to town, farmers often missed the patriotic parades, flag waving, and oratories that influenced town dwellers to join the army. Lastly, newspaper editorials made it plain that raising food was its own form of patriotism, made crucial by the large number of laboring volunteers. In contrast to agriculturalists, wage laborers enlisted in large numbers. Unskilled workers joined at a rate more than three percent greater than their proportion of the population. The most striking category was skilled workers, who constituted a quarter of northern male workers but amounted to 60 percent of the Pennsylvania sample. Some of the earliest regiments accepted by the state included coal miners from the anthracite region of northeastern Pennsylvania. Among the ten most common occupations were miners, carpenters, blacksmiths, shoemakers, painters, lumbermen, tailors, clerks, printers, and puddlers.49 Imagining a short and glorious war, these primarily urban skilled workers contrasted enlistment favorably with their immediate bleak economic surroundings. Because Pennsylvania bordered the slave states of Virginia and Maryland, men of the Keystone State could also fulfill patriotic duties by joining local militias known as home guards. While these units were more common in the southern border counties, they appeared as far north as Pittsburgh and the lumber region. Many northerners were convinced that the South had long been making military preparations and held well-trained legions of soldiers poised to strike northward.50 The independent home guards offered a solution to the

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military safety of the Pennsylvania home front. Although these companies patterned themselves on those in federal service, the organization and equipment of guardsmen varied by location. Along the border, citizens might coordinate individual companies through committees of safety. Allegheny County created an impressive array of committees to administer soldier relief, military mobilization, and guardsmen. The Committee on Home Defense was a model of coordination. It solicited contributions from area businesses, banks, and residents, employed agents to procure arms and uniforms, maintained rolls of area companies, and petitioned the state for legislative and financial assistance. The smaller communities of the lumber region could not match the efficiency of Pittsburghers but attempted to mobilize and equip men for their own protection. Evidence suggests that certain types of individuals were considered more properly suited to home guard companies than to active service. The cheaply maintained home guards allowed men to express patriotism while looking after their families and livelihoods. Community moral opinion did not discriminate at first against older men, men with families to support, or certain skilled workers who chose not to enlist. Men older than the military limit of forty-five yet still physically able, for instance, joined home guards. Pittsburgh newspapers reported home guard companies composed of firemen and foundry workers, and others whose occupations seemed more vital to civic maintenance or wartime production. Extremes of wealth or poverty were also factors of membership in home guards. Men of wealth often considered their service best measured in financial contributions and visible patriotism.51 Concerns for family were paramount among married men yet the tug of masculine duty urged them to serve. While the young men of Clearfield joined up for active soldiering in May 1861, married men formed the Rolins Infantry ‘‘intended for home service for the time being.’’52 The widespread hesitancy of poorer men to enlist was evident in an article written by a Pittsburgh man in April. Although Allegheny County has responded nobly to the call for Volunteers, yet there are many men who are placed in positions that it is impossible for them to unite with the troops who are now flocking to the support of our flag. These men are all married and have families and are poor and of course cannot leave them yet they do not wish to be idle. We are near the line of Virginia—There is the Allegheny Arsenal here and other government stores that need protection. And these men want to start a ‘Home Guard’ to be equipped and drill, so that if necessary they can repel any attempt at an invasion.53

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If newspaper statements are an indication, home guard service was not initially regarded as less patriotic than service in a field regiment. Newspapers reported occurrences that might have presented opportunity for criticism but did not. Home guard units often took prominent places in civic rituals honoring volunteer soldiers and escorting them to points of departure. When Pennsylvania’s three-month men returned after their enlistments were up, home guards in formations of respect often met them at the train stations. The mountains were home to large numbers of foreign born residents, among whom ethnic identity could also complicate the issue of patriotism. Recent immigrants were a greater part of the population in the lumber region than in the agricultural counties outside of the Appalachian Highlands. Outsiders often stereotyped ethnic communities, such as the Catholic Germans of St. Mary’s, as clannish and self-absorbed. Many longer-settled northerners wondered if they would contribute their fair share in the fighting, and early reports were typically pessimistic. In truth, ethnic identity imperfectly predicted wartime responses. Records indicate that men of foreign birth, notably Germans and Irish, made up a sizeable portion of the Union army. Members of the German community at St. Mary’s served as both officers and enlisted men in Pennsylvania regiments. Nevertheless, German names made up a small portion of the three companies attributed in whole or part to Elk County. The county’s first company became part of the famed ‘‘bucktails,’’ but only a dozen of them were German. There were even fewer Germans in company F of the Fifty-eighth Regiment, raised in the fall of 1861. The only Elk County company that had more German names was in the 172d Regiment, a nine-month militia company drafted in August 1862.54 It was telling that nearly as many of the county’s Germans appeared in a drafted unit as in all the three-year volunteer regiments combined. Scholars of nationalism have explored how ethnic identity can be a powerful bond of commonality among a people, differentiating them from outsiders. National movements have been built on the power of ethnic solidarity, often in the face of oppression or alienation. From the founding of the American state, however, white male citizenship was not differentiated by ethnic background or religion but by adherence to forms and ideals of government.55 Sense of ethnic identity did not ensure a weak attachment to the American nation or opposition to the Union war effort. The number of volunteer companies composed, in large part, by men of Irish, German, and other descent, offer proof. Nevertheless, some communities felt alienated from the Union cause for reasons of ethnic attachment or religion. Pennsylvania was well known for its population of conscientious objectors, including German pietists and Quakers, who

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looked upon all warfare as morally wrong. Many German settlements had reinforcing social and cultural features that made them stand apart from other rural Pennsylvanians. They could be distinguished not only by ethnicity and religion but through persistence of German culture and language. Outsiders negatively stereotyped them as ‘‘the Dutch,’’ further reinforcing their sense of uniqueness. The peculiarities of Pennsylvania German settlements received critical attention during the Gettysburg campaign, when observers from both North and South described them as unwelcoming or aloof. As federal officials would discover during the war, the ethnic communities of the lumber region presented a challenge to mobilization. After the federal government took control of recruitment, citizens of St. Mary’s were notorious for their opposition to the officer in charge. This imperfect war fever dissipated quickly as the conflict entered its second year, revealing opposition that grew stronger over time. A number of contemporary observers lamented the decline of visible patriotism. Voices of protest arose as early as the fall elections of 1861, when some Democrats of the lumber region took bold steps to condemn the Lincoln administration and the war. With waning enthusiasm, like-minded community members had more freedom to express antiwar opinion. Community sentiment could alternately fuel or quench the fires of patriotism. In time, friends and family who opposed the war actively supported evasion of service or desertion from the army. Such resistance was not a rejection of the American nation and its ideals, but a reflex of localism. Members of rural communities were accustomed to controlling their own social and civic affairs and resented the intrusion of outsiders.56 The scattered settlements of the lumber region were even more insulated from distant authorities and tended toward vigilantism in maintaining social order. Recent decades had proven to mountain residents that state officials were more interested in exploiting their region regardless of the cost to local people.57 Their localism and sense of economic marginalization reinforced wartime patterns of opposition. Given traditions of rural localism, it is no wonder that some soldiers’ families expressed dissent before the three-month enlistments had expired. Historians have often ignored how vulnerable family members exerted pressure upon some soldiers to avoid reenlistment or to desert the army altogether. In a letter to his brother in the army, one Pennsylvanian pleaded, ‘‘we are glad that your time is so near out that you can come home and pap says you must not minde what any one says. You must not [en]list any longer you must come home.’’ A wife sent a similarly plaintive letter to her husband. ‘‘I hear that your regiment has gon[e and reenlisted] for three years but hope you have not done the same. . . . Mother sens her love to you and says to come home as soon as your

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time is up.’’ These were only a couple of more than one hundred letters intercepted by General George Cadwalader, on the grounds that they were demoralizing to his troops.58 As the cost of the war escalated, dissatisfied family members made more forceful appeals asking soldiers to desert the cause. After the initial wave of enlistments, the War Department requested volunteers to serve arduous threeyear terms. The period of sacrifice lengthened considerably. It is impossible to estimate the amount of discouraging mail from home or its effectiveness. In the spring of 1863, gloomy letters from home were reaching epidemic proportions in some regiments. The morale of northerners had shifted dramatically because of battlefield losses and the policies of emancipation and conscription. While the army lay immobile in Virginia, the commander of a Pennsylvania regiment received an anonymous letter warning him to an alarming situation. Friends and families back home were helping soldiers to desert by supplying them with civilian clothes through the mail. He ordered subordinates to search the mails and in a single day they discovered two packages of civilian clothes accompanied by letters from relatives encouraging desertion. His superior officer wrote to the Corps commander, ‘‘The lieutenant-colonel of the One hundred and thirty-second Pennsylvania is of opinion that many men are assisted in this matter through the Government mails, and I deem it of such importance as to request a reference where the evil can be corrected.’’59 In future, all parcels from home were required to show an invoice of their contents, with orders to intercept contraband clothing. While only representing a portion of one regiment, this incident was indicative of a larger narrative of war opposition. The collusion of family and friends against the war formed a crucial subtext that helped turn the lumber region into Pennsylvania’s ‘‘deserter country.’’

4

The Rhetoric of Loyalty: Partisan Perspectives on Treason

n May 1863, the Republican newspaper of Clearfield carried a didactic episode copied from the Hollidaysburg Whig. The author intended the brief piece to illustrate the meaning of loyalty and treason for citizens of a nation torn by fratricidal conflict. The story was likely the product of the editor’s imagination, as an object lesson in civic morality. In a scene that could have been set anywhere, several ‘‘rebel sympathizers’’ sat in the front car of a train ‘‘discussing National affairs abusing in unmeasured terms the efforts of the Government, to put down the rebellion.’’ After listening to the conversation for some time, a disturbed gentleman rose from his seat and stepped forward to read a paragraph from his morning paper. ‘‘You are promised liberty by the leaders of your affairs, but is there an individual in the enjoyment of it, saving your oppressors? Who among you dare speak or write what he thinks against the tyranny which has robbed you of your property, imprisoned your sons, drags you to the field of battle, and is daily deluging your country with your blood!’’ The language seemed apropos to Democrats who denounced Lincoln as a Caesar, endangering civil liberties with actions that included a federal draft and civilian arrests. ‘‘ ‘Them’s my sentiments exactly,’ exclaimed one of the sympathizers. ‘Sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘That is the language of Benedict Arnold in his proclamation to the citizens and soldiers of the United States appealing to them to turn against George Washington.’ This ended the conversation.’’1 With the juxtaposition of these two resonant figures, the speaker hoped to shame Democrats as ‘‘rebel sympathizers.’’ In truth, the episode marked another salvo in the battle over the meaning of loyalty and treason. This debate was not simply party ranting designed to charm voters. While party rivalry kept the issues fresh before the people, northerners thought considerably about the central meaning and costs of the war. For those in Pennsylvania’s lumber region, public perceptions of loyal behavior influenced choices to embrace the war or to challenge it. In the opening months of war, communities in the Pennsylvania mountains became deeply entangled in a debate over the meaning of loyalty. The public discussion on loyal behavior reverberated broadly across the North, but lumber region Democrats were among the first in the state to push the boundaries of dissent. Their actions quickly assaulted the foundations of no-party politics, a

I

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veil of party cooperation that had arisen in response to the rebellion, and shattered any illusion of public unanimity at war’s outset.2 While state and national politicians were more cautious about partisan appeals, local politics operated with fewer restraints. That local Democrats seemed out of step with party leaders reflected an important regional variation. Studying the Civil War at the community level provides insight into a number of issues, including the uneven evolution of public sentiment about the war. Examining this localized debate over loyalty allows us to recapture a sense of not a singular but many Norths, each experiencing the war differently.3 Writing about northerners and their war, one historian summarized aptly, ‘‘they experienced it in separate communities, reflecting the persistent localism of nineteenth-century life.’’4 While the pressures of the war itself strained northern society, partisan politics increased community divides and affected previously ordinary aspects of everyday life. The intensified public debate over loyalty acted to politicize previously nonpartisan elements of society. Preaching, teaching, and charitable work, as well as civic rituals such as the Fourth of July, became deeply imbued with partisan dimensions.5 Mountain folk waged a divisive struggle over loyalty in local storefronts, churches, saloons, public squares, and at dinner tables. The normally heated partisan rhetoric of meetings and newspapers reached new levels of intensity. Threats of violence and intimidation seemed to grow apace with partisan rhetoric, fueling an inner civil war on the Pennsylvania home front. In a number of ways, partisan politics in the region echoed broader patterns evident across the North. In the first months of the war, optimism for easy victory encouraged rural Democrats and Republicans to set aside political differences in support of the war effort. As the conflict wore on, however, the two parties resumed traditional campaigning techniques that included blistering newspaper editorials, political meetings to rouse the faithful, and stump speeches intended to distinguish the two sides on core values. Yet the cost and consequences of the fighting thrust political rancor to new heights. Novel partisan organizations resulted such as the Republican Union Leagues and their contrasting Democratic clubs. Republican intellectuals fashioned the Union League in 1863, to serve as an instrument of patriotic instruction. The new society was a direct response to the growing peace movement that sapped Union war-making. The League marked the culmination of organizing efforts that began earlier in the war but lacked unified vision or purpose. Lumber region Republicans formed examples of these early clubs. Some even used the name Union League, providing a nominal continuity for the Union Leagues of 1863. Rural Pennsylvania Democrats likewise met in the fall of 1861 to discuss the war and formulate political strategies that included both talks of peace and potential resistance to federal policies. Actions of the Lincoln administration provided the primary

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reason for intensification of partisan conflict in 1863. The draft, emancipation, military arrests, and increasing northern inflation provided ample vindication in Democratic eyes for such circumspection. Though Republicans held the upper hand in defining loyalty, this explanation did not go unchallenged.6 Many frustrated Democrats across the North, including those of the lumber region, demonstrated their resolve to shift from the ballot to the bullet in the defense of personal rights and local autonomy. When war opponents had exhausted traditional channels of electoral politics, a sense of futility and necessity pushed them to embrace more violent behavior. Despite similarities of dissent, Pennsylvania’s mountain communities experienced atypical levels of violent resistance. This circumstance reflected in part the dominance of the Democratic Party and the party’s emphasis on limited government, states’ rights, and white supremacy. It also resulted from factors particular to the area. Among these were the economic challenges of mountain farming, the aggressive and hyper-masculine culture of lumbering, and the isolation of the people from other areas of the North. During the war, military bureaucrats identified the lumber region as one of the most troublesome areas of resistance in the entire North. In a path-breaking survey of desertion during the Civil War, the historian Ella Lonn referred to the region as the North’s singular ‘‘deserter-country.’’7 In the Pennsylvania Appalachians, the most evident predictor of dissent was allegiance to the Democratic Party. While the boundaries of political identity were permeable, federal officials and many northern voters were certain that staunch Democrats were responsible for the bulk of violent protest.8 The lumbermen and poor farmers of the region were the backbone of antiwar sentiment and the most obstinate resistance occurred among Democratic communities in the southern counties of Jefferson, Clearfield, Elk, Clinton, and Lycoming. What accounts for the Democratic strength of the lumber region? Party loyalty was shaped by a range of complex factors but economic and cultural dimensions were crucial. Unequal development of the market economy contributed to Democratic strength. However, social and economic changes caused a regional schism in the 1850s, eroding the traditional Democratic dominance of the northern counties along the New York border. Analyzing Pennsylvania economic and voting data, political scientists interpreted correlations between political party strength and expansion of a market economy.9 Before the national political realignment of the 1850s, the Democrats and the Whigs were the primary parties. Traditionally, the Democratic Party appealed to small farmers and wageworkers who were drawn to the Democratic philosophy of limited government involvement in economic affairs. Small farmers in particular felt uneasy about the potentially disruptive forces of the market economy.10

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Democrats did not necessarily oppose capitalism or market transactions, but rather a form of ‘‘speculative capitalism’’ promoted by the active agency of the state. Whigs in contrast embraced government-fostered commercial expansion.11 With strained ties to the market economy and low levels of manufacturing, the lumber region was predominantly Democratic until the political realignment of the 1850s. Small farmers living along the West Branch and its tributaries were fearful of the consequences of industrial logging that had accelerated in the 1850s. Regional Democratic leaders opposed boom corporations in the state legislature and championed the navigation rights of farmers who relied on rafting to supplement household economies. These tensions were at the root of the raftsmen’s rebellion of the 1850s in which lumbering farmers used a language of republicanism to assert their rights as independent producers. Their economic emphasis on family subsistence parallels other regions where small farmers were the base of the Democratic Party.12 Urged on by wartime necessities for lumber, the development of industrial logging continued unabated in the forests of Pennsylvania. Financiers and industrialists planned new paths for rail lines through the region from points that halted at its borders. In 1863, the topic of boom corporations along the West Branch remained a lively point of debate among state legislators. The Civil War years coincided with a period of accelerated resource depletion in the Pennsylvania Appalachians. The discovery of oil in 1859 on the western edge of the lumber region quickly transformed that area into a cluster of petroleum boomtowns.13 Industrialists were also beginning to tap the bituminous coalfields that underlay much of the area. Aggressive industrial development threatened to strip the mountains bare of consumable resources, leaving the small farmer behind in a fractured post-industrial landscape. In addition to the small farmers, the Democratic Party drew strength from a great many wageworkers. These day-laborers were a traditional element of the Democratic vote, and their mobility presented serious challenges to federal officials. In the 1850s, a significant change occurred in the northern tier counties of McKean, Warren, Potter, and Tioga, replacing Democratic dominance with a strong loyalty toward the new Republican Party. This realignment of voters resulted from the disintegration of the old Whig-Democrat Party system. Historians still debate the primary causes for this political shift but in the case of the northern tier, both economic and social aspects played a role.14 The Republican economic outlook owed much to former Whig ideals. It supported an activist state for the promotion of western settlement, internal improvement, and commercial expansion. In Pennsylvania, it has been argued that Republican dominated counties were those that adapted more successfully to changing

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market conditions. In the northern tier, farmers took greater steps toward commercial involvement by increased production of butter and livestock.15 Their proximity to western New York gave them easier market access than farmers in the heart of the lumber region. Important social factors also strengthened the Republican Party in the northern tier but bypassed counties further south. The party had a strong affiliation with ‘‘Yankee culture’’ and the migration of New Englanders westward. The northern tier lay astride important routes of trade and migration from the Northeast to the Great Lakes. New England migrants concentrated there, maintaining stronger ties to the Mohawk Valley economy.16 The Republican Party spoke successfully to many New Englanders’ religious sentiments and those with sympathy for moral reform and the plight of slaves. The resultant regional identity polarized voters in ways that the old Whig-Democrat system did not. Voters increasingly identified Republicans as an anti-southern party because of their political opposition to the expansion of slavery. Party rhetoric charged a cabal of slaveholding planters, dubbed the ‘‘slave power,’’ with conspiring to undermine democratic institutions through antagonistic expansion of slaveholders’ rights. Democrats gained support from voters who resented New England dominance of the Republican Party.17 The party was strongest in areas with a high percentage of American citizens born outside the state. Native Pennsylvanians in areas with weak commercial ties were most likely to embrace the Democratic Party.18 Partisan identity itself was not the sole determining factor for dissent. The context of the war and its development shaped resistance in important ways. If the war had proven to be short and glorious, as many Americans on both sides had predicted, partisan conflict would have remained subdued. Political dissent increased with the lengthening of the war. The Civil War required tremendous exertions by the northern people and forced the Lincoln administration into more drastic measures for its support. Dissent against the war grew over time, not in a linear progression, but in ebbs and flows often connected to elections. Northerners began the conflict in a patriotic euphoria, shattered in due course by the hardships of civil war. Accompanying the onset of war fever were appeals for a ‘‘no-party’’ movement. Believing that partisan conflict would undermine the war effort, a great many from both parties moved to unite their constituents under the banner of ‘‘Union.’’ For some politicians, the no-party movement was a genuine attempt to place country before party. Among their number were failed presidential candidate Stephen A. Douglas, and in Pennsylvania the Douglas faction of the Democratic Party created a sincere but short-lived bipartisan coalition. Conservative Republican leaders saw an opportunity to distance the party from antislavery radicalism and consolidate its strength with a moderate appeal. Though

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it was not likely their intention, these leaders were also taking the first steps toward a new conception of nationalism—a loyalty measured by obedience to the central government.19 Democrats initially drawn to the ‘‘no party’’ impulse grew estranged from it as they perceived the administration pursuing a war of Southern ‘‘subjugation.’’ Additionally, Democratic loyalists became increasingly convinced that the Union coalitions were Republican ploys to garner votes. The political drama in the mountains resembled that across the North but here the ‘‘no party’’ movement fell apart quickly. Republicans of the region swiftly decried partisanship as disloyalty. After a year of reflection on the consequences of party politics, Clearfield’s Republican editor gave a partisan rendering of the cause of the war and the duty of northern citizens. ‘‘A few spoiled and petted aristocrats’’ of the South began the conflict because they could not control the government. Their treason threatened the institutions of free government. The duty of ‘‘loyal men,’’ he argued, was to uphold the constituted authorities, to encourage the armies in the field, ‘‘and to countenance and sustain only those whom they know to be true to the government.’’ In the defense of republican government, partisan politics weakened the nation. ‘‘These being the facts, is it prudent for a free people to engage in party bickerings, whilst a most desperate contest is being waged against their Government? Do not such things tend to encourage the rebels and make them believe that they may yet succeed in getting up a fight between the several political parties of the loyal States?’’20 Succumbing to the rhetoric of patriotism, a number of Democrats embraced the no-party movement under the banner of a Union Party. Disunion and rebellion gave early strength to Republican arguments while palsying Democrats with hesitation and divided opinions. Ideologically, the founding generation wrote ill of partisan opposition and George Washington was famous for his denunciation of the baneful influence of political parties.21 With Washington as the central icon of the Revolution, his anti-party stance provided a powerful arrow in the Republican quiver. Pragmatically, wartime opposition was a dangerous strategy that had proved the undoing of the Federalist Party after the War of 1812. For others, however, the no-party movement cloaked devious political maneuvering under the guise of patriotism. One Democratic editorial put it plainly. ‘‘It is evident that what is meant by ‘no-party,’ is none but theirs—none but Lincoln’s—none but sectionalism that has brought the country to its present deplorable condition.’’22 By late summer, upcoming fall elections helped scuttle nonpartisan politics. Local Republican newspapers capitalized on the

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words of Stephen Douglas, ‘‘Whoever is not prepared to sacrifice party organization and platforms on the altar of his country, does not deserve the support and countenance of honest people.’’ The editor of the McKean Democrat spoke plainly about the true Republican motives. ‘‘Whose platform does the preservation of the altar of our country require to be sacrificed? . . . ‘The Union and the Constitution, they must be preserved,’ has ever been the foundation of the Democratic organization and platform. Did the preservation of our country require it to be sacrificed, it would be most cheerfully done.’’23 Critics argued that support of the no-party movement was merely political self-interest, designed to gain a share of patronage. Local Democrats offered evidence for the deceit of ‘‘the political wire-pullers.’’ In the Republican-dominated northern tier counties of Warren, Potter, and Tioga, Republicans rejected a coalition party. In an editorial entitled ‘‘Union,’’ the McKean Democrat warned readers that in areas of Democratic strength, the no-party movement was not a ‘‘union of the honest masses of the people without regard to party trammels.’’ In his view, ‘‘it was simply an offer to divide the offices, on the principle of ‘half a loaf is better than no loaf.’ ’’24 In truth, both sides used the same political calculus in weighing the benefits of the no-party movement. The Republicans accused Democrats of the same villainy with a more sinister tinge. In the summer of 1862 the republican editor of Clearfield encapsulated his party’s thoughts on resistance to no-party politics. ‘‘Loyal men are by this time pretty generally aware that this new organization professing to be Democracy revived and regenerated is simply a masked battery of treason intended to impede the government in its work of crushing rebellion.’’25 While party leaders debated the merits of no-party politics, Democrats of the lumber region raised some of the earliest voices of opposition. In condemning the Republican Party, not all Democrats read from the same script. Rhetoric differed to suit local political climates and evolved as it tested the acceptable limits of dissent.26 This statement applies more to state and national party leaders who faced the challenge of formulating political rhetoric with a broad appeal. Local politicians had considerably less restraint upon the vitriol of their words. In an article appearing in the McKean Democrat entitled ‘‘Political Parties again in Motion,’’ the author commented ‘‘that the antagonism between them is to be continued at least in local elections.’’27 In this period of political uncertainty, it was easier for them to openly criticize the Lincoln administration and the no-party movement. The variation in local political attitudes also reflected the loose organization of Democratic politics in the state evident in the late 1850s. The Democratic Party dominated state politics from the 1840s to the presidency of James Buchanan. During the Buchanan years, bloodshed in Kansas and the economic

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crisis of 1857 contributed to the decline of Democratic power in the state and across the nation. Elections in 1858 marked a disintegration of party organization that eroded the loyalty of its members and weakened its leadership in national affairs.28 While state Republicans had prominent leaders, such as Curtin and Simon Cameron, Democrats lacked dominant chiefs to unite their constituency. Local party officials also had a history of opposing the measures of national Democratic leaders, notably tariffs and protectionism. Andrew Jackson learned to his dismay that even safe Democratic districts could oppose his economic policies.29 With fewer organizational restraints, some local Democratic leaders stepped beyond the acceptable limits of dissent, drawing the ire of party members and opponents alike. In mid-August 1861, the Democratic doyens of Clearfield, Jefferson, Elk, and McKean counties met at St. Mary’s to nominate a district candidate for the fall election. The assembled men unanimously adopted resolutions summarizing their political stance.30 The St. Mary’s resolutions reveal the vigor of early partisan attacks at the local level. They also foreshadowed the administration critiques that would become more pronounced in 1862. The resolutions condemned the ‘‘fanaticism’’ and sectionalism of the Republican Party while praising the efforts of the ‘‘small patriot band’’ who had labored for compromise in the recent session of Congress. They presented a vision of the Democratic Party as the champion of republican tradition, of peaceful Union, of responsible administration, and of civil liberties. They invoked the words of George Washington, who warned Americans to ‘‘frown indignantly upon the first and every attempt to alienate one portion of the country from the other, or to dissolve the political bonds which hold us in Union.’’ Addressing concerns over censorship and military arrests, they vowed ‘‘to defend freedom of speech and of the press.’’ As the war progressed, this opposition rhetoric became increasingly formal and bitter.31 The most volatile of the resolutions revealed how their authors pushed dissent into dangerous territory. While praising the courage and devotion of Union soldiers, they rebuked the Lincoln administration as a ‘‘military despotism’’ for its attempt to ‘‘subjugate’’ the South. The Democratic editors of the lumber region distinguished between an army of defense and an army of invasion. If the new northern army acted as a shield for the nation’s capital, the administration deserved support. Democrats believed that a demonstration of military devotion would be enough to persuade the Confederate army to lay down its arms. The McKean Democrat praised the speech of a Republican recruiter who argued ‘‘the organization of an effective force would be the best preventative of war’’ and that ‘‘the united rally of the people, to sustain the Executive, would restore harmony and peace, and make us once more a happy

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and united people, without the shedding of fraternal blood.’’32 When Lincoln ordered the army to advance into Virginia, local Democrats rebuked him for perverting the purpose of the loyal uprising in the North. Northern armies, they decried, had now become a force to punish and coerce the South back into the Union. The loss at Bull Run added a stinging poignancy to their warnings. The St. Mary’s Resolutions denounced the advance as a ‘‘betrayal of our brave soldiers into acts of lawlessness,’’ and referred to the fight as a ‘‘slaughter of Americans.’’ Most ill-advised was a resolution expressing pity for the widows and orphans of fallen southerners.33 The ensuing firestorm of debate illustrates the public divide over the meaning of loyalty and treason. Portions of the St. Mary’s Resolutions offended more moderate Democrats and their reaction revealed the conservative evolution of partisan rhetoric in the first year of the war. When Clearfield Democrats met in early September, the divisive St. Mary’s Resolutions were a heated topic of argument. Party leaders William A. Wallace and William Bigler called for member solidarity and gave speeches that distanced themselves from the denunciations of Bull Run. In their adopted resolutions, they called for a speedy and peaceful end to the rebellion with an emphasis on the Constitution as the supreme law. The authors extolled the civic virtue of Democrats, ‘‘as in the past, the Democratic party has ever zealously and actively supported the powers that be in maintaining the national honor, and defending the symbol of our nationality.’’ Pledges to maintain honor and defend symbols lacked clarity. The most important resolution underscored a conditional support for the war effort. ‘‘Resolved, That we will stand by the present Administration and aid it in all legitimate measures whilst its object may be the preservation of the Union, the enforcement of the laws, and the maintenance of the Constitutional rights of the people, but will not countenance any effort to destroy the institutions of any section of our common country.’’34 Division in the Democratic ranks worried party leaders. Moderate Democrats held a meeting in Curwensville and forwarded an open letter ‘‘To the Democrats of Clearfield County’’ signed by ninety individuals. Their comments answered the policy vagueness implied in the Clearfield resolutions. In their view, ‘‘the only way to gain an honorable peace and to preserve the Union, is to utterly crush this wicked rebellion by bringing to bear upon it all the military and moral powers of the government.’’ For that reason, ‘‘we therefore utterly repudiate and spit upon a great portion of the platform laid down by the late representative convention held in the Borough of St. Mary’s.’’35 The editor of the Clearfield Republican shrugged off the St. Mary’s resolutions, chiding ‘‘nobody is bound, in any degree, to the expressed will of ten or a dozen gentlemen attending a district convention.’’ He urged unity among party members

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for the sake of upcoming elections. ‘‘This is a time, above all others, when Democrats should act in harmony. . . . Admonish every Democrat to lay aside all personal and individual preferences and prejudices—all minor, local and side issues—and unite together as a band of brothers to place that good old Union-making and Union-preserving party of Jefferson and Jackson again in power.’’36 Two weeks later, the McKean County Democratic committee walked the same political tightrope. The members thanked the nation’s ‘‘brave army . . . for the noble devotion and heroic courage they have shown in rallying to the defense of the country.’’ They also agreed in principle with Republicans that secession had ‘‘no warrant in the Constitution.’’ Revealing their wariness, however, Democrats held the Republican Party ‘‘next in guilt’’ to secessionists for their factional agitation over slavery. Their definition of patriotism called on the Republican Party to ‘‘abandon the narrow platform of the Chicago Convention’’ and condemned any war of ‘‘emancipation of slaves as fatal to all hopes of the restoration of the Union.’’ Laying a foundation for future dissent, Democrats clung tightly to the principle ‘‘that the right of fully and freely canvassing the policy and measures of the Administration in power is essential to a constitutional government; it is a right upon which the pillars of our republic rest and is denied only by tyrants.’’37 The St. Mary’s resolutions immediately drew the denunciation of the local Republican press. When the Elk Advocate condemned the resolutions, the editor of the McKean Democrat responded that this ‘‘pathetic strain about ‘patriotism,’ ‘our glorious flag,’ ‘traitors,’ &c . . . costs but little.’’ He countered that the Democratic ‘‘traitors’’ who authored the resolutions were the only true patriots. ‘‘Did it never occur to the writer that the members of that convention have the maintenance of the constitution and government really at heart?’’38 The Brookville Star took exception to the resolutions ‘‘pronouncing them deeply dyed with treason.’’ To answer the charges required a redefinition of treason. ‘‘There is a class who can be satisfied with nothing but butchery. Anything that looks to the accomplishment of the restoration of the Union by another process, is treason.’’39 It is unclear how many Democrats still believed that further bloodshed could be avoided. Nevertheless, regional Democrats continued to assert that Republican attitudes, particularly those toward emancipation, had closed avenues of compromise. To them, true fidelity toward the Union was measured in the search for peace. The most difficult challenge facing Democrats was justifying political opposition during wartime as anything other than a betrayal of the nation. In early September 1861, a small group of Republicans met in a storeroom in Portland, Elk County, to nominate their local candidates. Among the resolutions passed

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was a simple statement reflecting the Republican position on patriotism and disloyalty. ‘‘That in the struggle to maintain our National existence, we are for supporting the government, and do not stop to ask who administers it. We see no neutral position to occupy. He who is not for his country is against it.’’40 Democrats solved this conundrum by distinguishing the Lincoln administration from the government itself. The editor of the Clearfield paper summed up this view in a clever metaphor. ‘Old Abe’ said, when on his way to the white house, ‘that he intended to run the machine as he found it.’ Now this, Tho’ a very homely expression, and a very indefinite definition of Government, is yet sufficiently illustrative of the distinction. The Machine ‘Old Abe’ spoke of is the Government, and the running of the Machine is the Administration; so that men may differ greatly as to the best way of running it, and yet find no fault with the Machine.41 Throughout the war, Democrats considered themselves champions of the laws and of the Constitution. They considered these controlling institutions to be the essence of republican government (often capitalized) protecting the nation from anarchy and the abuse of power. The editor of the Clearfield Republican consoled himself that if the Republicans were so ‘‘sappy-headed that they cannot discriminate between the Government and the Administration . . . The people, however, know the distinction—and that is all we care about.’’42 Distinguishing the administration from the government was the key in legitimizing Democratic opposition. An article in the spring of 1863 revisited this crucial theme. ‘‘We are often told by the abolitionists that the Administration and the Government are one and the same thing, that they are identical, and that there is no separating them; that to oppose the one is to oppose the other; and that opposition to the Administration brands a man as a ‘traitor’ the same as would opposition to the Government.’’43 In the fall of 1861, however, the public could find less fault in the way ‘‘Old Abe’’ ran the machine. Democratic speeches encouraged unity among the party faithful and called for vigilance in the preservation of civil liberties.44 They did stress loyalty to the government as they saw it—embodied in the Constitution and the laws. Democratic leaders warned voters to watch carefully for the signs of corruption of power. In the lumber region, the vote in Clearfield, Elk, Jefferson, and McKean revealed Democrats gaining ground on their Republican opponents. Including the soldier vote, Republicans of the district lost more than a thousand votes, amounting to a quarter of their strength from the previous year. In contrast,

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Democrats maintained more than 93 percent of their 1860 voting strength.45 Interestingly, among the election winners was a speaker from the St. Mary’s convention, who had pledged himself to use his ‘‘best efforts to bring about an honorable peace.’’ Local party leaders may have distanced themselves from the volatile St. Mary’s resolutions but voters remained faithful to their authors.46 It is possible that much of the loss in Republican strength resulted from inefficiencies in soldier voting. State officials had created a cumbersome procedure to allow soldiers to vote with their regiments, and the tally for the district included only 442 soldier votes, of which 87 percent were Republican. Military records do not conveniently summarize the number of Pennsylvania soldiers in uniform at any given time. Based on service records, however, at the time of the election slightly more than twenty companies of soldiers from this voting district were in the army, accounting for more than two thousand men. Considering the number of soldier votes, roughly fifteen hundred men either could not or did not vote.47 These figures suggest two fascinating but tentative conclusions for the district. If the system had ensured that all eligible soldiers could vote as they wished, the turnout for the fall of 1861 would nearly have equaled that of 1860. Though the political spoils at stake were less important, voters showed keen interest in the outcome based on their voting strength. Additionally, the data imply something that Republican editorials claimed loudly from the outset— that the army contained a majority of Republicans. An example of this appeared in a Jefferson County Republican newspaper during the summer of 1863. The editor claimed to be quoting a ‘‘private note’’ from a Forest County contributor. ‘‘We send no copperheads from little Forest. We have sent over one hundred good and true soldiers to defend the Union, and put down this rebellion, and out of that number only five were Democrats, and two of them are now at home.’’48 Both Democrats and Republicans joined the armed forces; nevertheless, the Democratic vote among civilians had diminished from the previous year by less than 8 percent while the comparative figure for Republicans fell almost 33 percent. In their post-election summaries, Democratic editorials declared the army-vote a fraud, manipulated by federal officials to give Republican majorities. If fraud or manipulation did occur, Republicans lost an even greater representation in the process. It is impossible to calculate the imbalance of Republicans in arms, but these voting statistics suggest that Democratic rhetoric played a role in discouraging Democratic enlistments. The 1861 political assaults on the Lincoln administration were only the opening critiques in an expanding campaign of Democratic opposition. In the first months of war, Democrats warned citizens about the Republican ‘‘military despotism.’’ They pointed to military arrests in Maryland and censorship of Democratic newspapers as signs of government corruption. They denounced a war

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of subjugation that moved the defenders of the Union into the South as an army of invasion. As the burdens of war increased in both human and economic sacrifices, public discussion of loyalty grew more heated. By 1863, the issue of war consumed northern citizens and Lincoln’s actions gave Democratic rhetoric more urgency. Lack of success at mid-war forced the Lincoln government to take more drastic measures, fueling the fires of Democratic dissent. In January 1863, the public mood among northerners was gloomy. Readers of the Clearfield Republican were confronted with a poem that captured this sense of frustration. It incorporated themes of government mismanagement, arbitrary arrests, military stalemate, and wartime inflation. Brave men as ever wrestled strong with death, Have been allowed to freeze, or die of hunger; While those who held the country’s public purse, Have fattened and grown rich on bloody plunder. And fathers, when they have read of these great wrongs, Have sometimes stepped aside to ask the reason, When some official menial would growl out, ‘‘Bring on the shackles, quick! here, here is Treason!’’ Treason, indeed to mourn the loss of friends! Treason, indeed, to say there’s something wrong! Treason, to wish this fruitless war to end! No, no! Such treason is an empty song. ... There is something very wrong, by ginger, boys; I guess the old machine is running queer; If it is loyalty to cage men so, The crime belongs to him that lets them go! ... And now, my friends, those national disasters Are sought to be assuaged by small Shinplasters; God grant that War and Treason be no more, When I come ’round again in ’64.49 The policies of emancipation and conscription, coupled with wartime inflation, fed northern opposition. Democrats had accused their rivals of nurturing

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a war of sectionalism to destroy slavery. Their fears seemed confirmed when the Republican Congress passed the Second Confiscation Act in 1862, allowing federal armies to seize the slaves of rebels. In September, the Lincoln White House trumped the actions of Congress by issuing the preliminary Emancipation Proclamation. With the coming of the New Year, northerners struggled over a profound shift in the meaning of the war itself. Soldiers who fought to restore the Union were now an army of liberation in a war for freedom. Democrats capitalized on emancipation as evidence of a Republican plot to destroy slavery and predicted a disastrous turn of popular opinion. ‘‘The passage of this act is a confession to the world, first, that the object of the war is not for the enforcement of the laws, and restoration of the Union; and hence, second, that for this reason, white soldiers to fill the places of three hundred thousand whose terms expire next May and June, cannot be obtained.’’50 Letters from the army appeared in local papers describing the dismal mood of many soldiers. A Clearfield County soldier wrote to General John Patton in December 1862, ‘‘You should keep in mind that the army is all democratic, and awfully down on the Niggers and Abolitionists; for we begin to feel that we are fighting to liberate a people that are too indolent to raise a hand to liberate themselves. . . . At all events, they are not worthy of their liberty.’’51 Though impossible to gauge with any certainty, Democrats of the lumber region were typical in their racial prejudice against black people. While most northerners of the period held views of black inferiority, historians have emphasized the more overt racism of Democrats. Party leaders utilized the fears and prejudice of voters to win elections and catered campaigns and policies to suit popular sentiment.52 The lumbering counties held the lowest concentration of black people in the state. In the entire region, there were less than one thousand black residents comprising roughly one-half percent of the population, and most of those were concentrated in Clinton and Lycoming counties. Forest and McKean counties had no blacks at all. Conversely, the region contained a significant percentage of foreign born residents, particularly German and Irish. In Elk County, over a quarter of the population was foreign born, a percentage nearly equal to the highly industrialized counties of Allegheny, Philadelphia, and Schuylkill. Residents of the region opposed the immigration of blacks into their communities. Wageworkers in the forests, coal mines, and oil fields feared the competition black laborers would bring. In the aftermath of the Emancipation Proclamation, citizens of the lumber region petitioned the state legislature to prohibit the immigration of blacks into the state. The Clearfield newspaper urged citizens to support the measure, asserting ‘‘such a law should be passed without a moment delay.’’ In the first few months of 1863, Clearfield County

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sent in five petitions including a request to legislate against the intermarriage of whites and blacks.53 Supporters of the bill defended it as a measure preserving the white race. ‘‘For the sake of our common humanity, let us have no legalized amalgamation, but punish with the utmost vigor, the brutish monster that would attempt the legalization of such assault upon common decency.’’54 Opponents of the resolution sent in remonstrances against it, including a comic suggestion by a man from Philadelphia. In late March, Republican state Senator Morrow B. Lowry introduced ‘‘a petition from John G. Ellis, of the Twenty-first ward of Philadelphia, for the passage of a law forbidding the immigration into this State of all persons having hair the color usually denominated red.’’55 The resolution against black immigration passed in the Democraticcontrolled House by a strictly partisan vote, but failed consideration in the Republican-dominated Senate. Regardless of the outcome, the petitions revealed a sizeable fear of blacks among mountain residents. If a war fought to free slaves was not enough, Democrats complained bitterly about the draft. By the summer of 1862, recruiting throughout the North dwindled noticeably at the moment the Confederacy instituted its own conscription policy. That year, the War Department tested a conscription policy administered by the individual states that met with limited success. As the war stretched into 1863, Lincoln saw no alternative to a national draft conducted by federal officials. The Enrollment Act of March 1863 formalized the policies of drafting and assigned federal provost marshals throughout the North as agents of government authority. The draft caused widespread criticism for its violation of the American traditions of volunteering, for its exemptions which seemed to favor the wealthy, and for the threat posed by a new federal presence in local communities. Compulsory service in the military had occurred on a limited basis in the American past, but largely ran counter to republican traditions of the volunteer patriot. Exemptions for those who could furnish substitutes or pay a $300 commutation fee made the legislation more odious. While designed to make the draft more palatable to northerners, the exemption clauses sparked accusations of a ‘‘rich man’s war, but a poor man’s fight.’’ Also, many northerners were dismayed by the provost marshals distributed across the northern home front. Democrats depicted marshals as incompetent Republican lackeys, abusing their authority to punish local political opponents. Not only did marshals administer an unpopular government policy, but they utilized the force of the government to subdue resistance. Democrats challenged the legality of conscription and the Democratic-controlled Supreme Court of Pennsylvania ruled the law unconstitutional. Despite the laxity of Civil War conscription, the draft had tremendous symbolic potential in the rhetoric of loyalty.56

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Rising wartime inflation added strength to the undercurrent of dissent. Food prices quoted in local newspapers remained fairly stable through the fall of 1862 but rose dramatically afterward. By March 1863, the cost of wheat and butter in Clearfield had risen 13 percent, eggs and oats by roughly 35 percent, and corn nearly 70 percent above its fall 1861 value. At war’s end, the picture was bleaker. Wheat and egg prices had doubled, butter had increased two and a half times, and corn and oats had more than tripled their early war value.57 Local Democrats blamed high commodity prices on wartime speculators and the ill effects of conscription. Articles decried ‘‘an active speculative movement in coffee, sugar and tea’’ since the fall of 1861.58 The editor of the Clearfield Republican denounced ‘‘Lincoln Coffee’’ and advertisements appeared for cheap substitutes such as ‘‘Kollock’s Improved Dandelion Coffee.’’59 When kerosene prices doubled in December 1862, the Democratic Watchman of Bellefonte wrote, ‘‘The rise was undoubtedly the effects of speculation. A few of the speculators have probably been ‘bitten’ in the operation, and we are glad of it.’’60 The inflation in paper prices caused many small newspapers to shut down or print reduced editions. The Clearfield Republican was forced to raise prices and clear two hundred customers from its lists for unpaid subscriptions.61 When antibutter associations formed in early 1864, the editor warned against this misguided practice. The associations were reported in newspapers throughout the region and members pledged against the use of butter until prices fell. The paper considered this fair as long as it was meant to ‘‘curtail the cost of living and for economy.’’ It was wrong, however, if such measures were meant to impel farmers to sell below fair cost. Butter was an exchange commodity, used by families to purchase other necessities, and its value needed adjustment to compensate for a general inflation. ‘‘Let us have fair-sailing and no gouging.’’62 Democrats also blamed economic woes on the policy of conscription. In one regard, the draft took labor power from the households of poor families. In this county, as everywhere else, persons have been drafted who can illy afford to leave their homes and families, and some of these are in deep distress. We know of several cases of laboring men with large families, and some with sickly wives and afflicted children who will now probably be left in a destitute condition, or with scarcely sufficient means to provide fuel, clothing and provisions during the severity of the winter.63 Conscription also raised the cost of farm labor and impelled women to work in the fields. One editorial from the border of the lumber region feared the social and economic repercussions of this shift, but showed little understanding of the truly difficult lives of women on Pennsylvania farms. ‘‘Women will, of

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necessity, be dragged from her lofty level of noble housewife, into digger, spader, plower, &c. The great question for Republican mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, not deluded by abolition fanaticism, is: ‘Will this pay only to free negroes South?’ ’’64 Democratic editors reminded readers that the high prices and conscription policies were the result of the Republican Party. As the presidential election of 1864 neared, they warned that a vote for Lincoln would continue these ‘‘high times.’’65 Republicans countered that the war actually improved the economy, providing higher wages and a better market for lumber. Secession and war disrupted the lumber industry in its first years. The most authoritative history of the American lumber industry asserted that ‘‘prices of lumber tumbled down and down as the business of the country was interrupted.’’66 The outbreak of war ruined the 1861 rafting season on the West Branch. One article reported, ‘‘The lumber trade is dull. No sales on any account are being made. . . . There is no telling to what extent the present state of our national troubles will affect the lumber trade of this country; but, we presume, the result will be more disastrous, than was first anticipated.’’67 The 1862 season had fair prices but a much smaller harvest. Lumbermen were discouraged by the low values of the previous year and a mild winter that mired timber in the woods.68 By 1863, prices for lumber began to rise in response to increased demand by farmers and government contractors. Better-off agriculturalists, who had weathered the early economic disruptions, began again to make property improvements, converting unstable greenbacks into fixed assets.69 A correspondent of the Raftsman’s Journal, who went by the pen name Leroi, described the changing economic situation. At the beginning of 1864, white pine boards were selling at prices slightly more than double their value at war’s outset. Even less valuable woods such as spruce and hemlock found markets, where in 1861 there were few buyers. Leroi correlated attitude toward inflation and higher prices with party affiliation. If for the welfare of his country, the restoration of the Union, and for sustaining the administration, in putting down this rebellion, then you may rest assured that his heart is not out of its place and he will pay the advance without a murmur; but if he goes on to expound the Constitution, the habeas corpus act, the Emancipation proclamation (a bitter pill) and abolitionists, then you may bet your existence and offer, safely, 100 to 0, that his heart is in that defunct institution once known by the name of the Democratic par-t-ee, and he will howl at the high prices.70 In another letter, the anonymous author made the observation, ‘‘the cry of hard times is another howl the Cops [Copperheads] make. When asked for any

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evidence of what they assert, they are at a loss to point it out. Never has a country flourished as this town and vicinity has for the last three years.’’71 Leroi pointed to the rapid growth of steam sawmills and their vigorous assault on the forests as evidence. The editor remarked that if ‘‘Lincoln coffee’’ cost more, ‘‘Lincoln lumber’’ earned more, too. It was true that wages for loggers rose during the war and many young men did not want to miss the economic opportunity. An anonymous worker from Pittsburgh expressed a common view plainly in a letter to Abraham Lincoln. ‘‘We are all doing well, and making money, and we do not like to leave and have others stay at home, and continue to make the big wages, while we work at $16 per month for the Government.’’72 A local Republican notable, Joseph F. Quay, wrote to Governor Curtin that ‘‘every loose fellow who is or expects to be drafted runs off to the lumber shanties into the mountains and remote districts where he finds [e]mployment and high wages.’’73 Despite Republican claims, poor farmers and wageworkers did not share equally the economic windfall of wartime contracts. For one thing, the majority of lumber profit was going into the hands of the industrialist owners of the new steam sawmills at Williamsport and elsewhere. Rafting farmers were increasingly hindered in selling timber by rising fees and competition by loggers. In 1863, farmers without direct access to streams paid 50 percent more for putting their timber into navigable rivers.74 Rafters also paid fees to the boom corporations at Williamsport and Lock Haven to extricate rafts from the gigantic log corrals. They opposed the creation of a boom at Jersey Shore because it would make river navigation more difficult. Though a Republican, Representative Arthur G. Olmstead, of Potter and Tioga Counties, explained the bitter opposition of rafters during debate on the Jersey Shore bill. Referring to raftsmen, he argued ‘‘many of this class of men have already been ruined by boom companies. The Lock Haven boom and the Williamsport boom have already injured this class of men to a great extent.’’ Democrat L. B. Labar, of Bucks County, opposed the site chosen for the boom, observing ‘‘on a windy day every raft must be driven into this boom, and the consequence will be that rafts will be delayed and their owners put to unnecessary expense in order to get them out of these booms.’’75 In a debate over debt in Potter County, Olmstead explained the dire poverty of the region. ‘‘The people of that county, like the people of other counties in the mountainous sections of the State, are poor; and the sources of wealth and taxation are limited. The climate is cold and the earth yields her products unkindly, and only as a result of great labor.’’76 Though wartime wages increased, the inflation of goods and taxes surpassed the rise of income. The editor of the Clearfield Republican argued ‘‘Coffee is not the only article that has thus doubled or trebled in price as compared with the

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present price of ‘‘Lincoln Lumber.’’ Muslins, calicoes, and all sorts of dry goods, and every article that particularly enters into the consumption of the working classes, have ‘gone up’ so enormously as to leave ‘coffee’ entirely in the shade.’’77 A year later, the paper complained of the excess of ‘‘war taxes.’’ In addition to property and school taxes, residents of the mountains paid taxes for relief efforts, bounty drives, and new revenue fees on everyday items like sugar, cotton, cloth, and coffee.78 Another article contrasted the taxes of 1860 and 1864. A $1,000 farm in Beccaria Township was charged $33.50 in 1860 but $88.50 in 1864. More astonishing was the increase of taxes in Burnside Township from $31.50 to $206.50 where school directors ‘‘assessed the people to procure volunteers under the present draft.’’79 Even the Republican newspaper was forced to admit, ‘‘the incomes of the majority of men are not more than sufficient to provide for their ordinary necessities. It is only the favored few who can pay such taxes all at once. The theory may suit the rich, but it don’t suit those of moderate means.’’80 Economic difficulty magnified the dissent over emancipation and conscription, heating up public discussions of loyalty. The debate over loyalty and patriotism, however, took many forms in the mountain communities of Pennsylvania. Traditions of partisan politics were the dominant influence on public dialogue. Party newspapers and speeches maintained the issues at a fever pitch, providing citizens with words and arguments that emanated in waves through daily interaction. While party politics helped generate much of the argument over loyalty, rural Pennsylvanians found daily life more politicized than before the war. Civic activities such as teaching, preaching, and charitable work that had once been considered largely nonpolitical, took on new partisan dimensions.81 Residents carried the battle over loyalty into their schools, churches, and public spaces. In the lumber region, members of the local community acted as enforcers of order and protectors of cherished values. While disagreeing over values, such as the duties of citizens and the meaning of patriotism, they used censure and sometimes violence to maintain those values as they interpreted them. If some actions went beyond legal bounds, they reflected the seriousness and desperation felt by many mountain residents. In the absence of opinion polls or revealing diaries and letters, the newspapers of the lumber region offer a distorted yet crucial window into public discussions of loyalty.82 Few items in the local papers were free of partisan perspective. Despite the bias inherent in these publications, it is important to realize the way local party leaders and newspaper editors helped structure public debate over loyalty through their speeches, editorials, and resolutions. Pennsylvanians absorbed these words and echoed them in their daily, more personal conversations about the war.

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With more at stake, wartime circumstances heightened the traditional tensions between opposing editors. As embodiments or surrogates for the party itself, Democratic papers in particular became the objects of criticism, censorship, and occasional violence. Most newspapers were embedded in local partisan rivalry, with editors engaged in a continuous critique of their journalist opponents. Republican authors charged the Democratic press with treason and fomenting insurrection. Their denunciations contributed a sense of legitimacy to acts of violence against contending publishers. Democrats responded by asserting their first amendment rights, at times reprinting the amendment itself.83 They countered that Republican newspapers were merely the tools of military dictatorship, at fault in this war for nurturing sectionalism over the slavery issue. In their opinion, the blood of disunion and war lay on the hands of Republicans. While proclaiming themselves champions of ‘‘law and order,’’ Democratic papers were vulnerable to censorship and collective violence. To promote their ideals of patriotism, Republican officials employed various forms of censorship. Acting without official orders, local postmasters could withhold copies of strong antiwar papers. The Clearfield editor urged readers to look into charges that the postmaster of Morrisdale was refusing to deliver newspapers deemed ‘‘secessionist.’’84 In nearby Centre County, the Democratic Watchman alleged that a postmaster performed a double deception, returning copies of the paper to the office as ‘‘not lifted’’ while telling subscribers that no papers had come.85 When the federal government instituted a system of provost marshals for the home front, their policy was to print notices in only loyal Republican papers. In the summer of 1863, the Provost Marshal General of the United States sent confidential instructions to his officers to publish notices only in designated papers, ‘‘upon your first assuring yourself that the sheets selected are not opposing the Government.’’86 A month later, the Provost Marshal of Pennsylvania sent his representative to the Union League of Philadelphia to ascertain the ‘‘sound Union newspapers’’ throughout the state.87 Since the first months of the war, Republican crowds had acted as informal enforcers of loyalty in urban communities. Philadelphia’s fervent Democratic newspapers bore the brunt of early attacks. Over time, crowds throughout the state broadened their reprisals for anti-administration editorials. In the lumber region, the West Branch Democrat offered a $300 reward for identification of the vandals who ransacked their printing office on the night of July 3, 1862. In addition to tearing up forms and destroying type, the ‘‘dastardly villains’’ had the temerity to deface a copy of Webster’s Dictionary.88 Mountain residents felt their connection to larger events conveyed to them in their local papers. Democratic newspapers from across the state were in danger of public hostility for their printed opinions. Local residents destroyed the Kittaning Mentor under

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the pretense of it being a ‘‘violent secesh sheet’’ in the summer of 1863. On a number of occasions, crowds boldly attacked Democratic papers during the daytime, revealing a belief that their actions were morally righteous. In response to an article denouncing Lincoln, nearly one hundred people gutted the offices of the Carlisle American Volunteer in broad daylight without any opposition. As was common, soldiers were prominent in the crowd, wielding hatchets and setting fire to office papers. Democrats of Huntingdon County held a mass meeting to raise funds for the destroyed Huntingdon Monitor only to have the offices ruined again by angry residents. After soldiers damaged the press of the Monroe Democrat of Stroudsburg in April 1864, the Clearfield editor urged party faithful, ‘‘it is the duty of the Democrats everywhere to stand by their newspaper publishers, not only to defend their property but to strike back. STRIKE BACK, we say.’’89 Regardless of party, editors took a common stance on collective violence. When crowds targeted the offices of political rivals, editorials defended their actions as noble justice. Crowds that destroyed the offices of colleagues were nothing more than ‘‘mobs’’ incited to acts of barbarism by evil men. The distinctions between mobs and crowds, as well as between patriotism and treason, underscore the importance of words in the debate over loyalty. In the Republican arsenal of rhetoric, the word copperhead was one of the most powerful weapons in that debate. It was a noun, adjective, and even a form of profanity, working its way into the national subconscious. With its obvious sinister connotations, it became verbal shorthand for impugning the character and integrity of Democratic Party members. The term gained widespread use by 1863 with the dramatic increase in public discussions of loyalty. The Republican paper of Clearfield addressed the origins of this curious word crediting the Republic of Springfield, Ohio, with popularizing the term. In contemplating the rattlesnake on the state emblem of South Carolina, the Republic’s editor argued, ‘‘the rattlesnake was a more magnanimous reptile than the copperhead snake, as the former gives notice before he strikes, while the latter, besides being more insidious, strikes you without giving any warning.’’90 While first used in the Midwest, the term spread rapidly into the national lexicon.91 Users generally did not acknowledge a political middle ground, and applied the term toward all Democrats. Copperhead became a synonym for disloyalty and the association conditioned Republican minds to see areas of Democratic strength as harboring treason. A Republican-appointed provost marshal wrote about the lumber region ‘‘This is a wild country I can assure you and the people are either intensely loyal or intensely Copperhead.’’92 Democrats tried unsuccessfully to overcome the influence of Republican rhetoric. One method was to embrace the label copperhead while altering its

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meaning. Some party members clipped the head of Lady Liberty from copper coins and wore them as badges. This was an obvious attempt to supplant the image of a dangerous serpent with the positive representation of the cherished values of liberty. In this choice of ornamentation, Democrats took cues from their political opponents. The Brookville Republican carried advertisements in the summer of 1863 for a variety of silver-plated or enameled gold pins for members of the Republican Union Leagues.93 The same paper denounced the ‘‘Copperheads’’ appearing at a local concert ‘‘wearing their badges of treason’’ and praised a hotel keeper as a ‘‘loyal man’’ for refusing them lodging.94 Democrats also created their own neologisms for the Republican Party that focused on racial politics. There were very few black residents in the lumber region, yet racism and fears of labor competition buttressed the Democratic Party. Democrats applied terms such as ‘‘niggerism’’ or ‘‘niggerhead’’ as well as the wellworn label ‘‘black Republican Party.’’95 While this exploitation of racial tensions served as a useful political strategy, it did not diminish the strength of the Republican rhetoric of loyalty. The parties also conducted the debate over loyalty through structured political organization and a politics of fear. For Republicans, organizations dubbed ‘‘Union Leagues’’ became the primary means of targeting disloyal behavior and reinforcing core values. The most authoritative studies of the Union Leagues credit their origin to Illinois Republicans in mid-1862. The group multiplied quickly beyond the Midwest in the Spring and Summer of 1863, claiming nearly a million members across the North by 1864.96 Though unconnected, a grassroots organization by the same name appeared in the lumber region in the fall of 1861. This early Pennsylvania incarnation of the group differed markedly in structure and function from the later national Union League movement. One example highlights the purpose of early rural Union Leagues. Fearful of the ‘‘treason in our midst,’’ citizens of Janesville, Clearfield County, met at their schoolhouse in October 1861 to form a ‘‘Union League.’’ In keeping with traditional forms for political meetings, they elected officers and passed a series of resolutions that reinforced their status as a Republican organization. The avowed purpose of the league was to support the administration and its vigorous prosecution of the war against the rebels. They urged members to discourage publication of the Democratic newspapers that were ‘‘lending aid and comfort to traitors.’’ Its founders expressed the opinion that it was the duty of every citizen to lay aside party allegiance.97 Despite their anti-party rhetoric, the early Union Leagues did little to change the political landscape of the rural parties. National party leaders may have professed a politics of unity, but local politics could ignore this message.

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In 1863, national Republican political and economic elites grew alarmed at the heightening of antiwar sentiment and revitalized the Union League as a new agent of moral and patriotic reform. Emancipation, conscription, wartime inflation, and civilian arrests strengthened the peace movement and caused Republican leaders to use a top-down approach for invigorating civic morality. The new Union Leagues emanated from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia and consisted of gentlemen’s clubs that acted as nerve centers for loyalty campaigns. Tapping their wealth and intellect, Republicans established Loyal Publication Societies to deluge the north with patriotic pamphlets, sermons, and publications. In the mountains of Pennsylvania, the Union Leagues of 1863 varied little from the earlier organizations of the same name. Rural Union Leagues were not the elite social clubs of the urban centers but the provincial kinfolk that met in homes, storerooms, taverns, and schoolhouses. Moreover, the Union Leagues of the countryside were the recipients but not generators of party literature. The primary role of the rural League was to solidify votes for the Republican Party. Organizers urged members to be vigilant for disloyal behavior in their communities and report suspicious deeds to federal authorities. In an important sense, the Union Leagues made average citizens into agents of federal authority. One Democratic editor warned readers that the Leagues had a sinister ulterior purpose. ‘‘It is to have a military character, its members to be provided with arms, and ready at moments call to light the torch of civil war in every part of the country.’’98 Regional leaders of the Republican Party, already challenged by the sparseness of settlement, stressed the urgent need to organize. They envisioned their political opponents as desperate, armed criminals, banded together to oppose government authority. In Clearfield, the Republican editor warned that Democrats had subverted obedience to the laws and poisoned the mind of the public. ‘‘It is evident that organization is indispensable—that the Union hosts at home who stand armed with ballots which are to sustain the grand army of loyal soldiers who stand armed with muskets in the field, must, like them, be organized. Without organization we are powerless—with it, we are resistless. We, therefore, say to our friends, ORGANIZE! ORGANIZE!!’’99 Spokesmen championed an ambiguous mission for the League. ‘‘The members pledge themselves to stand by the legally constituted authorities—to maintain the Constitution—to preserve the Union—to maintain the laws—and to oppose treason in whatsoever guise it may appear.’’100 While using almost identical words as their opponents, the two groups meant entirely different things. Republicans undermined Democratic claims to loyalty by emphasizing their own support of the Lincoln administration and denouncing the opposition of

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their rivals as treason. In the war of words, they attempted to absorb the Democratic position as champions of the Constitution and the laws. Their control of the administration gave them the upper hand in professing allegiance to the state. Furthermore, they charged that Democrats formed ‘‘secret oath-bound societies’’ to weaken the government and the war effort. Political campaign strategies of the mid-nineteenth century relied heavily on conspiracy-minded rhetoric.101 The dominant ideology of republicanism nurtured voters’ paranoia by conjuring up images of secret alliances plotting to seize power. Conspiracy tactics thrive in the absence of proof and Republicans took advantage of believable patterns of events to support their claims. A main focus of Republican rhetoric was an alleged nationwide Democratic secret society known as the Knights of the Golden Circle. As elsewhere in the northern states, editorials reported that there were chapters of the infamous Knights working in Pennsylvania to aid the rebels. The extent and workings of the order were of great concern to government officials, especially those who feared its potential to sap recruits for the military. In October 1864, the Secretary of War received a lengthy report on ‘‘secret associations and conspiracies against the Government.’’ Its author, Judge-Advocate General Joseph Holt, asserted that the order numbered from half a million to a million northerners, concentrated primarily in the Midwest but present in practically all the northern states including Pennsylvania.102 Despite Democratic denials, Republican newspapers published articles offering proof of K.G.C. operations in the Keystone State. One widely reprinted article contained the deathbed confessions of a man from Dillsburg. The dying man purportedly revealed to his family that he was a member of an extensive state network, with well-developed plans to help seize control of the government and aid the rebellion.103 In an article entitled ‘‘Keep it Before the People,’’ the Brookville Republican warned its readers ‘‘that the Copperheads are in sympathy with, and many of them actually belong to the Knights of the Golden Circle.’’104 Other articles contained the testimony of men who claimed to be present at secret meetings revealing the organization and plots of the order.105 The story of the Knights is a complex web of fabrications incorporating a modicum of partial truths. The most authoritative history of the subject pronounced that ‘‘the Golden Circle was a bogeyman devised for political gains.’’106 The work traced the order to a notorious conman named George Bickley, who devised the organization in the late 1850s ‘‘as an agency to carve out an empire for himself and his followers somewhere in Mexico.’’ At the outbreak of the war, the rumors of this organization and its suspected ties between northern Democrats and southern secessionists eclipsed the utter ineptitude of its founder. The myth of the K.G.C. gained wide currency as a political campaign

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tool, exploited ad nauseam by the Republican media. Democrats denied its existence and when federal authorities arrested Bickley in 1863, they found no proof among his papers connecting him to the Democratic Party.107 Studies of Pennsylvania have also failed to uncover reliable evidence for lodges of the Knights of the Golden Circle or its related wartime organizations, the Order of American Knights and the Sons of Liberty.108 Invoking the phantom of secret societies echoed a theme of conspiracy-minded politics in American history. Politicians had waged influential campaigns in the past against the specters of Freemasonry and Know-Nothingism. Investigators reported the K.G.C. as having an elaborate hierarchical organization with secret oaths and rituals including grips and passwords. The American penchant for conspiracy-minded politics, however, only partially explains the riddle of the K.G.C. in Pennsylvania. Several partial truths made the myth of the Golden Circle more credible. The Democrats were organizing their own political clubs modeled on the Union Leagues. While Republicans asserted that the Union Leagues were a response to Democratic secret societies, many of the Democratic clubs were formed after the Republican leagues. One editorial praised the effort of organizing Democratic Clubs as ‘‘the best means of effecting a more perfect organization of the party.’’ The article went on to denounce the secret rituals of the Union Leagues, arguing ‘‘Democrats need practice no secrecy. Their object is the good of the whole people, the maintenance of the Constitution in its integrity, and the preservation to every citizen the full enjoyment of all his Constitutional rights.’’109 Another item in the Clearfield Republican used almost identical language to condemn the League as a secret organization. The author warned that the purpose of the League was to gain support for abolitionism and to enforce the draft under the guise of Union. Only the Democratic Party, he argued, was the true supporter of the Union. ‘‘Our aim is to sustain the Constitution and vindicate the laws, and whatever we do let us do openly and above board.’’110 Editorials over the next few weeks equated the Leagues with Know-Nothingism and chided Leaguers for supporting the war with greenbacks but not their lives. In the wake of the New York City draft riots in July 1863, residents of the lumber region formed a number of Democratic Clubs throughout the countryside. Unlike the Union League, these clubs did not have a uniform name. Along with references to Democratic Clubs, newspapers printed notices for Democratic Vigilance Societies and even a Democratic Reading Room.111 Like their Republican counterparts, the main purpose of these Democratic Clubs was to instill voter loyalty for the upcoming election. Area leaders openly criticized the Lincoln administration and its war effort. They used prominent civic platforms including July Fourth orations to denounce Lincoln and the

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Republican Party.112 Republican fears of armed resistance also contained a small measure of truth. The same editorial that had denounced the Union Leagues hinted at the level of desperation among local Democrats. ‘‘If in defending our rights, it becomes necessary to defend our lives, be it so.’’113 The rural Democratic Club from Goshen Township, Clearfield County, drafted resolutions that echoed the tenor of the Republican. ‘‘Resolved, that we will use all lawful means to prevent the taking of any citizen from this township, beyond the limits of this State by any mob or minion assumed executive power may depute to do so.’’114 The threat of force by civilians reflected the prominence of vigilantism in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Agents of law enforcement were scarce in the scattered forest communities. Local people embraced traditions of self-protection and communal pressure to maintain order. Life in the mountains and particularly the difficult work of lumbering nurtured an aggressive masculine culture of hard drinking and hard fighting. The raftsmen’s rebellion of the 1850s illustrated their willingness to use violence to protect families and communities. While there is no credible evidence of the K.G.C. existing in Pennsylvania, the Democrats of Clearfield created their own clandestine organization, dubbed the ‘‘Democratic Castle.’’ Unlike the case of the K.G.C., there is verbatim testimony about the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ taken in military tribunals addressing its origin, purpose, and operation. In addition to the statements of the accused, officials found a key printed document titled the ‘‘Constitution of the ‘Democratic Castle.’ ’’ Republican critics seized upon it as evidence of alleged Democratic ‘‘secret societies’’ fomenting antiwar and antidraft treason. Regional Democratic leaders countered that it was solely a political association designed to bolster partisan loyalty and preserve civil liberties. Given the unique nature of the evidence regarding the group, it is justified exploring the matter in detail. After military tribunals had already convicted some members of the ‘‘Democratic Castle,’’ the editor of the Clearfield Republican averred that the group ‘‘was merely a political organization, requiring no oath, but simply an obligation of honor and fidelity to the Democratic party.’’ He denied any intention of its founders to promote draft resistance, proclaiming, ‘‘What others may have interpolated into it, we know not. But if they added any oath, or resistance to any law, it thereby ceased to be consistent with the Constitution upon which it claimed to be founded, and likewise ceased to be ‘the Democratic Castle.’ ’’115 While its exact origins are murky, later testimony tied the organization to political events surrounding the 1864 state and national elections. A middleaged Clearfield farmer recalled self-servingly, ‘‘The meeting as I understood it was a Democratic meeting. I did not know what the meeting was called for until I went there. I went as I usually do to such meetings.’’116 In a summary

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of his notes, attorney for the accused David Fleming wrote, ‘‘The other meeting called the ‘Democratic Castle,’ was proven to be a mere political organization.’’117 Clearfield’s ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ grew out of that party’s most significant mass meeting held before the fall elections. The county Central Democratic Club called on its membership to assemble at the Clearfield Courthouse on Saturday, August 13, ‘‘to express in solemn terms their abhorrence of a prolongation of the war . . . and to take such other steps as the crisis may seem to demand.’’118 An editorial in the Clearfield Republican urged attendance ‘‘by every citizen of the county who is willing to unite his energies, his talents, and his means in all legal and constitutional efforts to save our beloved country and cherished institutions from the Executive usurpations now threatened.’’ Expanding on the theme of ‘‘the duties, the rights, and the obligations of the citizens,’’ the editor asserted ‘‘if those rulers fail to perform their duty, or attempt to usurp powers not granted to them, it is not only the right but it is clearly the duty of the citizens to interfere by all lawful means.’’119 Ex-governor William Bigler gave an hour and a half keynote speech at the ‘‘Monster Meeting’’ in which he condemned Abraham Lincoln as a ‘‘usurper and a tyrant.’’ Bigler told his audience ‘‘whilst he was willing to do and suffer anything for the Union and Government as made by the Fathers, he would not contribute one man, nor one farthing, to prosecute the war for the unlawful purposes set forth by Mr. Lincoln.’’ Bigler was followed by Clearfield attorney William A. Wallace, whose political star was on the rise. He would win a state Senatorial seat in the 1863 campaign and go on to a distinguished career that included election to the United States Senate in 1874. Wallace showed less restraint in his remarks charging ‘‘that it was the duty of all who loved our institutions, to unite for the overthrow of this corrupt and lawless administration, to the end that war might cease, merciless conscription be stopped, and the Union of our fathers restored.’’ 120 The Clearfield Republican stressed the power of the people to effect change through legal remedies. Their editorials countered that the meeting ‘‘was not simply a partisan display; but a demonstration of the people to convince our rulers that their present war policy is condemned.’’ Wallace referred specifically to the upcoming elections, stating ‘‘that it was the duty of all who loved our institutions, to unite for the overthrow of this corrupt and lawless Administration, to the end that war might cease, merciless conscriptions be stopped, and the Union of our fathers restored.’’121 While Bigler did not say it explicitly, many hearers took his speech to be a clarion call for militant resistance. Clearfield Democrats created the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ anticipating both the fall elections and the scheduled draft in October. In February and March of 1865, a military commission in Harrisburg heard cases regarding this mysterious

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organization. No one who testified about the organization knew the circumstances of its founding. It was clear, however, that Clearfield borough was the chosen headquarters. One of the organizing meetings may have occurred at the Turkey Hill School House in Knox Township. An officer of a later subdivision recalled being sworn in and receiving the constitution, grips, and passwords there. The ‘‘Castle’’ spread through individual contact. Gainer P. Bloom was found guilty of violating the draft laws after founding the Brady Township subdivision. When asked about the origins of the group, Bloom told the tribunal that a man named John Hoover came to his father’s house and ‘‘urged me and others to form this organization and said it was just what we wanted that everybody was going into it.’’122 Regrettably, the court did not press Bloom on who ‘‘everybody’’ entailed. The seemingly important ‘‘Constitution of the ‘Democratic Castle’ ’’ sheds only dim light onto the intentions of the founders. The two-page printed document was seized in a case against five men guilty of freeing two prisoners from the custody of provost marshals.123 Disappointingly for Republicans, the constitution contained no whiff of treason but only hackneyed repetitions of Democratic Party principles. The brief preamble pledged members to ‘‘support the State Governments in all their rights, as the most competent administration for our domestic concerns and the surest bulwark against anti-republican tendencies.’’ It urged them further ‘‘to aid, to the extent of our ability, in preserving the General Government in all its constituted vigor, and to do all in our power to hand it down, unimpaired, to posterity.’’ The anonymous author enumerated four ‘‘corner stones’’ upon which the organization rested but they included only fair elections, ‘‘supremacy of the civil over the military power,’’ freedoms of religion, press, speech, and person through habeas corpus, and trial by jury. The remainder of the constitution provided the framework for subdivisions outlining organization, officers, and procedures. The only real mystery was article 7, which required ‘‘answering in the affirmative the interrogatories propounded to candidates for admission.’’ What those ‘‘interrogatories’’ amounted to was not specified in writing. Whether intentional or not, the constitution went no farther in ‘‘disloyal’’ sentiments than Democratic editorials or the resolutions adopted in party meetings. It was even less explicit in how the federal government could be preserved ‘‘in all its constituted vigor’’ than speeches by regional leaders Bigler and Wallace. Military tribunals revealed that the organization encouraged draft resistance but even here was a political dimension worth noting. A Brady township officer recounted what he was told by the subdivision organizer. ‘‘He said it was a Democratic party meeting, in order to know what the strength of the party was,

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and he would like to see us keep the drafted men at home until after the election, so as to get their votes.’’124 It was no coincidence that most of those invited to the meetings were drafted men. Many Democrats perceived the timing of the October draft as an attempt to discourage Democratic votes by frightening away drafted men who failed to report. More will be said about the elements of draft resistance but was the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ undeniable proof of widespread ‘‘secret societies’’ with links to the fabled K.G.C.? Based on the testimony of members, the Democratic Castle bore features akin to nineteenth-century secret societies. Defendants gave evidence of at least five townships of Clearfield County containing ‘‘subdivisions’’ with a ‘‘castle’’ or ‘‘Grand Lodge’’ in Clearfield Borough acting as the central coordinating committee. Each township had its own officers and membership. Leaders called meetings by word of mouth and held them in schoolhouses, barns, and private homes throughout the county. Among the evidence submitted were descriptions of oaths, signs, codes, and passwords indentifying fellow members. Such signs included drawing your right hand across the mouth with a reply passing the left hand across the forehead. Passwords to enter meetings included ‘‘Washington’’ and ‘‘Jackson’’ (not likely ‘‘Stonewall’’). Another witness stated that he was given mysterious ‘‘letters and figures’’ to mark upon homes of Democrats and Republicans, but they seem to have served no practical purpose.125 Taken as a whole, the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ was a clumsy rendition of a secret society. A case summary by the Judge Advocate’s office called the organization ‘‘an unformed and crude secret fraternity.’’126 The label of ‘‘castle’’ appears at first a tantalizing and conscious modeling of the Knights of the Golden Circle. Any veneer of chivalric romanticism disappears, however, in the stultifying blandness of the Constitution. Its founders did not give it much thought or depth. There was no elaborate ceremony, regalia, ritual spaces, texts, or mystical creeds beyond the anemic Constitution. Article 4 explicitly forbade the use of ‘‘noble or regal title.’’ The preamble held fast to conventional Christian expressions, counseling members to ‘‘worship God according to the dictates of their own conscience’’ but stressing religious separation. ‘‘We, therefore, will make all honorable efforts to have the Gospel preached in the Pulpit and Politics proclaimed from the Stump.’’ The ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ lacked complex stylization because it was not intended for the highly literate. When asked to summarize the principles of the organization, a farmer from Brady Township recalled, ‘‘At the time they were read, I did not understand them very well. I am a very poor scholar.’’ Witnesses could express only one core value when questioned individually, ‘‘We were to stick together and help each other.’’127 The need ‘‘to stick together and help each other’’ seemed urgent because of the upcoming elections and draft. Moreover, Democrats asserted that their

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political opponents worked feverishly in their own covert groups to scandalize and undermine them. An anonymous contributor to the Clearfield Republican reported, ‘‘The Republicans of Karthaus township . . . are going it loud here in their secret order. Certain Democrats of the township whom they call disloyal are to be watched, and by them denounced as traitors. Drafted Democrats who fail to report are to be tracked, spied out, and information given of their whereabouts. The postal route to Salt Lick is to be stopped at a point above.’’128 The letters of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau indicate the eagerness of civilians to spy on their neighbors. In one of his first reports to Washington from Harrisburg, Marshal Dodge wrote, ‘‘The Union men are overawed by the organized power of the malcontents. . . . Several deputations and committees have called upon me, representing these facts in the strongest light.’’129 Republicans defended their ‘‘union leagues’’ in the same fashion as their rivals, by claiming that they were merely political.130 Whatever the circumstances of its founding, its origins were local and there is no evidence of it spreading more broadly across the state. Though the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau investigated carefully, they could find no proof of its existence beyond Clearfield County. In Philipsburg, Deputy Marshal S. B. Benson coordinated arrests by detectives and soldiers and questioned those brought in. ‘‘The organization is certainly a formidable one. One club has more than 80 members sworn to resist the draft. The grand lodge is in Clearfield Boro.’’131 Initial optimism turned to frustration as marshals were unable to implicate Democratic Party leaders. After questioning a subdivision leader, an irritated Benson reported ‘‘I expected he would divulge the names of the leaders in Clearfield Boro but he is as dumb as an oyster and will make no revelations.’’132 Deputy Benson interrogated at least thirty people under oath whether Bigler and Wallace had directly encouraged draft resistance. He reported with exasperation, ‘‘My opinion is that the resistance to the draft here is to a great extent oweing to the teachings of these two beautes but they have not so far as I can learn been guilty of an overt act.’’133 For state Republicans, the most vexing development was the failure to incriminate Bigler and Wallace. Military administrators arrested ordinary people who could be proven guilty of ‘‘disloyal actions.’’ Supporters of the administration encouraged the military to arrest political leaders rather than the ‘‘deluded’’ masses. A petition by Clearfield County citizens referred to them charitably as ‘‘the humbler and uninfluential class.’’ State Republican Senator Morrow B. Lowry wrote more bluntly to Provost Marshal Fry in Washington. ‘‘They were back-woods, country people, somewhat ignorant of the laws, and persuaded by designing men who sought their votes.’’134 While military officials

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investigated the extent of resistance, they limited the scope of their questions to the things that could be proven. They did not probe deeply into the roles of Bigler or Wallace despite Democratic assertions that the proceedings were a ‘‘star chamber’’ for political purposes.135 Testimony alleged that a son of Democratic presiding judge George R. Barrett was an officer in the central lodge in Clearfield. No other indication could connect higher Democratic leaders who certainly knew of the actions of the rank-and-file. The two principle targets left few traces of their thoughts and actions in this period. On December 27, 1864, Wallace confided to Bigler, ‘‘I am still free, as I suppose you are, notwithstanding the 1,001 rumors that fly. Efforts up to this date are unsuccessful to fasten up.’’ Wallace’s letter to Bigler mentioned details of the military trials in Harrisburg but little else.136 The frustration felt by state Republicans helps explain the pressure upon Provost Marshals in Pennsylvania districts. It is unknown whether Bigler supported the ‘‘castle’’ but evidence suggests his opposition to Democratic secret societies as a matter of principle. If so, Pennsylvania adhered to a pattern of Democratic Party leaders rejecting covert action that can be seen in the Mid-West as well.137 Bigler learned about a Republican plot to discredit the Democratic Party at the hands of a man named Frank McReynolds. The letter cautioned that McReynolds ‘‘is in the employ of Gov Curtin and goes about establishing Lodges which they call Knights of the Golden Circle, which is all wrong and damnable. Democrats do nothing in the dark. This McReynolds is employed to establish these lodges and to denounce and make exposition of them, when the time comes, for some political effects not yet developed.’’138 One might be tempted to see the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ as part of this alleged plot but the constitution is no conclusive proof. It says nothing whatsoever about mutual protection or resistance to the law. While area Democrats defended the ‘‘castle’’ as a legal partisan club, it would be disingenuous to say that the men who attended the meetings failed to uncover a more specific purpose. Republicans asserted that the organization was not merely political but treasonous resistance to the government. The ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ blurred the lines between legal political organization and illegal opposition to the state. In the formal military charges, members were alleged to ‘‘form or unite with a society or organization, commonly known and called by the name ‘Democratic Castle,’ the object of which society or organization was and is to resist the execution of the draft, and prevent persons who have been drafted . . . from entering the military service of the United States.’’139 The existence of the group was a centerpiece of District Marshal Hugh Campbell’s justification for a military expedition to Clearfield.

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After much inquiry and careful investigation into the cause of this failure [over 350 men had failed to report], the Board became satisfied that concerted action had been taken amongst large numbers of the drafted men, aided and abetted by many citizens of the county, with a view to resist the execution of the draft. Evidence was also laid before me of the existence of a widely extended, secret, oath-bound association, for the purpose of resistance—proof having previously been furnished that large quantities of revolvers, and other arms with unusual quantities of ammunition had been imported.140 These rural Pennsylvanians were not alone in the creation of ‘‘mutual protection societies.’’141 Such clubs existed in other parts of the state, including Berks, Columbia, and Lancaster counties, as well as other states in the North.142 Mutual protection societies could work in a variety of ways but all were intended to assist men who were or potentially could be drafted. Some schemes pooled money rather than force, with club members pledging to pay commutation or substitution costs for those drafted. In the cases of the ‘‘Democratic Castle,’’ the defense argued that several organizers used the club to raise subscriptions for bounties and substitution. In some instances men were pressured to join these clubs or turn a blind eye to their existence. The deputy of Lycoming County reported that a number of laborers in Williamsport were told to join these clubs or their homes would be burned. He warned that ‘‘there is many such cases but the parties threatened will not or dare not describe the name of the cowards and ruffians that would make trouble.’’143 In Clearfield, the issue of violent confrontation was unclear but many understood implicitly that violence against marshals was a distinct possibility. In retrospect, a few witnesses claimed without credibility that organizers discouraged the use of violence. In a case against three men from Graham Township, a farmer recalled joining the group with more than twenty others at the Polk School House. ‘‘[Jacob Wilhelm] said that if any Provost Marshal came to arrest a drafted man and member of the club the other members were to demand his release but they were not to kill anybody.’’144 Dissenters may have hoped to avoid killing but their strategy was to confront armed officers with crowds and forcibly release prisoners. Given that many men kept rifles and even pistols close at hand, violence was unavoidable. As a further sign of guilt, members themselves became uncertain whether mere attendance at meetings violated the law. After more than twenty such men gave themselves up, deputy marshal Benson wrote dumbfounded, ‘‘When asked whether they are drafted men or deserters from the army, they reply ‘that they belonged to the damned meeting to resist the draft.’ ’’145

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An incident of draft resistance blew apart the denials of violence by the originators of the ‘‘Democratic Castle.’’ It occurred on the western edge of Clearfield County on December 15, 1864. At the trial in March, the arresting officer and his deputy told how an armed party in Brady Township freed two prisoners from their custody. After special agent Joseph Miller arrested a drafted man named John Ham, he was confronted angrily by Ham’s aged father-in-law, George Rousher, and several others. Miller refused to free Ham and was forced to draw his pistol and threaten Rousher. The sixty-five-year-old man was seen giving orders to the men around him before trailing Miller briefly to the Luthersburg Pike. Miller and government detective John P. Murdock reunited at the home of an informant in Troutville before setting out again with two men in custody for Brookville, Jefferson County. After about a quarter mile they were met by a sled load of armed men ‘‘hollowing and yelling, and cursing and swearing,’’ about fifteen in all. Within 50 yards, the men began jumping out of the sled ‘‘and drew their guns to their faces’’ according to Miller. Murdock stated that one man had jumped off the sled but that the speed was so great he was thrown into the snow. They understood little until the group yelled out to Ham, ‘‘John, come over on our side, we’ll protect you.’’ The prisoners broke from the arresting officers and ran to join them. Miller recounted a detail that could have proven fatal to him and others. ‘‘I attempted to shoot one of the prisoners but I had a pistol which would not go off.’’ When the angry crowd drew closer, ‘‘we concluded that it would not be good policy to be taken, so we retreated.’’ Murdock dubbed it ‘‘a celebrated retreat’’ with the two men escaping into the woods. As the fleeing men looked back, they saw the crowd ‘‘in high glee’’ shouting and tossing their hats in the air.146 The release incident revealed the grass-roots nature of resistance rather than the string-pulling of party leaders. The confrontation resulted from the desperation of a single man calling on his neighbors to make good their promises of mutual aid. George Rousher submitted a pitiable statement. When John Ham was arrested, he was taken away from a newborn baby and his wife who lay bedridden ‘‘in a very critical situation.’’ The suffering woman was Rousher’s daughter, and with his own wife ailing, Rousher went to look after her. He learned of Ham’s arrest on the road and challenged the marshal brandishing a large stick. Word of the arrest spread quickly among nearby men busily at work felling trees in the forests. They reprieved horses from their heavy log pulling and hitched them to Henry Yoas’ sled at the blacksmith shop in Troutville. This act would earn Yoas three years in Clinton Prison, New York. Many of the men were part of the local subdivision of the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ but not all went eagerly. Henry Aurant and his brother were reluctant to go but relented under peer pressure, admitting ‘‘we concluded not to be called cowards and so we

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went also.’’ Charles Keller was a poor man and the sole means of support for his elderly father. He testified, ‘‘There was no one in the company intended to shoot or hurt the officers. It was talked among us that going as we were, the officers would get scared and run off and leave the prisoners.’’ Though Keller was one of several unarmed men, he had played an active role in gathering men for the confrontation. The court sentenced Keller to three years’ confinement. Rousher would later admit, ‘‘I do not justify what was done. What was done, we did thoughtlessly, and without time for reflection.’’ One of the most fascinating aspects of the case was the predominance of recently migrated German speakers, most of whom do not appear in the 1860 census for Clearfield County. The defense attorney cross-examined Murdock with the question ‘‘They talked in German did they not?’’ to which he replied ‘‘I think they talked both German and English.’’ The majority of the names in the case were German, including Yoas, Knorr, Aurant, Rousher, Frantz, Ham, Philhart, and Zimmerman. Having asked the question, the defense failed to capitalize on the answer for any effect whatsoever. The fact that they were German and recent migrants to the county help explain their alienation from the draft. It is unfortunate that none of the witnesses uttered such sentiments in their own defense. Military tribunals in Harrisburg tried and convicted eight civilians in connection with the ‘‘Democratic Castle.’’ Sentences ranged from two to four years’ confinement at Fort Mifflin, Lincoln’s ‘‘Bastille’’ near Philadelphia, or at Clinton Prison, New York. Four of the convicted men were assessed additional fines from $500 to $2,000 dollars. In all cases, the prisoners were found guilty of two charges. The first was resisting the enrollment act in combination with ‘‘many other disloyal persons’’ through the ‘‘Democratic Castle.’’ The final charge was more nebulous and read as follows: ‘‘The commission of acts of disloyalty against the Government of the United States, and uttering disloyal sentiments and opinions, with the object of defeating and weakening the power of the Government in its efforts to suppress the unlawful rebellion now existing in the United States.’’147 Specifications indicated such things as threatening to use force against marshals and preventing the arrest of drafted men. In the end, the charges and specifications drawn up against Clearfield County men echoed the Republican definition of loyalty. Civilian politicians often desired a broad range of critical public statements to be treated as ‘‘disloyalty.’’ The War Department, however, directed its officers to apply the term ‘‘disloyal’’ more narrowly and emphasized cases in which actions or statements hindered the operation of the draft.148 Read in that light, it is understandable why the military was not as eager to pursue Bigler and Wallace as were their political opponents.

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While the public was eager to know the outcome of the trials, the debate over loyalty was not confined to newspaper editorials, stump speeches, and military tribunals. It spilled into the streets, interrupted dinners, invaded the churches, and pervaded aspects of life not deemed entirely political. While the contents of rural newspapers emphasize political concerns, historians can glean from the margins a public debate over loyalty. Those living in the mountains of Pennsylvania argued and sometimes came to blows over the meaning of loyalty and the responsibilities of moral citizens. That debate took place in the region’s churches, homes, storerooms, and public squares. Practically anywhere that people gathered, the topic of war was sure to arise. Arguments often became heated and people sometimes took it upon themselves to act as informal enforcers of their vision of loyalty. Behavior ranged across a spectrum of intensity, from lighthearted banter to personal attacks. Rural Pennsylvanians took increasingly desperate measures as they felt their personal liberties under increasing threat. While these debates and attacks could be about elections, they were more importantly about issues of power. Churches were the institutions of moral order in communities and it is not surprising that they became embroiled in the conflict over loyal behavior. As advocates of emancipation, Republicans held the stronger moral position. Members of Lincoln’s party had long stressed the immorality of human bondage, denouncing slavery as a national sin. Americans also imbued their nation with divine blessing, entwining religion with civic morality. Republican claims as protectors of the Godly nation thus held a double sacredness. In their logic, both God and the heroes of the Revolution were on their side. Religious authority, however, did not absent ministers from the critiques of their flock. To many rural Pennsylvanians, the church became another arena for contesting the meaning of loyalty.149 In terms of timing, the church controversy over loyalty became acute in 1863, mirroring the wider debates in northern society. Republican-minded ministers championed the administration and its war against slavery as God’s work. During July 1863, the Clarion and Conemaugh Presbyteries convened a joint meeting in Brookville for which the introductory sermon was ‘‘The Church, her relation to the Government, and her duty in our present troubles.’’ The Reverend J. C. Truesdale of the Brookville United Presbyterian Church expressed an essentially Republican vantage point in his address to the audience. Defending a minister’s right to combine religion and politics, he asked, ‘‘Can he keep politics out of the pulpit and at the same time preach the whole counsel of God? We think not. What is meant by ‘preaching politics’? It does not mean preaching about banks, tariffs or revenue but it means preaching and praying about slavery. . . . The idea is this, any moral or

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religious question, whenever it becomes a political question, must be banished from the pulpit.’’150 While the local Presbyterian leaders laid claim to unbiased speech on behalf of the Lord, their public pronouncements implied otherwise. The governing body of the Clarion Presbytery had met a month before, adopting resolutions that strongly echoed the rhetoric of the Union Leagues. Two deserve scrutiny. Resolved, That as watchmen upon the walls of Zion and officers in Christ’s church we deem it compatible with the dictates of our holy religion, the best interests of Zion, and the glory of God, to warn the people under our care against giving aid and comfort in any way, by word or deed, to the enemy, to entreat them to beware of all schemes implying resistance to the lawfully constituted authorities and to inculcate obedience to the powers that be for conscience sake. Resolved, That we pledge our unalterable sympathy and attachment to the Constitution and Government of the United States by whomsoever administered, and give out cordial support to the regularly constituted authorities, to crush out this wicked rebellion, and to the best of our abilities aid in maintaining the Union one and inseparable.151 Were it not for the references to God and Zion, these resolutions could easily have come from a meeting of the local Union League. The choice of words ‘‘by whomsoever administered’’ hardly deflected their obvious partisan authorship. Democrats responded to the political content of sermons in various ways. Some commentators tried to undermine the moral authority of Republican ministers with logic and reasoning. There is no evidence that Democratic ministers defended slavery on biblical terms. However, editorials blamed the Lincoln administration as the root of moral decay in society. The editor of Bellefonte’s Democratic Watchman, Peter Grey Meek, argued that the ‘‘effect upon the morals of society is no less appalling than the horrors of the battlefield.’’ Though not a minister himself, he rose to heights of fire and brimstone. ‘‘Wickedness and sin are on every hand, and pretended ministers of God proclaim the doctrine of Satan from the pulpit, the shadow of death is upon us, and we have not yet felt the full measure of the wrath of God.’’152 Less eloquent inhabitants showed their displeasure by leaving sermons or intimidating ministers. Clearfield subscribers read of a guest preacher at a church in Bellefonte whose listeners bolted during his sermon. ‘‘He sallied at once into negro equality and the congregation sallied out the door, leaving the ‘loyal’ divine to preach his ‘loyal’ sermon to some dozen or so of his ‘loyal’

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followers.’’153 Under an item titled ‘‘Disgraceful Conduct,’’ a man listening to a sermon by the Reverend Truesdale rose and called him a ‘‘damned liar’’ before storming out. Following the incident, the Brookville Republican warned ‘‘let traitors beware, for the eye of every loyal man is upon them.’’154 Truesdale should have considered himself fortunate. An 1864 item in the Republican paper of Clearfield reported an episode from Columbia County. A group of Democrats burst in during a sermon and asked the minister ‘‘whether he was a Democrat or an Abolitionist, saying that if he was the former he might continue to preach, but if the latter they would hang him.’’ The man was forced to escape through a window.155 In rural regions where the authority of the state was weak, members of the community enforced their own order through forms of public censure. The actions of crowds helped ensure the preservation of group values and regulate misbehavior. During the Civil War, however, communities became divided over issues of loyalty and citizens’ duty. The public debate over loyalty went beyond party and church, spilling onto the streets themselves. While many may have preferred to avoid confrontations, others sought to provoke them in their daily words and deeds. In May 1863, the Clearfield editor noted the intensity of public discussion. ‘‘There are a number of persons in this as well as other neighborhoods, who seem to take great delight in affirming they are ‘loyal,’ and take especial pains to advertise themselves prodigiously in this particular upon the street corners and elsewhere, and at the same time denounce their neighbors as traitors, rebels, & c.’’156 Five months later, after the reelection of Governor Curtin, a man raised a flag with the words ‘‘Death to Copperheads’’ from a local hotel in Philipsburg. The man responsible told the local newspaper ‘‘I done so for the purpose of finding out whether there was any Copperheads in this place, and I found out by it that there was some.’’157 As conspicuous emblems, flags served as a focal point for public discussions of loyalty. At the outset of the war, editorials urged citizens to show their patriotism by flying the American flag. Crowds sometimes pressured those caught without visible signs of patriotism to make amends or face further punishment. On a summer day in 1861, a fight broke out between two groups of young men from Clearfield and Punxsutawney, Jefferson County, over what appeared to be a rebel flag, but was simply a faded American flag. Witnesses told the reporter that the Punxsutawney youths were looking for rumored disloyal traitors from Clearfield.158 The Brookville editor was incensed when Democrats in rural Jefferson County raised the American flag on a hickory pole at their Fourth of July speeches. Local speakers denounced the war and the administration causing the author to remark, ‘‘it would certainly have been more in accordance with the

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whole proceedings and the teachings of the Speakers, to have run up the Stars & Bars, instead of thus desecrating the glorious Flag of the Free.’’159 These anecdotes provide only glimpses of the public debate over loyalty. They suggest that residents of the lumber region struggled over the meaning of patriotism and the republican values at stake in the conflict. Different forces pushed the debate along including partisan rhetoric, political organization, churches, and public censure. The debate affected every member of the community. Children absorbed the perspectives of adults around them as one story relates. On the last day of school, several other children abused a twelve-yearold boy in Huston Township, Clearfield County. Despite having two brothers in the army, he was called a Copperhead by his attackers because his father was a critic of the Lincoln government. The editor considered it shameful that ‘‘he is made the victim of mob violence.’’160 With such important issues at stake, it is no wonder that arguments led to violence with sometimes deadly outcomes.

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Everyday Resistance in Pennsylvania’s Deserter Country

n November 19, 1863, Colonel Hugh S. Campbell, the provost marshal for the western half of the lumber region, opened a dismaying letter from his deputy, Captain John S. McKiernan. The week before, McKiernan rode his horse into the Clearfield countryside, carrying a revolver in his pocket and a list of deserters to arrest. On his way, the deputy stopped at the hotel in Lumber City where he saw a group of inebriated men outside ‘‘shooting mark for whiskey.’’ McKiernan went inside and when the rowdies entered for another round of drinks, the deputy recognized one of them as Wesley Thompson, a deserter from the famed Bucktails.1 Either courageous or foolhardy, McKiernan waited until the man put down his rifle and then grabbed hold of him. When Thompson’s friends gathered around menacingly, the deputy drew his revolver and threatened to shoot anyone who took a step closer. McKiernan called on the growing crowd to help him tie the man up but received only laughter. Fortunately, the enrolling officer arrived and McKiernan told him to bring up the horse and buggy to take Thompson away. He asked the deserter whether he would go quietly or not. His prisoner replied that he would go if he could stop at his brother’s house for a clean shirt and a pair of boots. McKiernan admitted no alternative, ‘‘knowing that no one would assist me to take him forcibly and not being physically able to tye [sic] him myself, I thought the better way would be to give him that privilege.’’ Thompson’s escape was predictable. His friends followed the two men to the house and hatched a diversion to free the captive. After 15 minutes, they sent a boy into the house to tell McKiernan that his horse and buggy were gone. The deputy rushed out the door to see for himself and when he turned back again Thompson had vanished. After considerable searching, he was chagrined to find his horse standing in the middle of a creek a mile away. Disheartened and losing daylight, McKiernan returned to Clearfield empty-handed. Adding further to his wounded pride, the deputy lost a second prisoner to a similar ruse the following day. McKiernan arrested the man named Alexander McDonald easily enough, as he was eating lunch at his home. When McKiernan finally arrived with him in Clearfield, it had become dark and the man was completely drunk from a bottle he had carried with him. He asked to urinate outside the door of a hotel when McKiernan heard someone call out ‘‘captain.’’

O

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In this moment of inattention, McDonald leaped over a fence and escaped through a vacant lot. ‘‘Now Colonel,’’ he continued, ‘‘no doubt you will censure me for what I did this week but I thought I was doing the best I could under the circumstances.’’2 The tale of McKiernan’s foibles illustrates the unique difficulties posed by rural protest and its stark contrast to northern urban rioting. Opposition in the countryside was smaller in scale and tended toward clandestine activity and the effective collusion of neighbors. McKiernan reported with exasperation the challenges he faced, including a vast territory to patrol, widespread disrespect for federal authority, inadequate force, and people who purposefully shielded fugitives from capture. Adding to this was the very real danger of being assaulted or killed while performing his duties. Of the thirty-eight members of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau killed during the war, at least three lost their lives in the lumber region, underscoring the extent of public discontent.3 Unlike the densely packed streets of New York City, the mountains of Pennsylvania covered thousands of square miles of wooded terrain. Because they relied on informants, military officials were distressed by the reluctance of ‘‘loyal’’ citizens to aid them. In the absence of a strong military presence, supporters of the war complained bitterly of a ‘‘reign of terror’’ inflicted on them by their opponents. Military officials were vexed by the ‘‘inner civil war’’ against federal authority in the lumber region of Pennsylvania. Circumstances of poverty, ideals of republican government, strong communal bonds, traditions of civic localism, and a wild landscape that sheltered fugitives contributed to forms of everyday resistance. The extent and severity of opposition in the Pennsylvania Appalachians is often lost upon contemporary Americans because of the prominence of urban rioting. The violence and destruction of the New York City draft riots looms large in the public consciousness. Yet the rioting in New York was only the most visible manifestation of widespread disaffection across the North. The memory of soldiers firing on angry crowds overshadows the daily resistance that more accurately typified many northern communities.4 Pennsylvania’s lumbering region presents the rural counterpart to the urban violence of New York City. In the mountains, daily resistance often took more subtle forms than its city cousin. Though still violent, rural opposition rarely involved large crowds or risked massive confrontations with federal authority. Nevertheless, widespread members of communities took part. Although men played the most prominent and aggressive roles, wives, mothers, sisters, and sometimes children became complicit in acts of deceit and violence. The collusion of neighbors against the

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government was a prominent theme in official correspondence. Acts of opposition were suited to their rural environment and covered a spectrum of severity from deceit or flight to murder. At the root of discontent were specific wartime policies of emancipation and conscription, as well as unsettling changes in the economy and in the nature of government authority. These causes were complex and overlapping. Among poorer mountain families, increased wartime taxes and inflation fostered antigovernment bitterness. Lumbering-farmers who relied on rafting were at the forefront of opposition. They struggled against both war-induced inflation and the continued expansion of industrial logging. Most explosive were the Republican war measures of conscription and emancipation. Emancipation acted less directly, discouraging enlistment in a war to free slaves. The provisions of the odious draft laws created the most immediate backlash and brought the northern people into direct contact with a new federal presence on the home front— the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau. Particularly among Democrats, these measures symbolized the ultimate corruption of republican government and a threatening shift of power between local and centralized authority. The threats of draft and federal arrest elevated violence between civilians as well as against federal officers. As in southern ‘‘deserter country,’’ divided loyalties pitted neighbor against neighbor and Pennsylvania witnessed its own ‘‘inner civil war.’’ Federal officials stationed in the lumber region could recognize the social and economic foundations of resistance but also made flawed assumptions about the character of the people. Provost Marshal Dodge avowed that the ‘‘ignorance’’ of mountain folk made them ‘‘easily imposed upon by designing politicians.’’ He also concluded that the abundant resources of lumber, oil, and coal attracted a ‘‘roving’’ workforce that he considered ‘‘the very worst class of beings, both native and foreign, to be found in this country.’’5 Dodge planned a military expedition to destroy the treasonable ‘‘bands which, protected by the nature of the country, have so long been a terror and disgrace to that section of the State.’’6 Though Dodge’s reports hinted at underlying social and economic causes, their mention did little to shake his preconceived notions. To explain the causes of rural protest in Pennsylvania, there are few northern studies to compare. Research on urban draft resistance in the North has emphasized the frictions of class and ethnic identity but sheds little light on opposition in the lumber region. Crowd violence in New York City and among Irish miners in eastern Pennsylvania had a markedly different context. Working-class immigrants in the large cities and industrial centers of the East suffered more from poverty and discrimination giving rise to wartime frustrations.

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Longer settled Americans blamed foreigners for the outbreaks of antigovernment violence, questioning the patriotism and character of recent immigrants. In his final report on the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, General James Fry endorsed the view that desertion and draft evasion was more endemic in the large cities and was most likely ‘‘a crime of foreign rather than native birth.’’7 Recent scholarship has shown a greater sympathy for the plight of workingclass immigrants, exploring how their precarious economic vulnerability and ethnic solidarity under-gird group protest. These works have also provided more nuanced interpretations of the specific context and triggers of opposition. In many of these cases, protest grew from particular social and economic grievances among people with a distinct working-class identity. Irish miners in the anthracite coal region were in the midst of unionization, and perceived federal power as a Republican tool of mine owners summoned to crush their efforts at achieving fair wages.8 Riots in New York City primarily involved common laborers, who held less political and social power than artisans or industrial workers. They were most vulnerable to ethnic and racial antagonisms and felt threatened by the political centralization of the Republican Party and its war measures.9 In the mountains of Pennsylvania, ethnic and class identity served less distinct roles in fostering unrest. Early reports by provost marshals exhibited bias against Irish and German town-dwellers perceived as a source of draft resistance. The Eighteenth District provost marshal, W. W. White, warned his superior to expect trouble in the 1863 draft. ‘‘I would inform you that I have had strong intimations given me and have been advised by good and reliable persons that there is a project on foot to stop the draft, by a class of men who may be foolish enough to attempt to carry their schemes into effect. . . . The bad spirit is manifested mostly among the foreign population (Irish Ⳮ German) and the stimulants given by leading ‘Copperhead’ Politicians in this Community.’’10 Though the region had few towns, Irish wage laborers could be found in Jersey Shore, Lock Haven and Williamsport, and in smaller numbers elsewhere. Germans formed a patchwork of settlement but were particularly numerous in Elk County, where nearly a third of the population was foreign born. Federal officials complained repeatedly of strong opposition in the German Catholic town of St. Mary’s. More than four-fifths of the town’s adult male population was born abroad, most of them in Germany.11 One biased deputy reported that ‘‘in St Marys the Dutch sware eternal vengeance to any man that comes there to serve the notices on drafted men. . . . This is a hard portion of gods creation but I think I will be able to meet the emergency. I will put the matter through if I have to send every Dutchman in the co to Waterford.’’12 To make matters

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worse, enrolling officers were pelted with stones and chased by crowds of Irish laborers working on an unfinished railroad project.13 Despite initial impressions, war opposition was greater in rural districts than in the region’s small towns. The urban areas of Pennsylvania were better able to fill draft quotas by raising money for bounties, substitution, and commutation. In contrast, rural districts had fewer taxable assets and could seldom compete with urban centers for recruits. Where urban and rural areas were joined, prominent townspeople often petitioned federal authorities for separation to shed the burden of rural populations unable to contribute. These petitions typically carried political overtones in which Republican dominated towns sought disentanglement from Democratic hinterlands.14 While the ‘‘Dutch’’ of St. Mary’s were blamed for inciting disloyalty, local histories recount with pride the physical and material contribution of leading Germans. If St. Mary’s men seemed reluctant to enlist in the opening months, it reflected the fact that twothirds of the adult men were married, most with children.15 The claims of resistance among Irish railway workers are more credible but understandable. Because they were not residents of St. Mary’s, it seemed unjust to be enrolled there for possible service. There is likely a hidden experience of discrimination as well. As mobile wageworkers, these Irish laborers may have been unwelcome by residents, further alienating them. Moreover, class identity in rural Pennsylvania functioned differently than in the large cities and industrial centers of the North. The Irish dockworkers of New York City and coal miners of eastern Pennsylvania shared a distinct sense of working-class identity. In the 1850s, they were caught up in movements to consolidate the power and organization of laboring professions in the face of industrial capitalism. Parallel to this formation of class identity was the development of a rhetoric of labor republicanism. Urban journals and workingmen’s associations articulated statements about the rights and contributions of labor versus capitalism. Wageworkers in the woods, coal mines, and oil fields of northern Pennsylvania lagged behind in the development of a distinct working class identity. Industrial wage work was not the norm, and workers frequently migrated back and forth from positions of petit-capitalists to laborer.16 Oil workers and lumbermen did not attempt to unionize until the postwar period. The exception to this trend was the scattering of bituminous miners at the edges of the lumber region. With limited access to railroads, capitalists could not develop the beds of bituminous coal underlying the wilderness. Only a few small works existed such as those in the southern reaches of Clearfield County and the northern edge of Tioga County. There is little evidence to document these early works but after initial resistance miners of the Fall Brook Coal Company of Tioga

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County met to discuss collective responses to the draft. In June, 1863, concerned miners attended a meeting and concluded to submit to enrollment.17 Newspapers and federal correspondence are silent on the issue of miners’ resistance in the region. This tentative conclusion echoes patterns of resistance in the anthracite region. While authorities there complained loudly about the resistance of miners, Democratic farmers, not coal workers, were the forefront of violent opposition to the government.18 In the Pennsylvania Appalachians, class and ethnicity fail to account fully for patterns of resistance. Violent opposition occurred most among the region’s small farmers in the poorest of rural Democratic districts. In tune with wageworking immigrants, rural Democrats denounced Republican war measures including emancipation and the draft as violations of liberty and republican government. Unlike the arguments of laborers stressing the rights of independent producers, rural Democrats spoke in terms of the independence of property owners. In a similar fashion, residents of the mountains viewed the growth of federal power as an ominous portent of shifting authority. When electoral politics failed to restore personal liberties, Democrats felt justified in the use of violent opposition.19 In the nineteenth century, Americans were influenced by traditions of republicanism that justified dissent and violence as a moral response to corruption. Unfortunately for the Civil War generation, ideals of republicanism did little to define abuse of authority or threats to personal liberty. In that regard, two-party politics was crucial in shaping the argument over the nature of loyalty and the duty of citizens in time of civil insurrection. For opponents of the Lincoln administration, elections held the hope of regime change that might address public grievances. Yet many ordinary people, caught in the consequences of Republican war measures, took actions beyond the realm of electoral politics. Often out of desperation or a sense of powerlessness, untold numbers of northerners took up resistance and violence in preservation of self, family, and friends. Sociologists have described these common acts of foot dragging, desertion, false compliance, pilfering, feigned ignorance, slander, arson, and sabotage as ‘‘weapons of the weak.’’20 While these actions were often inspired by political rhetoric, they constituted behavior beyond the realm of traditional party conduct. Of all the wartime adjustments wrought on the Pennsylvania home front, conscription generated the bitterest reaction. Rural Pennsylvanians were also concerned about the impact of emancipation and the economic trauma of increased taxation and inflation. Nevertheless, these latter issues were indistinct triggers of unrest. Open resistance came at the point of contact between citizens and agents of the state who enforced the draft. Distant fighting had very real

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consequences when enrollment officers appeared at one’s door to record the names of men eligible for the draft. Failure to comply with draft orders brought even more forceful results, and newspapers carried numerous stories of midnight raids against deserters and draft evaders. After passage of the draft laws in March 1863, lumber region Democrats repeatedly condemned conscription as a corruption of power and a violation of the fundamental tenets of republican government. Criticism stemmed from a number of charges—that the law was unconstitutional, that it threatened republican liberty, that draft officials were corrupt political cronies, and that soldiers on the home front debauched themselves and brought a reign of terror upon the people. Editorials in the Clearfield Republican illustrated the range of arguments denouncing the draft. Foremost, passage of the conscription laws set a dangerous precedent of overarching federal authority. As champions of limited government, Democrats were vociferously against any policy that altered the balance of power between local and centralized authority. Critics of Lincoln decried him as a Caesar and deemed the draft to represent the ‘‘annihilation of state sovereignty.’’ ‘‘It totally ignores State limits—paying no attention to State laws or State officers—but treating the whole country as a consolidated nation, with a single centralized Government at Washington—knowing no ‘sovereign’ but that of the will of the man who for the time may happen to fill the Presidential chair.’’21 Opponents envisioned legions of Lincoln appointees ‘‘stationed in every neighborhood; in fact if carried into effect, it will place our country under a more complete military jurisdiction—for the President of the United States is Commander-in-Chief—than that of Austria.’’22 No denunciation of the ruling Republicans was too extreme, and an endless stream of invective urged Democrats to despise their government more with each passing day. One article charged that ‘‘Conscription was a tyrannical usurpation by a profligate and despicable band of vulgar and ignorant political banditti, degrading and disgracing the once honored name of the Congress of the United States.’’23 Editorials rebuked Republican use of power, predicting a future backlash. ‘‘The idea is ridiculous—and if we have the good fortune ever to have a restored country, those who now hold this monstrous doctrine of Centralization will hide their heads in very shame.’’24 Conscription represented something deeper than unfair laws and corrupt officeholders. The policy struck at the locus of sovereignty in political life. In that sense, conscription, emancipation, and national economic measures were part of a larger trend in changing national power. In their own way, many residents of the lumber region were reacting to these wartime changes in the nature of their government. Universal conscription was a crucial yet controversial step in the evolution of American nationalism. Contemporaries acknowledged the

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shift as an erosion of traditional local power in favor of a more vigorous centralized state. The draft came to symbolize the primary duty of every citizen to serve and protect the state. The wording of the conscription law illustrated that shift. Titled ‘‘An Act for enrolling and calling out the national forces, and for other purposes,’’ it contained a very modern interpretation of national military resources. ‘‘All able-bodied male citizens of the United States, and [naturalized citizens] between the ages of twenty and forty-five years . . . are hereby declared to constitute the national forces, and shall be liable to perform military duty in the service of the United States when called out by the President for that purpose.’’25 This was modern in the sense that military service was no longer the act of the voluntary patriot but a duty of every able-bodied male citizen. The Enrollment Act also contained policies that provoked economic tensions. As Provost Marshal Campbell’s final report attests, the provisions of the draft laws discriminated against poorer communities. Eligible men would only be drafted if a district failed to meet its quota of volunteers. To meet these quotas, local governments offered cash bounties to would-be soldiers paid for primarily through higher property taxes. Bounties varied considerably by place and reflected the tax base of those districts. Campbell admitted that such bounties ‘‘undoubtedly materially aided in the recruiting service.’’ On final reflection, however, he concluded, ‘‘I am well satisfied from experience that this indiscriminate levying of large taxes upon the people in the payment of local bounties proved one of the greatest mistakes of the war.’’ Campbell explained the problem at length. The patriotism of the people throughout the loyal states undoubtedly prompted the idea, but it was carried to excess, and led to the grossest abuse. The authority granted by the War Department in January 1864 to credit Volunteers to the locality where they received a local bounty enabled the wealthier localities of each district to prey upon their poorer neighbors. It became no longer the object for a sub-district to furnish its quota of Volunteers by the enlistment of its own inhabitants but by outbidding other sub-districts [to] obtain their complement of men. In this manner many of the sub-districts of this Congressional District became nearly depopulated of men liable to military duty, while others possessed of more means or loyalty remained comparatively intact. . . . In some sections of this district, the local taxation for this purpose has resulted in the impoverishment of many industrious and loyal citizens. The farmer particularly has not been able to realize from the sale of his products of the soil sufficient to pay these taxes without involving himself in pecuniary difficulties from which it will take years of toil to extricate himself.’’26

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Explaining the depth of resistance in the lumber region, however, requires something more than standard grievances of inflation, emancipation, and the draft. In the mountains of Pennsylvania, the land as well as the people conspired against agents of the federal government. The landscape of the Pennsylvania Appalachians played an important role in nurturing resistance. The expansive wilderness encouraged scattered patterns of settlement and tenuous ties to the market economy. It also provided the natural resources of wood, oil, and coal that employed thousands of men in difficult and dangerous work. The nature of this work helped foster aggressive masculine cultures. More problematic for federal administrators were the vast distances and wildness of the region. The provost marshal of western Pennsylvania, Richard I. Dodge, reported that his jurisdiction was immense and ‘‘from its peculiar physical and geographical features, and the nature and occupation of its inhabitants, presents greater obstacles to the provost marshal in the execution of his duty than any other portion of the loyal States.’’27 The Provost Marshal General’s Bureau was a new federal presence in northern communities that unwittingly fueled resentment. Its officers bore the brunt of citizens’ anger over federal war policies, in particular the draft. Many mountain dwellers were also distraught by the evident Republican bias used in selecting marshals and agents. The bureau was a product of the enrollment act approved by Congress in March 1863.28 Its purpose was to administer and enforce the national conscription laws through a hierarchy of personnel stationed in each of the North’s congressional districts.29 State and district marshals were generally veteran military officers. Bureau chiefs in Washington typically made these arrangements with the tacit approval of state political leaders. Within districts, provost marshals appointed their own deputies and special agents, who received military rank and pay. In almost all cases, federal officers hired ‘‘loyal’’ Republican men for the positions.30 Democrats of the lumber region denounced marshals as incompetent Republican cronies. In other places, some marshals did perform poorly, allowing their personal ineptitude or political agendas to influence their actions. In the anthracite coal region, the provost marshal abused his authority to injure miners’ incipient labor movement. In the lumber region, however, these political appointees performed their difficult duties conscientiously and at great risk.31 Regardless, the nature of their work and their political affiliation singled them out for abuse. For marshals in the Pennsylvania Appalachians, difficult terrain only added to the misery of public animosity. The roads through the region were terrible and often impassible during winter. It was nearly impossible to find a convenient location for district headquarters. In the Nineteenth District, officials chose Waterford, Erie County, as the initial headquarters because it offered

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cheaper accommodations, access to rail lines, and regular mail and telegraph services. That choice, however, suffered the grievous flaw of being extremely distant from most of the district’s residents. Drafted men from the eastern counties had a long, difficult journey to report and complained bitterly. As a dubious remedy to the situation, the bureau moved district headquarters to the sluggish town of Ridgway in Elk County. While more centrally located, Ridgway was a tiny and rough community amidst a vast forest. Horses were the only form of transport yet the county had no livery stable.32 Marshals were forced to pay exorbitant prices for horses, food, and lodging. Mails were irregular and marshals sent reports of repeated outbreaks of small pox throughout the region.33 Nothing could help marshals cope with the immense size of this wooded and mountainous region. Hugh S. Campbell, the Nineteenth District marshal, braced his superior in Harrisburg for what looked like certain failure. His jurisdiction was the largest in the state, nearly two hundred miles across. Most of the counties lacked access to railroads. ‘‘Six are chiefly lumbering Cos, and are densely wooded making the arrest of a Deserter hazardous and difficult even to one who is acquainted with the woods.’’ Making matters worse, the provost marshals were woefully understaffed. In late 1864, the Nineteenth District relied primarily on the work of seven clerks, five special agents, one janitor, and three deputies. With so few officers, resistance throughout much of the region went unchecked. ‘‘Remove for example the Deputy for Clearfield Co. or any of them, the fact very soon becomes known and the consequence will be an influx of Deserters to that county where they can roam at large with impunity.’’ In Campbell’s estimation, countering this dreadful combination required the skills of an expert mountain man. ‘‘It is absolutely necessary in order to be efficient in that wooded country that the officer be intimately acquainted with all the By paths and clearings of the locality—in fact to have a perfect knowledge of the country. He has to be patient and work by strategy in order to accomplish his object.’’34 In the end, marshals relied on citizens to provide information about army fugitives. Unfortunately for them, war opponents began to intimidate spying neighbors and threaten them into silence. At least as far as the lumber region is concerned, historians have misunderstood the full reaction to the draft. Scholars typically assert that the stigma of being drafted encouraged volunteerism in the crucial final years of the war.35 It is widely understood that few northerners were forced into the army by its provisions. The most authoritative study estimated that only one out of a hundred northern men was conscripted into service.36 Combined with the bounty system, the lasting legacy of the Civil War draft was to induce volunteerism. In the mountains of Pennsylvania, however, many residents considered the draft

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illegal and supported communal resistance to it. Hundreds of men ignored it completely until forced to take it seriously by the arrival of soldiers in their midst. Provost marshals described attitudes as defiant not stigmatized to the point of voluntary enlistment. A deputy marshal of McKean County described the mood in a township under his jurisdiction. ‘‘There appears to be disposition on the part of many to resist the draft. They declare openly that they will not respond if they are drafted. They are only the Copperheads and fools.’’37 In Jefferson County, Deputy Marshal S. B. Benson wrote discouragingly about the prospects of draft-induced volunteers. ‘‘Recruiting for the army in this county will I think not be attended with much success. People prefer to be drafted rather than volunteer.’’38 H. S. Campbell bemoaned the severity of resistance in his district. Violent opposition prevented his officers from enrolling four precincts of McKean County. Not only did many avoid volunteering, but a number did everything possible to avoid the draft. In St. Mary’s, Elk County, at least three enrolling officers had already resigned. Residents had recently intimidated, stoned, and shot officers in Clearfield. Of the latter, Campbell reported, ‘‘several hundred people have lately armed themselves with the best revolvers which they carry while at work, avowing their purpose to resist the enrol[l]ment act.’’39 Throughout the lumber region, citizens resisted the draft through combinations of flight, deceit, intimidation, threats, arson, and murder. Responses covered a spectrum of severity and defied nearly every stage of the draft process from initial enrollment through the arrest of army fugitives. Before military officials could calculate draft quotas, it was necessary to survey all available military-age men in communities. Authorities hired persons at minimal pay who risked their lives to enroll eligible men through a laborious house-to-house canvass. The work of enrollment was perhaps the most thankless and difficult job in the wartime bureaucracy. District Marshal Campbell wrote of enrollment, ‘‘no duty connected with the enforcement of the Enrollment act has been more distasteful to the people of this District than this.’’ The marshal explained that an ideal candidate ‘‘should be a man of education, a good penman and of undoubted integrity.’’ He lamented that a compensation of $3 per day ‘‘will not command the services of such men. . . . The consequence has been that incompetent men had to be employed, and very imperfect rolls are the result.’’ Campbell summed up the daunting challenge facing officers thusly: ‘‘it soon became apparent from the state of public sentiment and the menacing attitude assumed by the inhabitants notoriously hostile to the government that embarrassing and unavoidable delays were about to take place.’’40 As the representatives of an odious draft policy, enrolling officers reported widespread resistance to their work. The simplest form came through lying.

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When asked to give information, family members concealed the true ages and residence of the men in the house. The draft laws initially divided candidates into two groups; the first class included all single men aged 20 to 45 and married men between 20 and 35; enrollers categorized married men ages 36 to 45 in the second class. The government would only draft men in the second class after the first was exhausted. Mindful of the distinction, family members inflated ages to place a man in the second category or push him beyond draft age completely. In an outpouring of glee, men throughout the region hailed their premature forty-sixth birthday. In one small neighborhood alone, an enrolling officer estimated that three of the seven adult men had lied about their age. Confounded by the results, he drew a map of their homes to help investigate the matter further.41 Confusion also existed over the true inhabitants of a house. Extended networks of kinship and the mobility of seasonal laborers complicated the task of discerning residence. Many men fled their homes at the first sign of enrolling officers, staying temporarily in lumber shanties or with friends or family. When lying failed to deter enrollment officers in their work, some people turned to intimidation and violence. Numerous officers resigned after receiving threats to their lives and property. Marshal Campbell reported that ‘‘resignations of enrolling officers came in thick and fast,’’ stating that 47 out of a total of 67 officers resigned in the counties of Clearfield, Jefferson, and McKean.42 Officials reported on citizens hurling eggs, sticks, or rocks to discourage them. An enrolling officer from Cameron County refused to serve notices anymore after receiving repeated warnings. ‘‘I do not want you to send me any more papers to serve for I am in danger of my life for serving those papers that you have sent me and I am afraid that I will have my house burned. I am threated [sic] ill and threaten of being shot and I think there ought to be something done with them for they are dangerously to be allowed to run at large. . . . They are strong men against our government.’’43 The personal risk involved dissuaded many from helping federal officers. In many cases, threats and intimidation preceded acts of violence. In June 1863, an elderly enrolling officer named David Cathcart suffered severely canvassing for the draft in Knox Township, Clearfield County. Newspapers described him as a ‘‘poor, old and crippled man.’’ In the small village of New Millport, a man warned Cathcart to leave and began to gather large stones. Several others joined him in an attempt to drive the officer away. Cathcart narrowly avoided the hail of missiles by ducking into a store. Out of unwavering duty or sheer madness, the man persisted in his enrolling work. He later wrote, ‘‘houses were shut against me and even some who gave their ages declared they would resist the draft.’’ The following day, while riding along a secluded section

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of road, a man hidden in the dense thicket shot twice at Cathcart.44 One bullet entered his heel and lodged in his foot. Another struck his horse in the front leg causing the animal to rear and hurl its rider to the ground. Several people discovered him lying senseless in the road, retrieved his horse, and helped him return home. The Republican editor of Clearfield saw the incident as the fruit of Democratic teachings. Cathcart’s blood, he argued, was on the hands of party leaders who advocated resistance to federal authority. The Democratic paper countered with a mixed message. ‘‘We have ever counseled obedience to law, as long as such obedience is tolerable. No man is injured by being enrolled, and the officer should be permitted to do what he believes to be his duty.’’45 Writing to his superior, Provost Marshal Campbell added, ‘‘other enrolling officers in that county have been driven off with stones and threats of murder and arson.’’46 In addition to resisting enrollment, residents of the mountains opposed the serving of draft notices and the arrest of army fugitives. A deputy from Clearfield recounted the daily threats to his life. He had been shot at by those who assumed he was arresting deserters for the reward money. A man he had arrested before challenged him to a fight in broad daylight. ‘‘Him and some of his comrades came into town yesterday stripped off to the buff to whip me but I passed him by and left him to fight his mad off by grumbling at other ones.’’47 The dejected letters of Sylvanus Holmes attest to the frustrations of being a provost marshal. On the eve of the war, Holmes was a successful forty-fouryear-old merchant living with his wife and three teenage children in the small town of Bradford, McKean County. His family hailed from New York State and he became a town patriarch helping to charter the Bradford bank. Together with his junior brother Ezra, he joined the Fifty-eighth Pennsylvania Volunteer Regiment in October 1861. Holmes was promoted through the ranks to First Lieutenant and regimental adjutant but resigned unexpectedly in May 1862. He took a job with the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau but was stymied so frequently that he could have written a manual on ways to elude capture. After another failed attempt to arrest men in McKean County, he wrote despairingly, ‘‘it looks a little discouraging. I do not know but there are others who could have done better. We will see next month.’’48 In one of his frustrating weekly reports he explained how four men got away. Two had narrowly avoided arrest in a nighttime raid because of Holmes’ clumsy approach. They were ‘‘terribly frightened by noise outside of the house and no doubt supposing someone after them, they fired two shots in the dark, and fled for tall timber.’’ When he inquired after the whereabouts of the others, one man’s wife claimed he left to join his regiment again, while the other had mysteriously vanished ‘‘for parts unknown.’’49 Holmes seemed always to be one step behind his prey and spent

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much of his time traveling fruitlessly across the wilderness. In January 1864, he traveled 30 miles only to find the deserters camp freshly abandoned. The marshal jokingly remarked that his only skirmish was with Jack Frost.50 In another eight-page letter, the deputy marshal narrated a wild goose chase that took him deep into the woods. In the dark of night, he approached three secluded log cabins alleged to hold a notorious deserter. After knocking on the door of the second cabin, he spotted a barefoot woman running toward the last house saying she was going ‘‘after some tea.’’ Both sprinted toward the final clearing, tumbling over tree stumps and felled timber. When Holmes finally reached the house, the woman and the deserter had fled into a ‘‘dark hemlock valley.’’ Gloomily, the deputy turned his buggy back onto the main road to return home. In a short distance, he spotted a man in the road ahead with a rifle resting on his shoulder. The conclusion was predictable. I jumped from my buggy started into the woods (as there was thick timber on both sides of the road) I thought I could head him off from going up the mountain. He started at the same time, consequently he was soon out of my sight in the thick woods. . . . I have about exhausted my skill. I can get no one to assist me unless I pay them.51 Throughout his jurisdiction, fugitives were defiant. When cornered, they turned to friends and neighbors willing to hide them or risk force against marshals. In one letter he described ‘‘they go in twos as the animals went into Noah’s Ark.’’52 Maddened by his travails, he proclaimed ‘‘there is nothing too bad for them to do.’’53 One man sent word to the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau suggesting that Holmes was being spied upon. ‘‘It will do no good for Mr. Holmes to go for they say they have an underground telegraph that they can know in Port Allegheny when he is in Smethport.’’54 Rumors of an underground telegraph underscored the effective collusion of mountain people. Dissenters used every means possible to defy federal authority including lying, intimidation, assault, and murder. Opposition came not from a single class of people but from whole communities. The trifling force of marshals was insufficient to overcome the resistance they faced. Neither could it protect the ‘‘loyal’’ citizens whom the provost marshals relied upon for guidance. This inability to maintain federal authority left supporters of the war in a precarious position, subjecting them to the violence and recrimination of an ‘‘inner civil war.’’ While most acts of violence by civilians were directed against federal representatives, divided opinions over the war pitted neighbor against neighbor. As

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the toll of war grew, mountain folk spied on each other closely. When the government increased pressure on communities to furnish volunteers, opponents of the war turned to intimidation and violence to shield themselves from military service. They threatened the lives and property of community members who would betray them to military authorities. Fear made supporters of the war reluctant to aid government officials in their search for military fugitives. Transgressors faced the potential of reprisal and even death at the hands of defiant enemies. To survive these conditions, many people turned inward, adopting stances of detachment and silence in the hopes of self-preservation. Newspaper accounts attributed the violence that ensued to partisan politics. A primary example was the trial of three men from Clearfield County on charges of riot. In October 1863, several self-identified Republican men were drinking in a Curwensville tavern run by an outspoken and ill-tempered Democrat named George W. Bloom. The incident occurred the day before the fall election that would decide the governorship of the state. Democrats had held a large political rally, adding palpable tension in the community. As Bloom tended his customers, a wounded veteran uttered several cheers for Republican incumbent Andrew Gregg Curtin. The two men scuffled before Bloom knocked the man to the ground, opening his Gettysburg wound anew. Several witnesses decided to punish Bloom for his shameful mistreatment of the wounded soldier. After the tavern-keeper went to bed, the man’s friends tried to force their way into Bloom’s home pretending that they were provost marshals. Unable to gain entrance, they used stones and clubs to break windows and bang on doors. When the tavern-keeper opened the front door brandishing an axe, the men scurried off leaving behind a can of tar and a bag of feathers. According to Bloom, the attackers threw a stone that struck one of his children and fired a revolver at his wife as she screamed for help from a second story window. At the trial in January, the three men were found guilty of rioting. Asserting that the jury was overwhelmingly Democratic, the Raftsman’s Journal deemed it a ‘‘political conviction’’ complaining that ‘‘the cause seems to have assumed more the character of a political crusade, than the vindication of our criminal statutes.’’55 At the sentencing in March, Democrats came in for their share of disappointment. When the case was called before the judge, defendant’s counsel produced three pardons from Governor Curtin. The Democratic editor took it as a sign that Republicans could terrorize their political opponents with impunity.56 Most importantly, partisan interpretations of the trial’s outcome added bitterness to community relations. The majority of civilian violence fell upon ‘‘loyal’’ citizens who could potentially aid federal officials in the hunt for deserters and draft evaders. The appointment of provost marshals in 1863 thus intensified tensions on the home

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front. Men who fled the army or refused to report when drafted were both categorized by federal regulations as deserters. Provost marshals also had the power to arrest civilians who willfully aided deserters. Opponents of the war used threats against life and property to dissuade informants from helping the government. Provost marshals referred frequently to ‘‘loyal’’ residents who had been threatened with violence. Even before the first draft had commenced, federal officials heard worrisome news of men intending to resist the draft at all costs. The deputy of Elk County complained that he did not have enough men to protect the minority of ‘‘loyal’’ citizens in St. Mary’s. Some people there boasted that marshals could not take residents by force, leading Deputy S. B. McClain to whine, ‘‘there is but four loyal men in St. Mary and they are afraid to open their mouths.’’ McClain could find no one to assist him for fear of reprisal.57 In McKean County, residents of Liberty refused to give information about one notorious deserter ‘‘lurking in the woods’’ who had already escaped from military authorities at Harrisburg. Ezra McIntosh was leader of a ‘‘gang who have men in the woods all deserters.’’ Area Republicans feared for their property if they should assist in his capture.58 While fear and intimidation were common in the fall of 1863, the level of threats as well as true violence escalated the following year. Because few people reported occurrences, it is difficult to estimate levels of violence and intimidation. In November 1864, Provost Marshal Campbell referred to threats against Republicans as a ‘‘reign of terror’’ inflicted upon ‘‘the lives and property of law abiding citizens.’’ He was particularly alarmed by resistance in Clearfield County where he considered the majority against the war. Republican citizens claimed that malcontents roamed the county in armed squads, searching out those who communicated with the government.59 No one was safe. An article in the Raftsman’s Journal described one group in Burnside Township, on the upper reaches of the West Branch. ‘‘They swagger and boast their wickedness, that they will not suffer the Government to draft any more men, nor will any of them help the Government in any way. They stone the preachers and disturb our religious meetings, and threaten that they will make us tremble at our own doors.’’60 While Clearfield County proved to be a stronghold of antiwar dissent, similar circumstances existed throughout the lumber region. Federal officials reported that resistance was typically concentrated in neighborhoods that were difficult to reach. One deputy explained the difficulties of catching deserters in northern Clinton and Potter Counties. He referred to it as ‘‘a wild and uncultivated region’’ without anyone ‘‘in that part of the country that pays any attention to them but would rather help them to keep from being taken.’’61

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In addition to the testimony of fearful Republicans, an increase in theft and vandalism in 1864 suggests the growing tensions between civilians of the lumber region. Republican editorials linked the war’s opponents with the rise of theft and arson, based upon the preponderance of Republicans targeted. While the evidence is limited, surviving fragments suggest that homes and businesses of the wealthy and those loyal to the war effort were the most common targets of theft and vandalism. These actions were crimes by definition but scholars of rural protest have emphasized that criminal actions often reveal underlying social and economic friction between groups. Out of desperation or a sense of powerlessness, untold numbers of northerners violently preserved self, family, and friends. Many of these actions, notably stealing, offered an adjustment of grievances with minimal confrontation. By summer 1864, robberies increased dramatically in the region. The editor of the Clearfield Republican called for increased vigilance, noting, ‘‘scarcely a day passes that we do not hear of a case of robbery, or attempts at robbery. Our country merchants have been pretty generally visited.’’62 As tools of force and power, rifles were a common target of thieves. On the night of the general election in October 1864, thieves broke into a Clearfield gun shop and carried off several rifles and a number of tools.63 After a rifle was taken from a house in the same period, the Republican Raftsman’s Journal reported, ‘‘It is supposed that the perpetrators of the theft belong to the gang of desperadoes who have been threatening to resist the draft.’’64 While thieves took valuable items such as money and jewelry, many of the items taken fulfilled the needs of daily existence. Both Democratic and Republican papers agreed that the war was responsible for the high inflation that doubled and tripled the prewar prices of daily commodities. Area Democrats therefore blamed the Republican administration for their financial predicaments. In the absence of proof, the robbery of country merchants and wealthier farmers can only suggest the working of a ‘‘moral economy.’’65 A store in Frenchville, Clearfield County, was robbed of coats, pants, vests, and boots.66 Merchants were not the only community members to suffer. Private citizens reported food, animals, and clothing stolen from their property. A group of men broke into a house in New Millport, Clearfield County, and carried off muslins, blankets, and coats as well as small items including sugar and soap.67 Farmers of Lawrence Township had food taken from spring-houses and animals and saddles taken from barns.68 Supporters of the war testified repeatedly that their property had been threatened with destruction to keep them quiet. While it cannot be proven conclusively, there are intriguing clues that this was attempted in several cases.

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Arson was a more serious act of civilian violence and the most difficult to ascertain perpetrators and causes. Few cases are as simple as that of James Curley, however, who was discovered setting fires in Clearfield County to the barns and granaries of Republican neighbors.69 Most reports of fires either hint at the work of arsonists or leave an unsettled vagueness raising more questions than are answered. Journalists feared arson in the destruction of a lager-beer saloon in the town of Clearfield as well as Ringgold’s sawmill on Clearfield Creek. The causes of other fires are perplexing, such as the house fire of a minister in Grahamton or destruction of the tavern in Morrisdale. Editorials had stated that war opponents lacked respect for clergy and thought nothing of harassing and assaulting them on account of political sermons. In July 1864, the area around Clearfield saw a number of large fires at factories and mills, including a steam board drying kiln and a steam shingle factory, which sparked sizeable forest fires and killed an eight-month-old child at home.70 There is far too little overarching proof, and any number of these reports of fire could have been entirely accidental. What is certain is that citizens who remained loyal to the Republican administration perceived that their lives and property were endangered. Federal officials cited this fear as a primary reason for the use of military force in the region, and Clearfield County was their principle concern. One deputy expressed the gravity of the situation in the request for armed soldiers: I do not desire to be considered officious in relation to the trouble in Clearfield Co but evidence of the terrible state of affairs existing in that Co is accumulating daily at these Head Quarters. This evening a prominent citizen a Union man named Miller arrived at these Head Quarters from Clearfield Co. He fled from the county here for safety, his life being threatened. Prominent union men report that they are subjected to all kinds of abuse all for the reason that they are loyal to the Govt.71 The marshal of the Nineteenth District considered the use of federal intervention to be ‘‘the unanimous sentiment of the loyal inhabitants of this County.’’72 Of the 660 men drafted from Clearfield in October 1864, 400 refused to report for examination. An old Union man sent word that Knox Township alone had as many as one hundred men ‘‘prouling about the neighborhood plundering and threatening the Union citizens with vengeance.’’73 Campbell could not induce citizens to help arrest deserters and he could not accomplish his objective with so few deputies and detectives. If the ‘‘reign of terror’’ were to end, it would have to be accomplished by the use of military force.

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‘‘Collisions with the People’’: Federal Intervention in Deserter Country

ince its enactment, the conscription policy was the primary cause for resistance throughout the North. While spread across the free states, draft resistance became concentrated in pockets of ‘‘deserter country,’’ most acute in the ‘‘butternut’’ region of the lower-Midwest, Wisconsin, and the mountains of Pennsylvania.1 Even before the drawing of the first draft, federal officials worried about the public reaction and the potential for violence. The published regulations for the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau authorized marshals to make use of the nearest military force or even call upon citizens as a posse comitatus.2 This was easier legislated than enforced and marshals of the lumber region remarked frequently about the unwillingness of civilians to assist federal officers. The only effective remedy was military force, but in this region limited resources hampered federal authority. The provost marshal’s bureau relied mainly upon a small force of soldiers partially disabled by wounds or disease yet deemed fit enough for service.3 Originally designated as the Invalid Corps, the unpopular stigmatizing name was changed in March 1864 to the Veteran Reserve Corps.4 While the number of Veteran Reserve members approached 30,000 by October 1864, the majority served in garrisons at Washington or as prison guards in places such as Elmira, New York. The provost marshals of most northern states were generally assigned only a single regiment of Veteran Reserves, such as the Second Regiment in Michigan or the Thirteenth Regiment serving New England. In Pennsylvania, the Sixteenth Regiment operated throughout the state as the primary enforcer of the Enrollment Act.5 The limited resources of the bureau meant that the lumber region received less attention than areas deemed more urgent. Even before the July 1863 draft riots in New York City, the provost marshal of western Pennsylvania, James V. Bomford, urged caution upon his subordinates. ‘‘Reliance is placed in the prudence, direction, and firmness of the Provost Marshal in the judicious employment of Military Force in the delicate duties assigned to him.’’6 Given the limits of federal power, Provost Marshal General James B. Fry warned Bomford to concentrate his efforts on ‘‘one designated disaffected district’’ at a time. Fry counseled Bomford to suspend the draft in other areas until the hot spot

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was pacified.7 Daily telegrams poured into his office from deputy marshals all over the state requesting soldiers and predicting a violent backlash to the draft. As news arrived of the deadly riots in New York City, Bomford focused all his attention on the city of Philadelphia and the anthracite coal region centered on Pottsville. He worried that the high concentrations of Irish laborers would ignite open resistance in the Keystone State, as it had in New York. Despite urgent pleas from other districts, Bomford withdrew all his forces into the eastern half of the state and exhorted his deputy marshals to be patient. ‘‘You will so manage affairs in your District as to avoid collisions with the people, until you can be supported by an adequate military force.’’8 When the crisis in Philadelphia passed, Bomford again divided his limited troops throughout the state. By October, detachments of the Sixteenth Regiment were scattered the breadth of Pennsylvania, in towns including Williamsport, Troy, Meadville, Chambersburg, Huntingdon, and Harrisburg. Bomford complained pessimistically to Fry that the troops at his disposal were too few to do all that was required.9 In late July 1864, Bomford was replaced by a captain from the Eighth U.S. Infantry named Richard I. Dodge. Bomford had run afoul of Republican leaders in Harrisburg including the governor. As a career soldier in the United States Army, Bomford despised political meddling and resisted using his office to supply patronage for state Republicans. He was also adamant about rules and procedures and balked at exorbitant printing contracts for Republican presses. His opponents undermined him by questioning his loyalty, insinuating that he was a Copperhead at heart. In a letter to the provost marshal general in Washington, Governor Curtin wrote, ‘‘I notice attacks on Colonel Bomford in a newspaper here and think I now understand the opposition to him. Bomford is an honest man and a true soldier.’’10 His honesty was the real problem and Curtin hoped his replacement would be more pliable. The last straw came in July 1864 when General Ulysses S. Grant had sent requests through the war department to forward all available troops to the front. Bomford’s unwavering attention to bureaucratic rigor was preventing the quick mustering of Pennsylvania soldiers. Simon Cameron sent a letter to President Lincoln, complaining about Bomford and calling for his replacement: ‘‘Please send General Fry or some other officer here of common sense.’’11 With both Republican titans, Curtin and Cameron, against him, Bomford was shunted to the side and replaced with the recently promoted Major Dodge. Richard Irving Dodge is remembered for his insightful and sympathetic writings on plains’ Indian history and culture. His writings and journals, which represent forty-three years of service, document the primacy of the U.S. Army as a tool of Indian relations. Dodge was born in North Carolina but his father descended from notable New York State families that included famed author

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Washington Irving. Dodge graduated from West Point in 1848, too late to serve in the Mexican-American War and with a middling class rank that doomed him to infantry field service. In the 1850s, he served on the dusty Texas frontier before a brief stint as instructor of military tactics at West Point. Able, intelligent, and good-natured, Dodge was widely admired by his fellow soldiers and respected by superior officers for his administrative talents honed during frontier duty. Like many southerners in the prewar army, Dodge’s loyalties were tested by the outbreak of sectional strife. Despite his North Carolina kinfolk, he was no secessionist sympathizer and remained steadfast to the Union and its army. Guided by an intense sense of duty, he fought in the first battle at Bull Run as a captain of regular infantry. Confessing he had ‘‘done enough for honor and for principle,’’ Dodge requested the adjutant general to transfer him behind the lines. In an anguish-laden plea he admitted, ‘‘I cannot take part in a contest, when I am afraid to look at a heap of slain enemies, because I may see the body of near and dear Friends. I have no heart for the fight.’’12 The rejection of frontline combat might have doomed lesser men to obscurity but the war department desperately needed able administrators. For the majority of the conflict, Dodge was assigned to mobilization duties in Harrisburg where his geniality, effectiveness, and flexibility earned him the respect of Governor Curtin. As a federal officer coordinating the recruitment of state volunteers into the army, Dodge was in an important yet precarious position that required patience and sensitivity. Dodge served as conduit between the manpower needs of the military and the political world of Pennsylvania state politics. That federal-state relationship was strained deeply with the passage of the Enrollment Act in 1863, introducing the political liability of unpopular draft laws. Thrust into a new position, Dodge probed into the deteriorated conditions of his jurisdiction. He was alarmed by the level of violent opposition in the lumber region and the powerlessness of local marshals to effect change. In less than two weeks, several groups of concerned citizens called upon him to recount the ‘‘constantly increasing boldness and defiant spirit’’ of the administration’s opponents. In a letter to Provost Marshal Fry, he warned, ‘‘Union men are overawed by the organized power of the malcontents.’’13 Dodge had no way of knowing the exact number of enemies he faced, and his statements reflect the delusional quality of the reports that crossed his desk. As did other federal officials before him, the new provost marshal believed that his opponents were ‘‘armed and organized for resistance’’ and suggested overwhelming force as a remedy. Dodge imagined legions of opponents erecting fortifications and surveying the approaches to their defiant kingdoms. In this

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regard, Dodge and others accepted the Republican rhetoric that depicted secret Democratic organizations intent on tearing down the republican institutions of government. In northern Columbia County, he estimated an army of 500 deserters and draft evaders hiding from authorities in the mountains drained by Fishing Creek. The region of greatest concern to the provost marshal was the upper reaches of the Susquehanna River’s west branch, stretching from northern Cambria through Clearfield County. In August, Dodge had uncertain facts about the extent and location of resistance, but reported that it was greater in Cambria than Columbia County. By November, he was more explicit, having been ‘‘reliably informed that there are at this time from 1,200 to 1,800 deserters, delinquent drafted men, and disloyal citizens, armed and organized, engaged in lumbering on Clearfield River, in Clearfield and Cambria Counties.’’14 Dodge’s estimate rested primarily on the reports of civilians and the few scattered and beleaguered employees of the bureau. There was as yet no military strength in the region nor any attempt at a preliminary reconnaissance. Regardless the uncertainty, military and political leaders used Dodge’s figures as evidence of widespread disaffection and as justification for a military response.15 As Dodge weighed the fragmentary evidence, he envisioned a grand antigovernment conspiracy encouraged by local political leaders. Like a cancer, these conditions nurtured ‘‘growing despondency and indisposition’’ on the part of administration supporters who ‘‘preferring their comfort to their principles, are going over to its enemies.’’ A climate of fear and reprisal forced Union families toward passivity and silence. Dodge’s solution matched General Fry’s outlook perfectly. Dodge urged that an entire regiment of Veteran Reserves be ordered ‘‘to enter one county with a force sufficiently strong not only to put down but to overawe resistance.’’ The habit of disbursing small detachments of soldiers to troublesome areas ‘‘so far only tended to excite the indignation and contempt of the organized malcontents.’’ Through a show of force, however, ‘‘the complete and bloodless subjection of the county will render success in every other county more certain and easy.’’16 Coordinated expeditions by the Veteran Reserve Corps were uncommon because of the character of the Corps. In the final report on the V.R.C., Captain J. W. De Forest summarized: ‘‘The field service of the corps has, of course, been slight.’’17 Active infantry and cavalry regiments numbered more than a thousand at full strength, but most regiments of the V.R.C. were stationed upon reaching reduced strengths. Because they were composed of disabled troops, only about 60 percent of their paper strength could be used in active duty.18 De Forest reported that for most of the twenty-four regiments, ordinary service was limited to patrols, guard duty, and escorting prisoners. Detachments were

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also used to ‘‘repress disorder,’’ both civilian and military.19 The report gave special recognition to the arduous campaigning of the Sixteenth Regiment in Pennsylvania, making note of the harsh conditions of their service. ‘‘The expeditions were made through a wooded and mountainous country in winter, amid snow and ice, chiefly by night, and many of the men were badly frostbitten.’’20 Most members of the V.R.C. performed duties in detachments, never acting in concert with their whole regimental command. In Pennsylvania, provost marshals made only three coordinated campaigns during the war. They placed large numbers of troops in the anthracite coal region in 1863 to quell expected uprisings among Irish miners. In 1864, marshals committed the regiment to two campaigns against opponents of the war—first in Columbia County and then in the lumber region. The expedition into Columbia County in August 1864 served as a troubling rehearsal for the lumber region. Dodge must have recalled the military failures there when planning his later expedition into Clearfield County. He had received reports that upward of five hundred armed men harbored deserters and draft evaders in the strongly Democratic townships of northern Columbia County. Like their counterparts in the lumber region, these war opponents lived in mountainous communities of the Appalachian Plateau. Their resistance stemmed from similar causes and offered geographic challenges that would recur in the more rugged terrain farther west. From August through October a nearly thousand man force composed of members of the Sixteenth Regiment, a section of artillery, and a battalion of infantry campaigned to destroy the socalled Fishing Creek Conspiracy. Despite reports of widespread armed resistance, the military’s opening moves revealed no signs of it. On August 21, federal troops advanced north from Bloomsburg along the path of Fishing Creek into the Appalachian highlands.21 Leaders anticipated confrontation by hundreds of armed men alleged to have erected a fort nearby. From their camp near Benton, the detachment commander Charles Stewart reported, ‘‘I arrived here without a shadow of a show of resistance. There are no Copperheads, or armed men here now. They are all Loyal law abiding citizens.’’ While he was writing, a doctor informed him that as many as six or seven hundred armed men were concentrated in the hills only seven miles away. Stewart suggested an enveloping movement from three directions. ‘‘I would move on them in front and I think we may probably find the fort we are looking for.’’22 The expedition never uncovered armies or signs of fortifications in the mountains. Ten days later, the force had yet to discover evidence of the ‘‘Fishing Creek Conspiracy.’’ Officers at expedition headquarters puzzled over conflicting reports and became pessimistic that they would capture the foe. ‘‘If as

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may probably be the case, these disaffected people have disappeared and dispersed it will be impossible to follow them in the mountainous country beyond with any chance of capturing them.’’23 Soldiers marched all the way into Sullivan County to the headwaters of Fishing Creek, giving up pursuit when the roads ended. ‘‘The deserters, and those who have combined with them to resist their arrest, are beyond question in our neighborhood but it will be very difficult to reach them as they are well acquainted with the mountains and can elude us.’’24 While the military expedition failed to unmask the ‘‘Fishing Creek Conspiracy,’’ it did reveal the traces of deserters hiding in the mountains. Scouts found several small camps as well as a larger one but were unable to capture their previous occupants. Importantly, the commander reported ‘‘there has been nothing in the shape of fort or defenses of any kind other than nature affords in these mountains.’’ More than likely, soldiers had uncovered the remains of logging or hunting camps. Raiding parties arrested several deserters, but caught most of these men in their homes during the night. The only signs of armed resistance were two deserters caught sleeping in their beds with loaded rifles. After a month of chasing phantoms, the men of the expedition were exhausted by the harsh conditions. ‘‘This is hard service, the country is very rough, the weather very inclement having cold winds and rain almost every day.’’ The mounted members of the Veteran Reserves became sick as the tentless infantrymen quickly wore their shoes to tatters. ‘‘Officers and men are very much dissatisfied with this rough service and are sighing for the pleasures of city patrol duty.’’25 When military authorities reassigned the expedition to Clearfield County, they left behind a more bitterly divided community. Union supporters had cheered the soldiers as they advanced into the mountains, and throngs of jubilant onlookers followed the march for a short time.26 With the failure of the expedition, supporters of the war again feared for their lives and property. The military commander requested a remnant of force to protect them, asserting that ‘‘loyal citizens’’ were ‘‘in some alarm for fear of the vengeance of their enemies in case they are left unprotected.’’27 Democrats maintained lasting bitterness over civilian arrests, which they interpreted as attempts by soldiers to affect the Presidential election. More than one hundred men were arrested in the early hours of August 31 and questioned by federal authorities at a church near Benton. Forty-four were sent to Fort Mifflin without charge, where one man died in custody from the miserable conditions. Twenty-three men were tried under charges of conspiring to resist the draft. Of them, eight received sentences ranging from fines to a maximum of two years in prison. Democratic newspapers across the state covered the

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cases of the ‘‘political prisoners’’ from Columbia County, providing accounts of the horrid conditions of Fort Mifflin, dubbed ‘‘Lincoln’s Bastille.’’28 Editors touted the cases as abuses of military authority. More articles appeared, portraying members of the expedition as cruel henchmen of a military despotism. An item in the Clearfield Republican described soldiers stringing a man up by his neck to extort information about deserters.29 More egregious to local Democrats were the squads of soldiers stationed at the polls during the presidential election. Levi Tate, editor of the Columbia Democrat, made it his lifelong mission to denounce the expedition as a political trick.30 The vote in the disaffected townships fell more than 250 below the previous year. Tate concluded, ‘‘It is plain that a large number of citizens have been deterred from attending the election by the presence of a military force in the county, in connection with arrests and threats to intimidate and break the spirit of the people.’’31 In December 1864, the arrival of soldiers in the lumber region on a similar expedition ignited a firestorm of public debate over the causes and justification of a ‘‘war in Clearfield.’’ The editors of the Clearfield Republican and the Raftsman’s Journal sparred vigorously over the motivations for authorizing the expedition. Democrats asserted that their local Republican opponents duped the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau into a military ‘‘invasion’’ for political gain. ‘‘Martial [sic] CAMPBELL was made believe that our people had organized for resistance, and that conscription could not be enforced here without the aid of the military. . . . And they went further, and assured him that they were well armed, with chosen leaders, and formidable breastworks erected.’’ The article made no excuses for those few party members who ‘‘have been indiscreet, and allowed themselves to commit acts, or use expressions, that are in violation of recent laws.’’32 Nevertheless, editorials echoed a widely held view that the military was the vengeful tool of the Republican Party to coerce Democratic opponents into service. Throughout the North, citizens responded ambivalently to soldiers in their midst. Among opponents of the war, the military on the home front was an ominous sign of tyrannical government.33 Dissenters of the lumber region shared the perspective of coal miners who resisted the draft in eastern Pennsylvania. When soldiers were stationed in the anthracite coal region, Irish miners saw them as an extension of centralized authority supporting the power of mine operators.34 The provost marshal’s plan for a strong federal military presence unwittingly strengthened Democratic fears of increased central authority. Reports of the Columbia County expedition contributed to worry over arbitrary arrests and midnight raiding parties. For Union families, the arrival of military troops

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promised to end the stifling climate of fear and intimidation. Lumber region Democrats contemplated the move as an armed invasion. A Clearfield observer described the public mood in a letter to military officials. ‘‘I find the citizens here are getting uneasy about a report that 500 soldiers are coming here. They say if the soldiers behave and do not make any arbitrary arrest they won’t molest them but if not they will raise 1,000 strong and many a one will leave his bones laying.’’35 In the months after the expedition, Republican notables solicited an explanation by Marshal Campbell, head of the Nineteenth District, to quiet Democratic accusations. In an open letter reprinted by both Clearfield newspapers, Campbell denied political motivations, citing instead the alarming severity and extent of draft resistance. He argued that ‘‘much inquiry and careful investigation’’ had revealed a grand conspiracy to resist the draft. Campbell estimated that ‘‘lurking among the fastnesses of Clearfield County’’ were more than 350 drafted men who had failed to report and hundreds of army deserters gathered from surrounding counties. He also implicated untold numbers of civilians who ‘‘secreted, harbored, and employed’’ deserters and who made up the rankand-file of a ‘‘secret, oath-bound association for the purpose of resistance.’’ Campbell justified military force as a necessity, and blamed resisters for instigating the violent ‘‘overt acts’’ against marshals that required the exercise of soldiers.36 Campbell referred specifically to the murder of two federal marshals within the same week. The most recent shooting resulted in the death of Colonel Cyrus Butler, a special agent in the Nineteenth District. In the last days of October, Butler had gone to Clearfield with his assistant, Lieutenant George Van Vliet, to apprehend a draft evader named Joseph Lansberry.37 In the foggy pre-dawn of October 30, Joseph Miller led the two agents to Lansberry’s house, 3 miles from the borough of Clearfield. The men concealed in the thickets were all dressed in civilian clothing and carried no visible sign of authority. Miller was the only man who even knew the identity of their intended target. At daybreak, their guide saw Lansberry emerging from his house to feed his cows in the nearby barn. Butler cried ‘‘halt’’ and rushed to capture him but the man escaped into his house through a rear door. His pursuers tried to follow but found that the door had been bolted shut. They broke through with a crash to see the astonished faces of Lansberry’s wife and another couple by the name of Owens who shared the tiny home with them. Surveying the dim interior, Butler guessed that Lansberry had hurried upstairs beyond yet another closed door. While testimony is conflicting, Martin Owens would claim that Butler spoke harshly and waved his pistol about,

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announcing in a loud voice that he would shoot Lansberry if he did not surrender. Butler went first through the doorway and had gone only a few steps when a rifle bullet tore into his abdomen. Remarkably, despite his wound, Butler ascended the stairs to the door of Lansberry’s room and shot his attacker in the arm with a pistol. Yelling out, ‘‘You damned sons of bitches,’’ Lansberry swung his rifle at Butler, clubbing him on the head and knocking him senseless down the staircase. The strike was so forceful that it broke Lansberry’s gun stock in two. Van Vliet tried to shoot the deserter but his revolver failed to go off. The two men scuffled and the federal agent managed to knock Lansberry down the stairs, hitting him in the head with his pistol. Before Van Vliet could grab him, Lansberry rushed out of the house and began running away. The lieutenant called out to the waiting Joseph Miller and both men chased Lansberry for three-quarters of a mile before giving up. Colonel Butler was still alive when they took him by wagon to Dunlap’s Hotel in Clearfield. The surgeon dressed his wounds but could not relieve the suffering that ended with his death nineteen hours later. Closing his report of the incident, Van Vliet remarked, ‘‘There is no safety for men that do not sympathize with those Traitors in Clearfield.’’38 The murder of Butler had distressing repercussions for federal authorities, heightening the fears of area Republicans for their safety. Special Agent Van Vliet and Deputy Provost Marshal John McKiernan both resigned because of continued threats to their lives.39 Tension between civilians increased dramatically after the shooting of Colonel Butler. Provost Marshal Campbell reported, ‘‘Since the death of Butler, the relatives and friends of the murderer are scouring the County publicly searching for those who endeavored to aid the officer in his arrest for the purpose of shooting them or compelling them to leave the Co for safety.’’40 The day after Butler’s murder, several of Lansberry’s relatives followed Miller around town intending to hurt him. Around 4 p.m. they rushed at Miller as he stood in the doorway of the Mansion House hotel. Miller kicked at two of them and retreated into the barroom. When Benjamin Lansberry tried to climb in through a window, Miller shot at him twice. One of the shots cut through his vest, pants, shirt, and drawers, just grazing his skin. Democratic editorials lamented the rising tide of violence but blamed the Lincoln administration for the divisive war policies of emancipation and conscription. The Clearfield Republican cautioned that these shootings ‘‘will be a daily occurrence if the war is to continue ‘until a nigger is as good as a white man.’ ’’41 Another article claimed that Lansberry and others voted Republican in 1860 but changed party allegiance in 1863 after being drafted. The newspaper blamed local Republicans who ‘‘stood aloof’’ while several Democrats offered to help him pay the commutation fee to avoid service.42

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Because of widespread community support, government officials were powerless to seize Lansberry, and he remained at large until 1875 when he was finally captured by an undercover detective. Astonishingly, Lansberry would be acquitted of the murder in a highly publicized trial.43 After the presidential election of 1864, the Raftsman’s Journal reported that Lansberry was escorted to the polls by seven armed men. Writing out of exasperation, a Curwensville man informed authorities just how low the morale of ‘‘loyal’’ northerners had sunk. ‘‘The union men of the county are completely discouraged and we have come to the understanding that if the government don’t inaugurate measures to make rebels of the North respect its laws that we the Union men of the County who are so largely in the minority need not endanger our lives and property by fighting the Copperheads any longer.’’44 Campbell pleaded to his superiors to aid the ‘‘loyal citizens of that County who are at present suffering under this reign of terror.’’45 While Campbell’s public letter denied any political motivations for the expedition, the private correspondence of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau revealed that political considerations were never far from the surface. Dodge’s sensitivity to political concerns must have been encouraging for Republican state officials. With affairs in Columbia County nearing an end, Dodge addressed resistance in Clearfield with an urgent request, stating that ‘‘it is of the utmost importance that troops be moved against these people at once.’’ Of the primary reasons, Dodge began first with the observation ‘‘they will all vote for the opposition.’’ Furthermore, the onset of winter would protect resistance by making the mountain roads impassable to soldiers. Only lastly did Dodge invoke ‘‘the preservation of peace and supremacy of the laws’’ as a reason ‘‘such organizations be crushed instantaneously and with no merciful hand.’’ To add urgency to his appeal, the provost marshal cited larger estimates of deserters, enclosed information about Colonel Butler’s death, and rendered the possibility of a fort in Knox Township.46 Because Dodge considered mountain people to be ignorant, he placed blame for their violent behavior on the shoulders of the region’s Democratic leaders. A report in August sent to Provost Marshal Fry in Washington charged Democratic politicians and newspapers for the ‘‘constantly increasing boldness and defiant spirit.’’ ‘‘These men are encouraged in their course and assisted by every means by the political opponents of the Administration.’’47 Dodge hoped to uncover evidence implicating Democratic chieftains William A. Wallace and William Bigler. Both men were well known for their passionate denunciations of the Lincoln administration and public statements, which obliquely encouraged armed resistance. Federal officials also sought to root out the ‘‘Democratic

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Castle,’’ on the grounds that members conspired to resist the draft. Such organization violated section twenty-five of the Enrolling Act, which made it illegal to encourage or protect draft evasion.48 Federal agents knew little about the organization but believed that Clearfield borough served as the head of a large network of resistance. To a lesser extent, Dodge acknowledged the economic basis of resistance and the important place of raftsmen in the ranks of the disaffected. He explained how local conditions multiplied the obstacles to federal power, observing that the lumber region’s ‘‘peculiar physical and geographical features, and the nature and occupation of its inhabitants, presents greater obstacles to the provost-marshal in the execution of his duty than any other portion of the loyal States.’’ Dodge elaborated further: West of the western range of mountains and extending nearly to Lake Erie is a vast wilderness (nearly one-sixth of the State), covered with virgin forests of hemlock and pine. The inhabitants, living almost entirely from the proceeds of their labor as lumbermen, are ignorant and easily imposed upon by designing politicians, but are hardy, vigorous, and make good soldiers. Scarcely any roads traverse this wilderness. The mass of the population are roving in their habits, removing from place to place as the facilities for obtaining lumber prompt. On the western edge of this wilderness is the great oil region of Pennsylvania, wonderful in its growth and migratory as to its population. Underneath almost the whole division lie immense beds of coal, the working of which gives employment to the very worst class of beings, both native and foreign, to be found in this country.49 In Clearfield County, lumbermen were the primary source of resistance and Dodge explained the necessity of immediate action. If federal authorities delayed until the spring, the rising river would allow most of the opposition to escape down the West Branch of the Susquehanna aboard their rafts. Dodge perceived that the raftsmen were ‘‘all dependent for the support of themselves and families upon the proceeds to be derived from the sale of these rafts. The fear of losing them will cause the disaffected citizens to lay down their arms and disavow and discontinue connection with the deserters.’’50 The much anticipated arrival of federal troops occurred in early December. Only four companies of the Sixteenth Regiment Veteran Reserve Corps could be spared, prompting Dodge to consider them ‘‘a force—I fear—too small to effect the purpose desired.’’51 Dodge proposed a two-pronged assault, driving malcontents from their mountain strongholds by sweeping north down Clearfield Creek while a second column approached from Philipsburg to the east.

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Philipsburg was the railroad terminus on the eastern edge of the lumber region and served as a military base of operations. The vigor of this campaign was shaped by its commander, a wounded veteran and professional soldier who reflected the disdain by combat soldiers for ‘‘Copperheads.’’52 While the mounted soldiers were ordered to cooperate with the local provost marshals, their commander was Major Frederick A. H. Gaebel, a former officer of the Seventh New York Infantry Regiment. Gaebel was a remarkable and imposing figure. He was a sober disciplinarian, educated at the Prussian Polytechnic Institute and had served in the Prussian army as an engineer for seven years. He immigrated to the United States in 1851, where he found work as an engineer for the Board of Commissioners of New York’s Central Park. At the outset of the war, he raised a company of soldiers in New York City and served with distinction as a Captain in the Seventh New York. He had been wounded at the battles of Malvern Hill and Fredericksburg, charging Marye’s Heights. Because of his debilitating wounds, he was transferred to the Veteran Reserve Corps in November 1863. His reputation for earnestness and strict discipline made him a reliable choice to lead the military expedition.53 Dodge implored Gaebel to root out all resistance in Clearfield, and repeatedly stressed the importance of that county to his superiors. ‘‘This nest of Traitors in Clearfield is now the only sore spot in my Division. If I can effectually crush it out, I think I will have no further resistance to [the] Enrollment Act.’’54 Dodge warned Gaebel to use his force wisely and take great care ‘‘that no success is gained over you.’’ Stereotypes of rough mountain men shaped Dodge’s instructions to his subordinate. ‘‘Act boldly and vigorously, but recollect that even a partial success by these lumbermen, all of whom are excellent marksmen, accustomed to danger and hardship, may be encouraging them to give a vast deal of subsequent trouble.’’55 The initial actions of the expedition heartened Marshal Dodge and bolstered his impression of widespread resistance. The first companies of the Sixteenth V.R.C. arrived in Philipsburg on December 8 and were quartered in the Methodist Episcopal Church. A correspondent for the Raftsman’s Journal recounted how Democrats ‘‘predicted that all the evils possible would be enacted by the ‘bould sojer boy.’ ’’ The anonymous author defended the conduct of the soldiers, stating ‘‘no men could conduct themselves more gentlemanly, quietly and respectfully, than have the officers and privates, of the Sixteenth Vet. Vols. since they have arrived in Philipsburg.’’56 When Major Gaebel arrived two days later, he was still awaiting lists of the deserters to be apprehended from district marshal Campbell. Lacking orders, Gaebel chose instead to follow the advice of area citizens and make a dangerous raid on an infamous gang led by deserters from the 149th Pennsylvania Regiment.

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According to Gaebel’s report, a deserter named Tom Adams was the leader of an armed band residing in Knox Township. Gaebel was told that in early September Adams and twenty-nine of his followers failed in an attempt to kill the deputy marshal or run him out of the county. The ‘‘Union men’’ of Clearfield blamed the Adams gang for the climate of fear and intimidation pervading the countryside. The major also learned of the wounding of David Cathcart, the murder of Colonel Butler, and of the Democratic Castle. The weight of testimony against Adams and his band convinced Gaebel to act decisively. Though Dodge’s instructions urged caution, Gaebel sensed an opportunity to strike at the head of resistance. The raid against the ‘‘notorious Tom Adams’’ and his friends occurred in the early hours of December 13. Locals informed the military that Adams was planning a dance for that evening and would be preoccupied with music and drinking. With a limited number of horses and a few sleighs, Gaebel could send only twenty-five men on the raid. Before reaching their destination, the party captured two army deserters in a house one mile from the Adams’ home. Some of the men rode on horseback pulling the others along on sleds. Most of them had never seen this part of the country, nor knew any of the people who called this region home. Tom Adams typified the Appalachian stereotype of poverty, economic struggle, and rough character. He was a poor laborer living in a small rented cabin in Knox Township with his wife and two young children.57 The land belonged to John Chase, the enterprising self-made man who led the raftsmen’s rebellion in the late 1850s. Adams and his friends were a coarse and quarrelsome set who took all manner of work to make ends meet, including lumbering for men like Chase. For unknown reasons, Adams enlisted as a corporal in Thomas L. Kane’s famed ‘‘Bucktail’’ regiment, the 149th Pennsylvania Volunteers, where he served for less than six months. He and neighbor James McKee deserted the regiment in February 1863, shortly before the unit left their Washington camp for the front.58 Since his flight from the army, Adams used his home as a haven for other deserters, including comrades from the Bucktails. Republicans identified him as the ‘‘notorious’’ leader of a gang in Knox Township, charged with resisting the draft and assaulting civilians and military officials alike. It was rumored that Adams would host a dance that night and that his ‘‘gang’’ intended to scatter into the countryside the following day. Newspapers had predicted that the military might come soon and a dance offered one last diversion before their arrival. When the soldiers approached the house around two o’clock, they caught the strains of a fiddle on the crisp night air. Having posted no lookouts, the

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merrymakers inside the home were unaware that the army was on their doorstep. The mounted men surrounded the house, while the leader of the detachment, Captain John M. Southworth, rushed with the remainder through the front door. Caught by surprise, most of the ‘‘desperadoes’’ surrendered with the exception of the ringleader, Tom Adams. In the rush, Adams ran upstairs where he grabbed a rifle and fired it out of an upper window. With the first of three shots, Adams struck and killed a private on horseback. The others whistled harmlessly into the darkness. He then kicked a hole in the wall boards of the second-story gable and jumped onto the roof of an out building. Adams landed in the garden and began to run when the waiting soldiers ordered him to surrender. The fugitive got no farther than 15 yards before a rifle shot rang out. Clutching his mortal wound, Adams made pains to escape but fell again, dying within 20 minutes. In total, the soldiers arrested fourteen deserters that night and a supposed southern officer who traveled under assumed names, pretending to be a surgeon. All of the men taken were from the Nineteenth District or nearby Cambria County. Deputy Marshal S. B. Benson met with Gaebel after the raid and described the immediate effect on local resistance. ‘‘This military force has struck these disloyal men with awe and consternation.’’59 Gaebel’s report vindicated his bold action, despite the loss of one of his soldiers. ‘‘The news of the affair in Knox Twp and the death of the most prominent boaster and the physically strongest man of the County was received with joy by the better part of the citizens.’’60 The raid against the Adams’ house signaled widespread federal intervention in the lumber region. Until December 1864, local marshals and federal agents were relatively powerless to arrest their opponents or to protect ‘‘loyal’’ citizens who suffered threats and assaults. Throughout the area, hundreds of drafted men refused to report and federal officials wrote frantically about widespread local resistance and apathy. In the fevered minds of the provost marshals, the mountains of Pennsylvania held armies of resistance, armed and organized against the government. News of the raid spread quickly throughout the region. Defiant opponents of the war feared for their safety. Afflicted Republicans cheered jubilantly at the arrival of their saviors. Military leaders hoped the expedition would relieve the anxiety of ‘‘loyal’’ people and encourage compliance with the draft laws. The military expedition in the mountains left a mixed legacy. Unlike the urban mobs of New York City, resistance in the lumber region did not present itself as mass targets to be shot. Large numbers of deserters and draft evaders fled to secluded cabins or drifted to other areas in search of work and safety. Only a small number of men were inspired by fear to give up and hope for

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leniency. Soldiers arrested dozens more by raiding local homes, often in the dark of night. For military officials, the arrests vindicated their belief in widespread organized resistance. For Democratic opponents of the war, the expedition was an ominous sign of military dictatorship and a threat to the civil rights of the northern people. Throughout the winter months, companies of the Sixteenth Regiment performed the daunting task of subduing resistance in the mountains of the lumber region. Military authorities estimated hundreds of deserters living and working in scattered communities. One newspaper article asserted, ‘‘The number of non-reporting drafted men, deserters, and (last but by no means least) aiders and abetters of disloyalty, brought in by these soldiers, are legion.’’61 The vast wilderness and harsh weather helped shelter military fugitives. Military success relied on the coordination of the expedition commander, local provost marshals, and citizens willing to share knowledge. Dodge ordered Gaebel and District Marshal Campbell to work together in clearing the mountains of deserters and civilian resistance. Campbell entrusted his deputy marshal, S. B. Benson, to work closely with the expedition. Benson and Gaebel met repeatedly with citizen committees composed primarily of ‘‘Union men.’’ Having suffered intimidation and destruction of property, Republicans were eager to help soldiers apprehend deserters. Praising the work of the Union men, Gaebel remarked, ‘‘the coming of the military have set them perfectly wild with joy and they have proved themselves of very great value to their country’s cause.’’62 The size and methods of military raids varied according to their target. An average patrol consisted of roughly thirty soldiers, combining men on horseback with infantry pulled by sleds. Smaller patrols were most effective against scattered individuals or small groups of deserters. In the case of larger factions or more stubborn characters, Gaebel doubled the size of his patrol. Deputy Marshal Benson was responsible for choosing the targets of arrests, and worked from lists of deserters supplied through the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau. Army officers capitalized on the tendency of deserters to return to their home community. To guide soldiers to their targets, provost marshals relied on the information of prominent Republicans or knowledgeable locals. Patrols conducted raids at all times of day but used nighttime patrols for the most difficult resistance. Soldiers could not predict the eruption of gun battles and approached each target nervously. Military authorities gave priority to the areas of strongest resistance, with Clearfield County at the top of their list. Provost marshals were concerned by the extent of armed resistance there and the boldness of vigilante violence. In mid-January, Benson reported the success of a raid against the most stubborn

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fugitives. ‘‘A strong expedition left here last night for Knox twp to arrest about 40 persons. That twp is the seat of treason for Clearfield Co.’’63 Many of the poor farmers of Knox Township were strident Democrats. The raid captured fourteen of the ‘‘Knox township Conspirators’’ including the man believed to have shot enrolling officer Cathcart.64 While Clearfield County was the primary target of raids, patrols were sent throughout the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Districts wherever sources led them. With the help of local citizens, soldiers arrested a deserter gang in Potter County led by Cory H. Chair. ‘‘He was drafted in 1863 and had defied the efforts of the Deputy Marshal to arrest him, residing in a Lumbering District, he had taken up his residence in a secluded place in the mountains, in a cabin along with a number of other deserters for the purpose of resisting any effort that might be made to arrest him.’’65 In December, a company of the Sixteenth Regiment was sent to Ridgway, Elk County, to operate against lumbermen along the Sinnamahoning River.66 Gaebel reported that Company I captured eighteen deserters there.67 Opponents of the war had mixed reactions to the military expedition. Fear of arrest and imprisonment caused dozens of men to surrender themselves to authorities. A small minority acted on their previous boasts to fight back rather than be taken by force. Gaebel reported that the swiftness of midnight raids captured nearly 150 deserters. Taking advantage of the difficult terrain and deteriorating weather, untold numbers eluded capture or fled from the county entirely. Mounted raids created ripples of fear that led to a number of surrenders. Before the expedition, provost marshals had little force to compel arrests and gain respect. Government authorities bemoaned their powerlessness and the callous attitude of citizens. The arrival of military force caused an immediate change in public attitude. ‘‘Since the battle up in Knox township, Clearfield County, the drafted men who failed to report at the proper time, seeing that Uncle Sam was getting in earnest, come in from their hiding places, and give themselves up to the Provost Marshal.’’68 Captives described the sense of dread inspired by news of nighttime arrests. The mounted soldiers ‘‘struck such a terror among these men that they according to their own confession could not sleep anymore and were dreaming of handcuffs and Fort Mifflin that they preferred to go and report themselves.’’69 Fear even led citizens to surrender who were not deserters from the army or the draft. Some were uncertain about the boundaries of lawful resistance, and turned themselves in for political opposition. Benson was dumbfounded by this reaction and reported, ‘‘Strange to say more than twenty of these poor deluded people have come and delivered themselves up to us.’’70 Some men blamed their truancy on the influence and intimidation

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of rough characters. A former sheriff for Clearfield County asked Gaebel if the government would deal leniently ‘‘with such men who would report themselves and give proof of their being ill advised and surrounded by bad men and could hardly escape from their home without being in danger of the outlaws revenge.’’ Despite the encouragement to surrender, only a minority of deserters and draft evaders gave themselves up willingly. Gaebel’s report was vague on the tallies, stating only ‘‘a number of deserters and drafted men were by good citizens induced to report.’’ Twenty renegades made the difficult trip to the provost marshal’s office in Ridgway, Elk County, ‘‘so not to come in contact with the soldiers, who according to their imagination would take revenge for their former blackguarding and bragging.’’ Beyond these 20 men, Gaebel reported 144 deserters forwarded to authorities from the lumber region by early February. Most were apprehended by mounted patrols and Gaebel’s language suggests perhaps a dozen deserters turned themselves in to federal authorities.71 While fear of military authorities provoked many to surrender, other fugitives did not wait passively for the soldiers to arrive. Gaebel judged wrongly that all resistance would end after the Tom Adams raid. Government informants reported that several dozen of the county’s deserters held a meeting to plan their response and set up armed pickets to watch for soldiers.72 When two deputy marshals arrested a pair of deserters near Troutville on December 15, they were soon overtaken by 20 to 30 men with rifles on their shoulders. The vigilantes freed the captives and returned home ‘‘yelling and hurrahing and laughing over their success in driving off the officers of the law without their prisoners.’’73 Gaebel responded by sending two companies of the Sixteenth Regiment to operate against them. The commander of the detachment learned afterward that his party was nearly ambushed coming back from a raid. As Gaebel reported, armed men had initially gathered to oppose the soldiers but the ‘‘march of mounted and foot men made such an impression that they returned to their homes without firing a shot.’’74 With every raid, soldiers feared the potential for a shootout. While Gaebel’s expedition apprehended large numbers of deserters, rankand-file marshals became disenchanted with his overzealous arrest of civilians. Dodge had suffered harsh criticism for the strong-armed arrest of innocent civilians in Columbia County. To avoid similar mistakes, he issued strict guidelines to subordinate officers. ‘‘In making arrests of citizens the utmost care should be taken First to make no arrests except on the most positive proof of guilt; Second to make arrests with as little violence or injury to life, limb or property as possible.’’75 To accomplish his goal, Dodge stressed the value of

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team work. ‘‘It is extremely important that no collision of authority or opinion between yourself and Maj Gaebel occur to interfere with the complete success of the expedition.’’76 Initially, Marshal Campbell and Deputy Benson shared Gaebel’s view of widespread dissent. In mid-December, Benson reported back deliriously to district headquarters, ‘‘I believe there are 2,000 deserters here in this region. . . . I think it would be safe to arrest this whole county en masse since that about one half would be deserters.’’77 From the outset, Gaebel shared Benson’s zeal to arrest citizens who obstructed the draft. In total, the expedition forwarded twenty-eight such persons for military trials. As more civilians were taken, however, Benson and Campbell became disenchanted with Gaebel’s fervor to arrest without strong evidence. In February, Benson wrote disapprovingly about the expedition commander. ‘‘I have refused to give my consent to arrest any more citizens at present. If the man Gaebel had this authority he would arrest every man in Clearfield Co. I do not like to speak disrespectful of any person but I do think the man Gaebel is a d____d fool that instead of commanding a Regt he should be in the ranks with a musket on his shoulder.’’78 Only a few days later, the breach of cooperation seemed more serious. ‘‘I have had to exercise considerable authority to prevent the Dutch Major from arresting the whole county.’’79 The failure to implicate Democratic leaders Wallace and Bigler was the greatest embarrassment of the expedition. Republican leaders blamed these two men for fomenting opposition through their speeches and writings. Gaebel and Dodge likewise were ultimately disappointed that Bigler and Wallace remained free. As seasoned politicians, the two suspects used careful, ambiguous language in their speeches that only implied the legitimacy of armed resistance to authority but did not openly encourage armed resistance. The Raftsman’s Journal mused over the vagueness of Democratic speeches. ‘‘That many of those who came to town were disappointed, we have little doubt, as several were heard to say, ‘That they didn’t know a d____d bit more now, than they did before they came here.’ What the result will be time alone will show. But of one thing we are confident, that a great portion of those in attendance came here under the impression that measures would be concocted to resist the draft.’’80 After careful investigation, Deputy Benson wrote dejectedly in late January that he was unable to obtain any information that would warrant the arrest of the two grandees.81 Dodge and Gaebel became convinced that Campbell and Benson were covering for them. In a confidential letter to Campbell, Benson admitted, ‘‘Major Dodge is a man of the opinion that you were in possession of facts that would justify you in arresting Gov Bigler and for some reason you were withholding the information.’’ The editor

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of the Raftsman’s Journal shared the dissatisfaction of Dodge and Gaebel and observed how ordinary Democrats were suffering for their teachings. ‘‘What a pleasure it must be to the poor fellows who are hiding in the woods these cold nights, afraid to go to sleep, lest a soldier may awake them and hurry them off to ‘head-quarters,’ to be assured that the ‘distinguished leaders’ who preached to them last August ‘not another man—nor another dollar’ are in no trouble at all and feeling quite easy.’’82 Dodge may have had concerns about the results of the expedition but not about the performance of Major Gaebel. Endorsing Gaebel’s final report, he praised the work of the officers and men of the Sixteenth Regiment Veteran Reserve Corps. ‘‘Since the 10th Decr. 1864 this command numbering less than 250 men have broken up dangerous secret organizations (of 1,500 of whose number we have or can obtain the names), have reestablished the authority of the Govt, arrested 248 deserters from the army, 223 deserters from draft and 18 citizens, and have quieted the country.’’ Dodge singled out Gaebel’s exertions and recommended him for promotion. ‘‘This great success is greatly due to the activity, energy and soldierly quality of Major F. A. H. Gaebel.’’ Fry concurred in the nomination, citing ‘‘specially meritorious services while in command of his Regiment.’’83 Dodge pronounced the expedition a success for reasserting the authority of the government. The more than 150 prisoners forwarded to headquarters and documents of the Democratic Castle served as trophies of the ‘‘war in Clearfield.’’ Such praise, however, overlooked glaring shortcomings involving the numbers of armed resisters, the nonexistence of deserter fortifications, and the shaky evidence for civilian arrests. For Dodge, the severity and extent of opposition had justified military action. Yet the mounted raids failed to validate his more than a thousand strong estimates for ‘‘armed and organized’’ malcontents. Gaebel reported that his regiment forwarded 471 deserters during their several months of service. Of that number, slightly more than 150 were captured in the lumbering counties. The remaining several hundred prisoners were captured outside of the region, predominantly in Westmoreland, Huntingdon, and Blair counties. In part, Dodge overestimated the size of opposition when 350 drafted men of Clearfield failed to report in October.84 Like many Republican contemporaries, he assumed that Democratic opponents of conscription had organized a force to resist the draft. But failure to report was not equal to organized conspiracy. During the trials of seven Clearfield ‘‘conspirators,’’ several drafted men revealed their motivations for staying home. John Gray of Bradford Township described the affects of peer pressure as well as economic and geographic considerations. ‘‘One was that I had no convenient way of getting to Brookville. Another was that I

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attempted to put in a substitute and failed, and another was that a great many in that section were not reporting, and I thought I would stay with them.’’ Others cited reasons of poverty, including the modest farmer William Phoenix. ‘‘I was poor and had a large family, and had no means of going to report.’’85 Jacob Rinehart gave a rationale, which married men could appreciate. ‘‘My wife complained about me being drafted.’’86 That one simple statement suggests the crucial hidden role of women in supporting opposition. Wives, mothers, and sisters played important parts encouraging resistance and aiding fugitives. As in Columbia County, military authorities maintained the fiction of elusive organized resistance. Gaebel wrote that large numbers of deserters fled the county to escape arrest. By driving off untold numbers of fugitives, he could report that ‘‘wholesale deserter bands have ceased to be.’’87 The expedition also failed to find material evidence supporting military preparation by deserters. Soldiers were confronted by small bands of armed men but found no evidence of fortifications. The result was an ominous reminder of the Columbia County expedition. A newspaper article in late December addressed the charge of military defenses. ‘‘It is true, as reported, that Marshal Campbell was made believe that the deserters and non-reporting conscripts of this county had erected fortifications. . . . We suggest, now that he is here, that he impress into the service every man who made such representations, and require them to hunt up and point out those works.’’88 By February, the editor was pleased to report ‘‘the authorities are now satisfied that the reports about forts and breastworks were base fabrications.’’89 After the departure of troops, the Clearfield Republican maintained that the expedition was ‘‘a fraud upon the government.’’ As in Columbia County, military authorities could not prove a widespread civilian conspiracy to resist the draft. Major Gaebel and Provost Marshal Dodge were the most disheartened by this outcome. In their minds, the evidence of large-scale draft evasion was abundant. Fear coupled with a desire for lenience induced several key fugitives to divulge information about the Democratic Castle. Military leaders were given copies of the organization’s constitution and bylaws, descriptions of secret passwords and signs, and partial lists of members for several regional chapters. Gaebel anticipated far-reaching prosecutions, from Democratic leaders Wallace and Bigler, down to the local chapter members. As a prelude to military tribunals, he ordered his patrols to make liberal arrests on civilians connected to the organization. The military trials of Clearfield conspirators convicted fewer individuals than in the case of the ‘‘Fishing Creek Conspiracy.’’ Having learned from the failures in Columbia County, key military officials stressed the necessity of convincing proof for violations of the draft laws. Chief among these conservative

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men were Captain H. L. Johnson, the army’s Judge Advocate in Pennsylvania, and District Nineteen officials, Provost Marshal Campbell and Deputy Benson. Even before the expedition arrived, Campbell showed sensitivity to the weight of evidence. In March, Benson asked Campbell for instructions regarding a civilian who was harboring deserters. Campbell urged arrest only ‘‘if you can get reliable evidence that will convict him . . . I will say make evidence against him, but be certain you are right before you commence because if you should fail the thing would be in worse shape than before you commenced.’’90 Knowing the difficulties of convicting opponents of the draft, provost marshals emphasized the arrest of key individuals as an example to others. The marshal of the Eighteenth District urged the U.S. District Attorney to drop a case against a civilian named Kleckner for lack of evidence. ‘‘Kleckner is reported on good authority to be an ignorant but rather well disposed Dutchman, living in an out of the way section of the country, and does not in any respect come up to my idea of the kind of man to make an example of.’’91 In a number of cases, federal authorities made the difficult decision to release prisoners for want of proof. Benson was certain that the fourteen citizens captured on a raid in Knox Township would be convicted.92 Following Captain Johnson’s initial investigation, Benson wrote despairingly to Campbell. ‘‘Johnson thinks we have insufficient evidence to convict all of the accused.’’ Gaebel had no patience for this faint-hearted approach and became openly insubordinate. In one letter, Campbell was forced to discourage Benson from arresting a civilian. After Benson showed the letter to Gaebel, the deputy reported that ‘‘he was very angry and said he wouldn’t arrest anyone else for you. . . . I am heartily sick of him.’’93 For those who had willingly taken part in draft opposition, the penalty was slight. In the end, less than a dozen men were brought from the county before military tribunals at Harrisburg. The government tried three men for their work in organizing the Democratic Castle. Five more men faced charges of rescuing deserters from the custody of government officers. Those remaining were released for lack of evidence. Prominent Democrats pressured the government to present compelling charges and evidence or set captives free. The Raftsman’s Journal reported that a local Democratic attorney had made trips to Harrisburg and Washington to press for the release of prisoners from Fort Mifflin. The article listed twenty-four names as having been released after taking an oath of allegiance.94 The Clearfield Republican made note that some of the civilians arrested were already returning from Fort Mifflin before the departure of the expedition.95 In late March, the military tribunal released its verdict and sentences in the cases regarding the organizers of the Democratic Castle. Jacob

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Wilhelm, Samuel Lansberry, and Patrick Curley were all found guilty, and sentenced with fines and imprisonment.96 The five men accused of rescuing two deserters from provost marshals received similar punishments. In April 1865, the war came mercifully to an end but not the memories and deep divisions caused by the conflict.

Epilogue: Contested Memories of the Civil War

In the national memory, the Civil War appears permanently fixed as a noble war that preserved the nation and ended the scourge of slavery. Most Americans today imagine the war as a tragic yet romantic conflict, fought in simpler times by fellow Americans engaged in admirable causes. The foundation of this contemporary image emerged in the decades after the war, when a spirit of national reconciliation helped rising generations to put aside bitter sectional divides. The late nineteenth century saw aging former enemies shake hands on fields of battle as grateful citizens erected stone memorials to their service in communities across the nation. If there has been an enduring villain in the saga of the rebellion, it has been the class of northern politicians who opposed Lincoln and denounced the Republican war. Lincoln’s party fashioned the earliest dominant interpretation of Democratic opposition during the war itself. They charged Peace Democrats with treason and disloyalty, labeled them ‘‘Copperheads’’ for their scheming, venomous attacks, and considered them a ‘‘fire in the rear’’ materially undermining the war effort. They branded war opponents as southern sympathizers and claimed that Democrats formed widespread secret societies, determined to resist the federal government with force of arms if necessary. As this study has highlighted, throughout Northern states federal officials of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau faced considerable, and sometimes violent, resistance to the Union’s unpopular draft laws. In many ways, the Civil War is an unassailable ‘‘good war,’’ romanticized and celebrated in a manner that parallels the commemoration of World War II. This idealized image of the war masks the troubling divides within each section over its causes, justification, and legacy. More accurately, the Civil War had much in common with the Vietnam War, during which widespread protest confounded governing authorities and directly affected the conduct of the war. While this may seem forgotten, contemporaries who lived through the war did not. We can examine the struggle against forgetting in various dimensions— political struggles, legal struggles, personal and sometimes violent struggles— stretching from the close of the Civil War to our own day. What did antiwar Democrats do in the aftermath of Union victory? Did they grudgingly accept that they had been wrong and move to put the past behind

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them? Such was not the case. Pennsylvania Democrats continued to use wartime memories to effect partisan unity and mobilize voters. In the mountain counties, candidates supplemented the general Democratic campaign issues with very specific and divisive incidents from their own experience. At the state level, party leaders fashioned a slate of resolutions criticizing the Republican administration in broad outlines. Despite Northern victory in the war, they denounced their rivals for wartime profiteering, higher levels of taxation, stupendous national debt, obstructing speedy reconstruction, and promoting the specter of racial equality through ‘‘negro suffrage.’’ At the Columbia County meeting in August 1865, resolutions boldly asserted ‘‘that if the counsels of the Democratic Party had prevailed the Union would have been saved in all its integrity and honor, without the slaughter debt, and disgrace of civil war.’’1 When local politicians mounted the stage, their speeches predominantly echoed common party themes with wartime origins. One of the state’s leading Democrats, Charles Buckalew, reminded listeners that the nation had been duped into fighting an abolitionist war cloaked in the cause of Union. In a phrase that is hauntingly contemporary, he averred that ‘‘a false issue was raised—a pretended reason assigned, and thousands of good men rushed forward to be subordinated and disciplined to accomplish the purposes of the heartless and unpatriotic few.’’ Calling Republicans ‘‘unpatriotic’’ was an intentional inversion of the more dominant charge that Democrats had been disloyal to their country. This was such a sore spot, particularly as angry veterans were returning home, that attorney R. R. Little of Montgomery County gave a speech to defend Democratic loyalty. He accomplished this by defining the term as his party had done early in the war. He explained that loyalty meant ‘‘fidelity to the sovereign power,’’ which in the United States was not invested in the ‘‘so-called rulers’’ but in the people whom they served. True loyalty, he counseled, was not allegiance to the administration but ‘‘fidelity to the Constitution.’’ In his estimation, the Democratic Party had remained the only true party of the Union and sought now to return the government to its ‘‘true path’’—‘‘the reign of Democracy and rational freedom.’’ In staunchly Democratic Columbia County, residents knew firsthand about the implications of defying federal authority. They hosted hundreds of soldiers sent to their county to eliminate purported armed resistance dubbed the ‘‘Fishing Creek Confederacy.’’ After fruitless searching in remote mountain areas, the expedition uncovered no traces of armed conspiracy. The commander saved face by stating that the phantom legions certainly existed but had escaped into their mountain strongholds. In the midst of this expedition, however, the military had arrested more than one hundred civilian men for questioning. Fortyfour were sent to Fort Mifflin without charge, where one man died in custody

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from the miserable conditions. Only eight of the men were ever convicted for violations of the draft laws and Democrats throughout the state seized on this as an example of the ‘‘military despotism’’ of the Lincoln administration. On the second day of the Democratic meeting, the men who had been sent to ‘‘Lincoln’s Bastille’’ were called up on stage. Attorney John G. Freeze, who defended some of the men at their military tribunal, then gave a long lawyerly narrative of the ‘‘Columbia County Invasion.’’ Freeze made it his life-long goal to keep alive the history of those turbulent days and he largely succeeded.2 The larger significance is that Democrats were generally disadvantaged in postwar political campaigns until the 1880s because of the impact of Republican ‘‘bloody shirt’’ rhetoric. In a manner that seems hauntingly familiar, Republicans were able to win elections by reminding voters which party had remained steadfast in loyalty to the government during the war. Despite the minority of war-Democrats, the party of Lincoln told veterans to ‘‘vote as they shot.’’ In the 1865 state Auditor-General’s race, the Tribune Almanac’s political bellwether, Republicans won narrowly with 52.5 percent of the popular vote.3 This closely mirrored the outcome of the 1864 Presidential election where Lincoln’s Union Party polled 51.75 percent of the popular vote. But in the most disaffected Appalachian counties of the North, Democrats maintained their strength with notable majorities in Clearfield and Columbia counties. Despite such close results, the larger picture reflected a troubling circumstance for state Democrats. Their opponents maintained a strong majority in both houses of the state legislature. Republican rhetoric of loyalty and the divisiveness of the Civil War seem to have done little to shake underlying voter loyalties. The problem of the Democratic Party in Pennsylvania was not that they lost ground under charges of disloyalty but that they were, in the memorable phrase put forth by political historian Joel Silbey, a ‘‘respectable minority.’’4 While ‘‘bloody shirt’’ politics may have helped Republican candidates win elections, it could not silence critics who continued to see wartime protest as justified. Only occasionally did these critics find cause to rejoice as in the 1875 acquittal of Joseph Lansberry, the Clearfield County man who had mortally wounded Provost Marshal Cyrus Butler and defied the draft laws. The highly publicized U.S. Circuit Court trial in Pittsburgh reawakened a public debate over the justice of wartime laws. Lansberry had shot the deputy marshal when Butler came to his home to arrest him for evading the draft. Lansberry’s network of friends and relatives as well as his knowledge of the area allowed him to elude capture for the rest of the war. He remained at large for a full decade, until he was caught in 1875 by an undercover federal detective and transported to Pittsburgh for trial in the U.S. Circuit Court.

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The outcome of this trial had significance that went far beyond the fate of a single murderer. In the daily coverage of the case, the Pittsburgh newspapers reported that large crowds packed the courtroom, eager to witness the proceedings. The trial stirred wartime controversies that remained unresolved. The people of the mountains had been stigmatized by the extent of resistance and the outcome of the trial could either ameliorate or heighten their sense of collective shame. Representing the perspective of outsiders looking in, the New York Times carried a brief article on Lansberry’s capture. The anonymous dispatch writer from Williamsport remarked, ‘‘It is said that his trial will develop some important facts, and convict many persons in that section of the country with treasonable practices during the war.’’5 The Republican myth of widespread, organized conspiracy lived on through the era of Reconstruction. For those seeking vindication, the trial could uphold their wartime view that the draft laws were arbitrary and subverted civil liberties. Lansberry’s defense team looked to the latter approach to acquit their client. The United States vs. Joseph Lansberry commenced on November 9 in a courtroom packed with curious onlookers. Though he did not testify, Lansberry had not denied that he fatally shot Butler. The defense lawyers relied on two assumptions for their closing argument: that the wartime draft laws were prejudicial and flawed and that a man had the right to use deadly force to protect his life and property when threatened. They described the Enrollment Act as ‘‘highly penal’’ in that it classified draft evaders as deserters. They probed for weaknesses in the language of the law and denied that military officials had personally served Lansberry with formal written notification of his having been drafted. Lacking that, they concluded that he ‘‘was not a deserter, or nonreporting drafted man within the meaning of said act, and was not therefore liable to arrest as such.’’6 A prosecution witness testified that he spoke with Lansberry about his being drafted and that he was defiant but his attorneys dismissed the conversation as hearsay. Predictably, Lansberry’s lawyers portrayed him as an innocent man who acted in self-defense. Without denying the legitimacy of the arresting party, his defenders were eager to show that ‘‘their brutal conduct would rob them of the shield of their authority.’’7 They described the officers’ actions as hostile and threatening and that Lansberry was defending his home and his life. In a tenpoint list submitted to the court, the defense lawyers depicted the arresting party as armed trespassers who broke into his house on the Sabbath, swore at the people inside and threatened to shoot Lansberry. The fatal shooting occurred in a dark stairway and no one could say with certainty how many shots were fired or in what order. Given that Butler was dead and Lansberry did not testify, defense lawyers argued that Butler fired first and that Lansberry

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‘‘was compelled to fire upon them to save his own life.’’8 They stressed that Lansberry could not have escaped from the second floor, and that there was no need to shoot him. Judge William McKennan considered the points submitted by the defense lawyers and provided significant instruction for the jury. His remarks aided Lansberry considerably. McKennan asserted that the defendant’s guilt must hinge on whether he knew the two armed men were legitimate officers and that he willfully obstructed them in their duties. ‘‘The jury must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant knew the officers, who were dressed in citizens’ clothes, who visited his house in the night time, and who made every effort to surprise and capture him, were officers acting under the law.’’9 He further ruled ‘‘that an officer could not take a man unless it could be shown that the man had knowledge that he was a deserter. Without notice he was not bound to submit and surely had the right to defend his liberty.’’10 The jury took only 30 minutes to conclude that Lansberry be set free. Those who expected the trial to uncover networks of treason must surely have been disappointed. His friends and family, and the community they represented, celebrated his innocence as if it were an absolution of their own charges of disloyalty. Even after the passing of the Civil War generation, local people privately remembered the deep divisions generated by the war. In the 1950s, regional author Herbert E. Stover drew upon the history of local Civil War opposition for his undistinguished novel Copperhead Moon. In a brief foreword, Stover asserted, ‘‘Both grudges and loyalties die so slowly in the quiet of the wooded hill country that it is entirely possible that some of the issues touched in this book may still be controversial even to third or fourth generation people who remember old stories.’’ He had been shown the places where deserters hid among the rhododendron or stood lonely watch for provost marshals. He could point out the sites of gun battles with federal officers or the home of an old woman who baked bread for fugitives. Published in the wake of World War II, Stover’s novel was remarkable for its sympathetic portrayal of protesters at a time when protest and dissent were held widely in disrepute. During the war, two notable works on Peace Democrats emerged, both reinforcing the view of Copperheads as partisan traitors. The year 1942 saw the publication of Wood Gray’s The Hidden Civil War: The Story of the Copperheads and George Fort Milton’s Abraham Lincoln and the Fifth Column. These two sources must have informed the historical content of Stover’s novel, but his approach defied their essential judgment that Copperheads were disloyal southern sympathizers. Even in contemporary times, the people of Pennsylvania’s mountain communities remember the divisiveness of the Civil War years. Despite the charged

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atmosphere of the war in Iraq, in December 2004 the civic leaders of Clearfield County celebrated the region’s most notorious and violent clash between civilians and the military. Braving darkness, cold, and a brisk snowfall, several hundred spectators converged on a remote section of rural Knox Township to witness the staging of an event remembered as ‘‘Bloody Knox.’’ The enactment of ‘‘Bloody Knox’’ was one of a number of events organized by officials, business leaders, and civic institutions to mark the county’s bicentennial. Nearly all of these proceedings promoted an appreciation for their county’s unique and positive historical contributions. Throughout the year, a local hunger for commemoration was gorged by a steady diet of exhibits, talks, plaque dedications, parades, newspaper columns, and even plays. Almost no historical stone was left unturned if the subject matter could evoke a sense of reminiscence for a romantic and virtuous past. ‘‘Living history’’ portrayals or ‘‘reenactments’’ complemented the more stolid public events, suggesting perhaps the limits of public historical imagination and the yearning to be visually entertained. The event that drew the most attention was the building and piloting of a pine timber raft down a stretch of the West Branch of the Susquehanna River. The raft marked yet another generational admiration of the region’s lumbering history coupled with the very real dangers faced by ‘‘watermen’’ on the West Branch. Among the many celebrations of nostalgia, the inclusion of the ‘‘Bloody Knox’’ incident was curious for its conflicting message. The goal of the event was to use actors and Civil War reenactors to accurately recreate the 1864 skirmish between federal soldiers and the ‘‘notorious Tom Adams’’ who lost his life there and was buried in an unmarked grave. The reenactment was remarkably accurate with only one instance of historical license. Prior to the soldiers’ arrival on the scene, two actors stood before the crowd and carried on a brief conversation intended to justify and contextualize resistance. They spoke in heated terms about the unfair draft laws, poverty and family responsibility, and Lincoln’s war to fight for the black man. When the soldiers appeared, the confrontation ended quickly with the scripted death of the federal soldier and finally Adams himself. At the conclusion, spectators were encouraged to talk with the performers and tour through the reconstructed Adams’ cabin. When they were done, they shuffled back to their cars and off to their homes. An observer might wonder what the lesson of that moment was for spectators. Who were the good guys? The audience of a public talk at the Clearfield County Historical Society revealed awareness of the complex circumstances faced by their community during the war. A few could even trace their family to men inside the cabin that night and looked upon it with some measure of pride. For them, it did not seem unusual to celebrate ‘‘Bloody Knox’’ in the

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same way that other elements of county history were remembered that year. The local historical society even took pains to erect memorial plaques at several scenes of violent resistance, including the Adams’ cabin in ‘‘Bloody Knox’’ and near the site of Colonel Butler’s death at the hands of Joseph Lansberry. What concluding thoughts are we to draw from this tenuous thread of fractured memories? First that the lingering memories of deep divisions in American society are important. They help counter a widespread myth that Americans have generally put aside their differences in times of war to support the national cause. America’s military conflicts have been accompanied by protest and disagreement from our founding, and the apparent national unity during World War II is an aberration that has caused us to lose sight of that fact. Beyond this, another conclusion seems evident. The intermittent commemoration of protest and division does little, it seems, to undermine a dominant view of the Civil War as a ‘‘good war.’’ Likewise, the Peace Democrats or ‘‘Copperheads’’ of the war appear doomed for all time as traitors and southern sympathizers—another victim of distortion and stereotype. More importantly, contemporary Americans have forgotten a lesson that Civil War era politics has demonstrated. Loyalty to the nation is a complex and contended notion with multiple perspectives. Without advocating one particular version of loyalty, we would do well to remember that issues of loyalty are often conflated with political campaigns. One could argue that the fundamental problem is whether criticism of the administration during war constitutes disloyalty to the nation, and where the boundaries of acceptable protest might lie. The fictional conversation from the Hollidaysburg Whig illustrates the pliable use of memory. A disturbed gentleman had heard as much abuse of the government as he could stand and read the following to them. ‘‘You are promised liberty by the leaders of your affairs, but is there an individual in the enjoyment of it, saving your oppressors? Who among you dare speak or write what he thinks against the tyranny which has robbed you of your property, imprisoned your sons, drags you to the field of battle, and is daily deluging your country with your blood!’’ ‘‘ ‘Them’s my sentiments exactly,’ exclaimed one of the sympathizers. ‘Sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘That is the language of Benedict Arnold in his proclamation to the citizens and soldiers of the United States appealing to them to turn against George Washington.’ This ended the conversation.’’11

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Appendix: Supplemental Figures

Figure A.1 Pennsylvania in 1860

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Figure A.2 Town Centers of the Lumber Region, 1860

Source: Population data taken from Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Population of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864), 413–437.

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Figure A.3 Farm Values, Burnside Township, Clearfield County, 1860

Note: Of Burnside Township’s 81 farms, 10 exceeded $3,000 in value and 15 were less than $1,000. This map shows a geographic pattern of wealthy farms along the river and poorer farms in the hilly center of the township. In terms of total acreage, improved acreage, and value, Burnside Township farms are representative of the lumber region. Five of the poorest farms and one of the wealthiest were not evident on a map of the county published in 1866.

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Figure A.4 Landform Regions of Pennsylvania

Note: The Western Mountain, Lumber, and Eastern Mountain regions together form what geographers term the Allegheny Plateau or the Appalachian Plateau. I have subdivided the region into three parts for both objective and subjective reasons, mentioned in the text. Source: Derived from ‘‘Landform Regions’’ in David J. Cuff, ed., The Atlas of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989), 18. See also Ben Marsh and Pierce Lewis, ‘‘Landforms and Human Habitat’’ in E. Willard Miller, ed., A Geography of Pennsylvania (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 17–43.

Figure A.5 Counties of Lowest Population Density, 1860

Note: Shaded areas indicate counties with the lowest population density. The state average excluding Philadelphia (which had a density of 4,039 persons per square mile) was 51.2 persons per square mile.

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Figure A.6 Imbalances of White Men Ages 20–39, 1860

Note: This map depicts counties with an imbalance of white male population, aged 20–39, for 1860. Statewide, white men made up 49.5 percent of the population aged 20–39. In the lumber region and anthracite coalfields, census figures show proportionally more men in that age range than women. Source: Figures A.5 and A.6 are calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Population of the United States in 1860. Historical county area data from John H. Long, ed., Pennsylvania: Atlas of Historical County Boundaries (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996).

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Figure A.7 Lowest Percentage of Total Land in Farms, 1860

Note: Shaded counties indicate where the total farmland (the combination of improved and unimproved acreage in farms) was less than half of the county’s total area. In the case of the lumber region, the majority of the land remains heavily forested, but was not classified as unimproved land in farms. Source: Figure A.7 is calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Agriculture of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864), 122–125. Historical county area data from John H. Long, ed., Pennsylvania: Atlas of Historical County Boundaries.

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Figure A.8 Predominance of Farms Under 50 Acres, 1860

Note: This map reveals counties in which the majority of farms were less than 50 acres (total acreage in farms). Source: Figure A.8 is calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Agriculture of the United States in 1860, 213.

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Figure A.9 Counties of Lowest Total Manufacture, 1860

Note: This map indicates those counties that had the lowest total value of manufactured products in the state. Source: Figure A.9 is calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Manufactures of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1865), 537.

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Figure A.10 Lumbering as a Primary Manufacture, 1860

Note: This map uses census county data for the annual values of sawn lumber produced and the total value of all manufactures. It indicates counties in which sawing lumber was the primary manufacture.

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Figure A.11 Greatest Output of Sawn Lumber, 1860

Note: This map depicts counties for which the total annual value of sawn lumber was greater than $30,000. Timber was not assigned value until it was processed, leaving the ambiguity that it could have been forested in a different area from where it was cut into lumber. Lycoming and Clinton counties led the state in lumber processing, sawing 23.5 percent of the state’s total lumber. Allegheny County and the anthracite coal counties of the east were also high in production figures, indicating that large quantities of timber were brought into those counties and processed. In the anthracite coal counties of Luzerne, Schuylkill, and Carbon, much of the wood was used to timber mines and build miners’ homes. Those counties contained a combined 156 coal-mining establishments, employing nearly 23,000 men. Source: Figures A.10 and A.11 are calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Manufactures of the United States in 1860, 493–535.

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Figure A.12 Capital Invested in Sawmills, 1860

Note: This map shows counties with the highest capital investments in sawmills. Source: Figure A.12 is calculated from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Manufactures of the United States in 1860, 493–535.

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Figure A.13 Rivers and Creeks of the Lumber Region

Note: The lumber region is drained by two river systems, the West Branch of the Susquehanna River and the Allegheny River. The principle watershed is the Eastern Continental Divide, passing through Potter, McKean, Elk, and Clearfield counties. Potter, Tioga, Clinton, Lycoming, Clearfield, and eastern Elk counties lie to the east of the divide and drain southeastward into the Susquehanna River. McKean, Warren, Forest, Jefferson, and western Elk counties are to the west of the divide and empty southwestward into the Allegheny River. As public highways, rivers connected lumbering farmers with downriver sawmills, creating networks of economic exchange. There are several points where parts of a river system fall outside the boundaries of the map. The Allegheny River, for instance, begins at the top center, in McKean County, flowing northward into New York State before looping back into Pennsylvania farther west. It exits the map again at the left edge and reappears further south on its way to Pittsburgh. The Tioga River, in the top right corner of the map, also runs through New York State before joining the North Branch of the Susquehanna and flowing southward into Pennsylvania again. The North and West Branches of the Susquehanna River merge at Sunbury, southeast of the lumber region, and flow south past Harrisburg. Source: Based on State of Pennsylvania, topographic maps by the U.S. Geological Survey.

Appendix: Supplemental Figures Figure A.14 Masthead of the Raftsman’s Journal

159

160

Appendix: Supplemental Figures

Figure A.15 Rafting Scene on the West Branch of the Susquehanna, 1866

Source: Map of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania. From actual Surveys & Official Records by D. G. Beers, Assisted by J. H. Goodhue and F. B. Roe. Published by A. Pomeroy, 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 1866. Engraved by Worley & Bracher, 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. Printed by Fred. Bourquin, 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

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Figure A.16 Irvin’s Mill at Curwensville, 1878

Note: Three rafts glide gently past the estate of John Irvin in Curwensville, Clearfield County. In the foreground, a train loaded with lumber steams in the opposite direction. A detail of the center raft is shown as well. Source: J. H. Newton, surveyor, Caldwell’s Illustrated Historical Combination Atlas of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania (Condit, Ohio: J. A. Caldwell, 1878), 68.

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Figure A.17 The Shift of the American Logging Frontier, 1840–1923

Note: This map depicts the migration of the logging frontier across the continent. It designates primary areas and dates of maximum production. Source: This map is redrawn based on the ‘‘Progress of Lumber Industry,’’ in Nelson Courtland Brown, The American Lumber Industry (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1923), 258.

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163

Figure A.18 Pennsylvania White Pine, 1880

Source: Reproduced from ‘‘Map of Pennsylvania Showing the Distribution of Pine and Hemlock Forests, with Special Reference to the Lumber Industry,’’ in Charles S. Sargent, comp., Report on the Forests of North America (Exclusive of Mexico) (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1884). See particularly 506–10. This report is one of the published volumes accompanying the 10th Census, 1880.

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Figure A.19 Total Enlistments by County

Source: This map was created using data on county of origin for each company of Pennsylvania Volunteers. It compares the total number of companies (including fractions of companies) with numbers of males, aged 15–39 in the 1860 census. The state average was 3.9 companies per 1,000 military-aged males. The county of origin for each company of volunteers appears in Richard A. Sauers, Advance the Colors! Pennsylvania Civil War Battleflags, vol. 1 (Harrisburg: Capitol Preservation Committee, 1987).

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165

Figure A.20 Geographic Distribution of Three-month Volunteer Companies

Source: The county of origin for each company of three-month volunteers appears in Richard A. Sauers, Advance the Colors! Pennsylvania Civil War Battleflags, vol. 1 (Harrisburg: Capitol Preservation Committee, 1987), 248–253.

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Figure A.21 Geographic Distribution of the Pennsylvania Reserve Corps

Source: The county of origin for each company of the Pennsylvania Reserve Corps appears in Sauers, Advance the Colors! Pennsylvania Civil War Battleflags, vol. 1, 254–257.

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Figure A.22 Prominent Occupations of Pennsylvania Three-month Soldiers

Note: Laborer was the most common category and presents the challenge of ambiguity. Laborers could be agricultural workers or day laborers living in urban areas. Based on the indication of residence on enlistment papers, most of the laborers in this sample came from urban areas including Harrisburg, Chambersburg, Bloomsburg, and Duncansville. Source: This chart is derived from the data of Table A.2 and lists the occupations from the 10 percent sample that were most abundant.

Figure A.23 The St. Mary’s Resolutions Resolved, That it is the imperative duty of every lover of the country of Washington, of all ages, sexes and conditions, to stand decidedly for peace, to stay the fanaticism of the hour, which must crush the hopes and extinguish the brightest sun in the constellation of Governments; to counsel moderation, arbitration, compromises; showing by unequivocal acts that the interests of the South shall be equally safe in all their extensions in the future while we have the supremacy of power, as ours were in the past, when they had the ascendancy; and in the parting words of the Father of his country; ‘‘Frown indignantly upon the first and every attempt to alienate one portion of the country from the other, or to dissolve the political bonds which hold us in Union,’’ knowing no North, no South, no East, no West, but uniting in one common brotherhood, in the spirit of compromise, the entire combined interests of men.

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Resolved, That the courage and patriotism manifested by our brave and loyal citizens in responding to the call for 75,000 men to defend the Capital is worthy of our most profound approbation and reflects lasting credit on those brave spirits. But that we most solemnly and in the name of humanity, justice and Christianity protest against the late acts of the administration which have for their object the subjugation of the South and the betrayal of our brave soldiers into acts of lawlessness and opposition to the principle and feeling which prompted them to march for the defense of the National capital. Resolved, That with all good citizens we deeply deplore the recent slaughter of Americans in Virginia. We pity the Northern widow and the Northern orphans; we pity the Southern widow and the Southern orphan. And we swear again, that we will stand together, and strive by the use of all honorable means to bring about peace, and restore to their friends our young men now sickening from the effects of a Southern summer. Resolved, That the threats of Abolitionists pass us like the idle winds which we regard not. We are freemen—American citizens, and we will protect ourselves, and each other in the exercise of the rights of American citizens to the last extremity, and with our lives if need be. Resolved, That in the language of Senator Douglas in his late speech in the Senate, ‘‘we don’t understand how a man can claim to be a friend of the Union, and yet be in favor of war upon ten millions of people in the Union. It cannot be covered up much longer under the pretext of love for the Union. . . . WAR IS DISUNION, INEVITABLE FINAL AND IRREPRESSIBLE.’’ Resolved, That we are in favor of a speedy settlement of the present difficulty by compromise. Resolved, That when one section of our country shall have been subjugated by the other, we have already become the slaves of a military despotism. Resolved, That we are ready to defend freedom of speech and of the press, against those who have tried hard to suppress this constitutional right. Resolved, That wherein the chief Magistrate of this nation has failed to administer Government agreeable to the Constitution of the United States, he is deserving the rebuke of every good citizen. Resolved, That the small patriot band of Senators and Representatives in the last extra session of Congress, who dared to maintain the integrity of the Constitution, under the menaces of expulsion and imprisonment, are entitled to the gratitude of every American citizen; and impartial history will award them an enviable distinction. Resolved, That the persistent determination of the majority of the members of the late extra session of Congress to frown down every measure that had for its object the peaceful adjustment of our national difficulties, indicates a fanatical mania that would have much better become the crusaders of centuries gone by, than the representatives of a free, intelligent, and Christian people of the nineteenth century.

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Resolved, That the candidates nominated this evening, Dr. C. R. Early and R. J. Nicholson are worthy of the support of every Democrat, and that we pledge them our determined support at the October election.’’ Source: The St. Mary’s Resolutions were passed at the Democratic nominating convention for the counties of Clearfield, Jefferson, Elk, and McKean held in St. Mary’s, Thursday, August 15, 1861. ‘‘Democratic Representative Convention,’’ McKean County Democrat, 22 August 1861.

Figure A.24 Constitution of the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ WHEREAS, We sincerely and truly believe that the Supreme Creator and Governor of the Universe, holds each of us, individually, responsible for our actions, therefore, we hold that all persons should worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences. We believe the Bible to be the words of Divine inspiration and the fountain of Wisdom; and without obedience to its teachings no people or nation can be happy or prosperous. AND WHEREAS, The FOUNDER of our Religion proclaimed that His Kingdom was not of this world, and enjoined on us to render unto God the things that are God’s and unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s: We, therefore, hold that Church and State should always remain separate. We, therefore, will make all honorable efforts to have the Gospel preached in the Pulpit and Politics proclaimed from the Stump. And believing the Constitution of the United States to be the best form of government ever devised by human intellect, we hold it sacred, second only to the Bible. AND WHEREAS, Ours is a mission of love, peace and good will toward all men, we desire equal and exact justice to all men of whatever state or persuasion, religious or political. We will, therefore, support the State Governments in all their rights, as the most competent administration for our domestic concerns and the surest bulwark against anti-republican tendencies. We also pledge ourselves, earnestly and truly, to aid, to the extent of our ability, in preserving the General Government in all its constitutional vigor, and to do all in our power to hand it down, unimpaired, to posterity. THE FOUR CORNER STONES on which we build the ‘‘DEMOCRATIC CASTLE’’ are as follow, viz: 1st. A jealous care of a fair election by the people, and an absolute acquiescence in the decision of the majority. 2d. The supremacy of the civil over the military power. 3d. Freedom of Religion, Freedom of the Press and Speech, and Freedom of Person under the Protection of the Habeas Corpus. 4th. Trial by jury, impartially selected. CONSTITUTION OF THE SUB-DIVISIONS. ARTICLE 1st. This shall be Sub-division ‘‘DEMOCRATIC CASTLE.’’

of Division

of the

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ARTICLE 2d. Sec. 1st. The officers of this sub-division shall consist of a President, Secretary, Treasurer, Auditor, and Executive Committee, consisting of three persons, all of whom shall be elected for the term of one year, at the first meeting of the sub-division in the month of May in each year. Sec. 2d. The President shall preside at all meetings of the sub-division—shall give the casting vote whenever there is a tie. When taking his seat at each meeting, he shall make such suggestions as he may deem advisable to promote the interests of the sub-division, but shall not enter into any discussion while presiding. He shall call special meetings of the sub-division, and shall perform such other duties as may be prescribed in the ByLaws. In the absence of the President, the members present shall appoint one of their number Chairman pro tem., who shall perform, during that meeting, all the duties of the President. [Page two] Sec. 3d. The Secretary, Treasurer and Auditor shall perform such duties as may be prescribed in the By-Laws. Sec. 4th. The Executive Committee shall initiate all members presented and accepted by the sub-division. The officers shall be tried before them for impeachment, and they shall impartially hear all charges against members laid before them, but shall suspend their opinion in all cases until adjudged in the manner prescribed in the By-Laws. They shall select referees to try charges against members, and shall perform such other duties as may be prescribed in the By-Laws. ARTICLE 3rd. All members shall be deemed innocent until proven guilty, nor shall any member be expelled unless by the judgment of referees impartially chosen by the Executive Committee. ARTICLE 4th. No noble or regal title shall ever be introduced into this sub-division. ARTICLE 5th. No member shall be allowed to discuss any subject of a religious sectarian nature in this sub-division, nor shall any member be allowed to speak more than twice, or more than five minutes each time on the same subject, without leave first obtained of the sub-division. ARTICLE 6th. No more than a majority of members shall be required to admit persons as members of this sub-division. ARTICLE 7th. No person shall be admitted as a member of this sub-division unless first subscribing to creed and constitution of this sub-division, and answering in the affirmative the interrogatories propounded to candidates for admission. ARTICLE 8th. The finances of this sub-division and the manner of holding the elections thereof, shall be governed by the By-Laws. ARTICLE 9th. No amendment to this Constitution, nor By-Law, nor Regulation, shall ever be made in this sub-division which shall conflict with the Constitution of the

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United States or any law thereof; or with the Constitution of the State of Pennsylvania or any law thereof. ARTICLE 10th. In order to preserve uniformity, no alteration or amendment shall be made to this Constitution, unless passed by the votes of two thirds of the members present at a subsequent meeting from the one at which they shall have been presented, and ratified by the votes of two-thirds of the delegates at the Division of which this subdivision is a part, and, when so ratified, shall be an amendment for all and each of the sub-divisions of the Divisions of which this sub-division is a part. Source: Evidence item ‘‘B’’ submitted in the case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607.

Figure A.25 The 18th and 19th Provost Marshal Districts in Pennsylvania

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Figure A.26 James V. Bomford, Acting Assistant Provost Marshal, Pennsylvania

Source: Massachusetts MOLLUS Collection, U.S. Army Military History Institute.

Appendix: Supplemental Figures Figure A.27 Richard I. Dodge

Source: Author’s Collection

173

174 Figure A.28 Frederick A. H. Gaebel

Source: Author’s Collection

Appendix: Supplemental Figures

Appendix: Supplemental Figures Figure A.29 The Fishing Creek Expedition, Columbia County

175

176 Figure A.30 The Clearfield Expedition

Appendix: Supplemental Figures

Table A.1 Most Valuable Manufactures in Pennsylvania, 1860 Number of hands Manufactures

Capital invested

Cost of raw material

2,279

13,517,820

26,228,802

3,696

87

10,974,013

8,862,947

10,177

999

7,805,791

8,948,573

3,964

Cotton goods

156

8,475,240

6,722,659

Clothing—men’s and boys’

672

5,256,201

6,230,568

Coal, anthracite

176

13,880,250

Flour and meal Iron, bar, sheet, railroad, &c. Leather

Number of establishments

Male

Female

Annual cost of labor

Annual value of products

1

1,082,532

29,925,573

0

3,283,536

15,122,842

7

1,110,672

13,246,951

5,974

8,033

2,599,284

12,495,381

7,828

10,090

3,012,522

12,305,541

1,637,898

25,126

0

5,503,124

11,869,574

125

12,723,644

7,014,037

7,593

4

2,107,500

11,262,974

Lumber, sawed

3,030

10,903,064

5,110,079

9,123

40

2,407,139

10,743,752

Boots and shoes

2,181

3,038,176

3,302,327

10,987

2,402

3,394,296

8,474,127

270

4,339,310

4,427,138

3,738

2,350

1,410,324

8,191,675

Iron, pig

Woolen goods

Source: Table A.1 is derived from data in Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Manufactures of the United States in 1860, 538–544.

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Table A.2 Occupations of Pennsylvania Three-month Soldiers Union soldiers, 10% sample of

U.S. Sanitary

Union soldiers,

Pennsylvania

Commission

Bell Wiley

All males,

3-month soldiers

sample

sample

1860 Census

Occupational category

(%)

(%)

(%)

(%)

Farmers & farm workers

7.3

47.5

47.8

42.9

Skilled workers

59.9

25.1

25.2

24.9

Unskilled workers

20.1

15.9

15.1

16.7

White-collar & commercial

7.1

5.1

7.8

10.0

Professional

2.0

3.2

2.9

3.5

Miscellaneous & unknown

3.6

3.2

1.2

2.0

Note: For this sample, I entered the occupational data of 2,063 three-month volunteers into a database. The total number of three-month volunteers from Pennsylvania was 20,979 making the sample nearly 10 percent. The selection process looked at companies from throughout the state, representing both urban and rural areas. It included all the companies from Clearfield and Jefferson Counties. The selection process was influenced by the extant of regimental documentation. Not every three-month regiment had the necessary paperwork on file to easily determine occupations, and those regiments missing files were excluded. The regiments and companies selected include: 2A, 2B, 2C, 2D, 2E, 2F, 2G, 2H, 2I, 2K, 8I, 8K, 10A, 10B, 10F, 10G, 14A, 14B, 14C, 14D, 14E, 14F, 14G, 14H, 14I, 14K. Source: The occupations of three-month soldiers appear on the Alphabetical Rolls for the various regiments. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-19, Records of the Department of Military and Veterans’ Affairs, Office of the Adjutant General, Civil War Muster Rolls and Related Records, 1861–1866, carton 1. The comparison columns for Sanitary Commission Sample, Bell Wiley Sample, and 1860 Census appear in James M. McPherson, Ordeal by Fire: The Civil War and Reconstruction (New York: Knopf, 1982; 3d ed., New York: McGraw-Hill, 2001), 387. The guidelines for occupational categories are adapted from Theodore Hershberg and Robert Dockhorn, ‘‘Occupational Classification,’’ Historical Methods Newsletter 9, nos. 2 & 3 (March/June 1976): 59–98.

Notes

Introduction 1. While Ella Lonn’s Desertion During the Civil War hints at the civilian violence in communities, that theme is more prominent in recent works on the subject. For more on this subject, see Martin Crawford, Ashe County’s Civil War: Community and Society in the Appalachian South (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2001); John C. Inscoe and Gordon B. McKinney, The Heart of Confederate Appalachia: Western North Carolina in the Civil War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Kenneth W. Noe and Shannon H. Wilson, eds., The Civil War in Appalachia: Collected Essays (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1997). 2. These comparative statements are based on research of civilian conflict in the South. Levels of violence were elevated in the border areas of the South where repeated contact with opposing armies increased the threat to homes and families. Perhaps the bloodiest civilian violence occurred in Missouri. For more details, read Michael Fellman, Inside War: The Guerrilla Conflict in Missouri during the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989). Violence was also common in the Appalachian highlands, where Unionists and Confederates lived in tension. See Daniel Sutherland, ed., Guerrillas, Unionists, and Violence on the Confederate Home Front (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 1999); and Noel C. Fisher, War at Every Door: Partisan Politics and Guerrilla Violence in East Tennessee, 1860–1869 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997). 3. For a captivating and compelling examination of the myths of World War II, read Michael C. C. Adams, The Best War Ever: America and World War II (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993). Adams reveals the distorting affect of that conflict on the American national memory. 4. In many ways, the campaign against the ‘‘subversion’’ and treason of Peace Democrats echoed earlier rhetoric castigating Masons, Catholics, and Mormons. David B. Davis outlined the common themes of these counter-subversives, who argued that their opponents were anti-democratic and un-American. One striking similarity was the charge that leaders of these subversive groups essentially duped rank-and-file members with a corrupt and blinding ideology, endangering the nation for personal gain. David Brion Davis, ‘‘Some Themes of Counter-Subversion: An Analysis of Anti-Masonic, Anti-Catholic, and Anti-Mormon Literature,’’ The Mississippi Valley Historical Review 47, no. 2. (Sept., 1960): 205–224. 5. Jean H. Baker, review of A Respectable Minority: The Democratic Party in the Civil War Era, 1860–1868, by Joel H. Silbey, The Journal of Southern History 44, no. 3. (August 1978): 469. 6. Thomas J. Pressly outlined the continued relevance of ‘‘bloody shirt’’ rhetoric in his important historiographical summary of the Civil War. While many contemporaries, and historians since, may have recognized Republican speeches as exaggerations for political effect, Pressly encouraged readers to look past their own cynical reading to recognize ‘‘the one current in the popular sentiment which was strong enough to be effectively exploited in the 1870’s and 1880’s.’’ Thomas J. Pressly, Americans Interpret Their Civil War (New York: Collier Books, 1962; original edition, 1954), 70–71.

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Notes to Pages 5–7

7. James Ford Rhodes represented the lightning rod of the ‘‘Nationalist’’ school and wrote one of the first epic histories of the war that claimed to be unbiased. Rhodes recognized the benefit of an opposition party during war to curb wasteful spending and preserve civil liberties. He clearly asserted, however, that Peace Democrats had a civic duty to support war efforts ‘‘when the Ship of State is in distress.’’ In his judgment, the Democrats crossed a moral line by opposing the conscription laws in 1863, unmasking a partisanship that imperiled the war effort and the country. James Ford Rhodes, History of the Civil War, 1861–1865 (1917; reprint, with an introduction by E. B. Long, New York: Frederick Ungar, 1961), 350–355. 8. Pressly’s historiography outlines the impact of World War I on scholarly interpretations of the war. His concern, however, was with the causes of the war and only marginally with the war itself. Pressly, Americans Interpret Their Civil War, 291–293, 305–306. 9. Gray’s work on Peace Democrats grew from his dissertation under the direction of Avery Craven. One wonders how the revisionist Craven responded to or shaped the interpretation of Gray’s scathing critique of wartime dissent. Milton was a former journalist, turned historian whose flawed work exhibits a haste to take advantage of American interest in subversive dissent. For a revealing discussion of these works and their context, see ‘‘Copperheads in the Upper Midwest during the Civil War: Traitors, Politicians, or Dissenters?’’ in Frank L. Klement, Lincoln’s Critics: The Copperheads of the North (Shippensburg, PA: White Mane Books, 1999), 3–5. 10. In condemning Copperhead leaders, Gray asserted ‘‘many of them were willing to sacrifice the Union rather than permit the carrying out of a policy that had been adopted against their wishes.’’ He considered them a type ‘‘dangerous in a democracy’’ and warned Americans to be on guard. ‘‘Narrow, clinging to prejudice as though it were principle, capable of plausible but twisted logic, they necessitate a constant vigilance in any period that they may be identified and combated.’’ Wood Gray, The Hidden Civil War: The Story of the Copperheads (New York: Viking, 1942), 224. 11. In assessing Klement’s contributions to scholarship, Mark E. Neely, Jr., summarized: ‘‘The shrewd and painstaking work of historian Frank L. Klement over the last thirty years has proved, beyond any reasonable doubt, that no systematic, organized disloyal opposition to the war existed in the North.’’ Mark E. Neely, Jr., The Fate of Liberty: Abraham Lincoln and Civil Liberties (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), xii. Klement’s main contentions and summary of the Republican credo are repeated throughout his works but examples may be found in Frank L. Klement, The Copperheads in the Middle West (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1860), vii–viii; Klement, ‘‘Civil War Politics, Nationalism, and Postwar Myths,’’ in Lincoln’s Critics, 156–158. 12. Frank L. Klement, review of A Respectable Minority: The Democratic Party in the Civil War Era, 1860–1868, by Joel H. Silbey, The Journal of American History 65, no. 3. (December 1978): 785–786. See also Jean H. Baker, review of A Respectable Minority, 469–470. 13. Samuel S. Cox, Eight Years in Congress, from 1857–1865 (New York: D. Appleton, 1865), 156. 14. Sidney Kaplan, ‘‘The Miscegenation Issue in the Election of 1864,’’ The Journal of Negro History 34, no. 3 (July 1949): 274–343. Writing in the 1930s, W. H. Hutter and Ray H. Abrams acknowledged the lack of inquiry into racial issues of the Civil War but plainly summarized the Copperheads, ‘‘Their hostility toward the Lincoln administration was in part political, but was also due to a dislike of abolition and the ‘sooty Ethiopians.’ ’’ W. H. Hutter and Ray H. Abrams, ‘‘Copperhead Newspapers and the Negro,’’ The Journal of Negro History 20, no. 2 (April 1935): 131–152. 15. Baker titled this chapter ‘‘The Negro Issue: Popular Culture, Racial Attitudes, and Democratic Policy.’’ Jean H. Baker, Affairs of Party: The Political Culture of Northern

Notes to Pages 7–10

181

Democrats in the Mid-Nineteenth Century (1983; reprint, New York: Fordham University Press, 1998), 212–258. 16. James M. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Era of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). 17. Weber denies that they were ‘‘traitors’’ but only inasmuch as they were not genuine Confederate sympathizers. Jennifer Weber, Copperheads: The Rise and Fall of Lincoln’s Opponents in the North (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 6. After publication of her work, a number of conservative blogs drew parallels between Lincoln and President George W. Bush’s travails in Iraq. They referred to modern-day war opponents as naysayers and ‘‘neo-copperheads.’’ In an interview with the publisher, Weber admitted that she was struck by the events of September 11 which occurred as she was researching the book. ‘‘I’d spend the day reading material from the early 1860s, and then I’d go home at night and hear about the exact same issues and concerns on the news.’’ Weber criticized Klement for bias, stating ‘‘Klement was an unabashed admirer of the conservatives, but in my view, they came off in his work as a bunch of cranks.’’ Her own work swings the pendulum of bias in the opposite direction. 18. During the war, desertion was not only defined as fleeing the army without intent of returning but also included the crime of evading service upon legally constituted conscription. Fry’s comments were not meant to be a generalization of the war’s political opponents nor of men who were not drafted yet refused to serve in the military. James B. Fry to Edwin M. Stanton, 17 March 1866, in U. S. War Department, The War of the Rebellion: A Compendium of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies (Washington, D. C.: GPO, 1880–1901), ser. 3, vol. 5: 668. 19. Grace Palladino’s work Another Civil War is an example of this class-based approach. Her excellent study situates resistance among Irish coal miners in a context of an ongoing labor dispute and the perception among miners that federal force represented the interests of mine owners. In her introduction, she concurs that widespread resistance was common in ‘‘most northern communities that housed a largely foreignborn.’’ Despite this assertion, Palladino admitted that acts of violent opposition were more typical of ‘‘agricultural, not mining, districts.’’ Most historians who cite Palladino are unthinkingly reinforcing the stereotype that Irish coal miners were a predominant source of opposition in Pennsylvania. Another Civil War: Labor, Capital, and the State in the Anthracite Regions of Pennsylvania, 1840–68 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990), 5. 20. Iver Bernstein, The New York City Draft Riots: Their Significance for American Society and Politics in the Age of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 114–124. 21. Daniel T. Rodgers explored the influential history of republicanism as a concept and its wide adaptation by historians since the 1980s. ‘‘Republicanism: the Career of a Concept,’’ Journal of American History 79, no. 1 (June 1992): 11–38. 22. Quote by John M. Chase in John B. Rumberger, ‘‘The ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters,’ ’’ Lock Haven Express, 17 June 1915. Rumberger’s article is essentially a piece of local history based on original documents and newspaper articles. 23. This point is overwhelmingly affirmed in Richard Franklin Bensel’s Yankee Leviathan: The Origins of Central State Authority in America, 1859–1877 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990). Bensel argued that the Civil War was a defining moment in the history of the American state, defeating the South and its conception of the weak antebellum state. It is important to note, however, that Bensel does not depict the evolution of central state authority as a progressive linear phenomena. In a touch of irony, he explored how the Confederate state enacted stricter controls of its citizens in the defense of the infant southern nation.

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Notes to Pages 10–16

24. That Republicans and Democrats shared different ideologies and assumptions is aptly illustrated in two important monographs. Eric Foner, Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Men: The Ideology of the Republican Party before the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995) and Jean H. Baker, Affairs of Party: The Political Culture of Northern Democrats in the Mid-Nineteenth Century (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983; revised edition, New York: Fordham University Press, 1998). 25. ‘‘ ‘Administration’ vs. ‘Government,’ ’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 September 1861. 26. John S. McKiernan to H. S. Campbell, 10 November 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, 19th District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 27. Benedict Anderson’s descriptive concept of the nation as an ‘‘imagined community’’ is one of the most enduring themes of nationalism research. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (New York: Verso, 1983; rev. ed., 1991). 28. ‘‘Excitement in Johnstown,’’ Indiana Democrat, 5 June 1862; quoted in Stanton Ling Davis, ‘‘Pennsylvania Politics, 1860–1863’’ (Ph.D. diss., Western Reserve University, 1935), 246–247. 29. Joseph F. Quay to Andrew G. Curtin, September 2, 1864, Pennsylvania State Archives, Slifer-Dill Papers, microfilm. This quote illustrates that contemporaries acknowledged the region as a distinct place and not an arbitrary grouping of counties for historical study. 30. Ella Lonn, Desertion during the Civil War (Gloucester, Mass.: American Historical Society, 1928; reprint, with an introduction by William Blair, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 205. 31. Abraham Lincoln, ‘‘Memorandum Concerning His Probable Failure of Re-election,’’ August 23, 1864, in Roy P. Basler, ed., The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, 9 vols. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1953–55), VII, 514. 32. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525. 1. The Lumber Region as Pennsylvania’s Appalachia 1. Franz Von Loher (1818–1892) was a Bavarian lawyer, historian, professor and archivist who authored over forty books, primarily travel narratives. In 1846 he traveled to North America for an extensive tour in Canada and the United States. His journey took him through western Pennsylvania, where he passed through the Allegheny Mountains on the way to Pittsburgh. Von Loher’s narrative depicts the progress of civilization as a battle between man and nature. In Pittsburgh he marveled at the city’s industries and remarked, ‘‘here Nature is like a frightful giant, tamed and instructed to serve, politely and on order, a clever mankind.’’ In the wilderness he saw the relationship inverted. Nature, it would seem, had ‘‘tamed and instructed to serve’’ the inhabitants of the forest creating a people with ‘‘a silent and rough manner, a definite severity and bluntness of character, concerned only with necessity and the immediately practical, and wanting nothing else.’’ For a translation of the chapters on Western Pennsylvania, consult Frederic Trautmann, trans., ‘‘Western Pennsylvania Through a German’s Eyes: The Travels of Franz Von Loher, 1846,’’ Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 65, no. 3 (July 1982): 221–228. 2. Peter Jackson affirmed this approach in his text on cultural geography. He emphasized the concept of ‘‘cultural politics’’ as a domain ‘‘where meanings are negotiated and the relations of dominance and subordination are defined and contested.’’ Peter Jackson, Maps of Meaning: An Introduction to Cultural Geography (Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 1–2. 3. Entrepreneurs completed the first successful oil well in 1859 in Titusville, Venango County. The success of the Drake Well triggered a wave of fortune-seekers willing

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to risk financial ruin in frenzied speculation. Seemingly overnight, the county was turned into a network of petroleum boomtowns with traumatic ecological consequences. While speculators eagerly probed surrounding counties for oil, Venango proved the only reliable source in Pennsylvania. Thousands hoped to strike it rich, but the vast majority of oil claims yielded only heartache. Young men who migrated to the region typically found themselves working under wretched labor conditions, processing and transporting oil to downstream markets. See Brian Black, Petrolia: The Landscape of America’s First Oil Boom (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). In the antebellum period, capitalists had not yet tapped the rich bituminous coal deposits that underlay much of the Appalachian highlands. Poor transportation limited the number of mines in the region to a few peripheral sites. In terms of workforce and coal production, the mines in Clearfield and Tioga County were small affairs compared to the largescale works in the anthracite coal region farther east. 4. ‘‘Colonel Thomas L. Kane,’’ McKean Democrat, 20 June 1861. 5. Robert D. Ilisevich, ‘‘Early Land Barons in French Creek Valley,’’ Pennsylvania History 48, no. 4 (October 1981): 302–304. Ilisevich discussed this concentration of landed wealth in the context of Crawford County, on the western edge of the lumber region, but the pattern holds true for early settlement farther east as well. Ilisevich also argued that the disparities of wealth created class tensions and bitterness toward the wealthy, damaging lower class vision of yeoman republicanism. Ilisevich did not explore the ways in which community bonds and the paternalism of elites may have eased class tensions somewhat. 6. At the time, census guidelines designated a population of 2,500 or more as ‘‘urban.’’ Williamsport, in Lycoming County, had an 1860 population of 5,664, while Lock Haven, in Clinton County, had 3,349 people. Figure A.2 reveals the non-urban nature of the lumber region. McKean and Potter Counties, at the center, did not have one town cluster greater than 500 people. 7. This data was taken from manuscript agricultural census records for Burnside Township, Clearfield County. Figure A.3 refers to geographic patterns of farm values in the township. There were 83 farms enumerated in 1850. For those who stayed in the township, the average farm value was $1,998. Those farmers that left had an average value of $1,551, nearly $450 less than those who stayed. The farms they sold also contained 20 acres less of improved land on average. Such figures imply, but can hardly prove, that there was a minimum sustainable farm size. The figures for Burnside Township suggest that between 50 and 60 acres of improved land marked a transition in sustainability. 8. Population statistics from the census indicate that 9.25 percent of the region was of foreign birth. Removing the figures for Philadelphia and Allegheny County, the state average was 9.59 percent. Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Population of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864), 438. 9. Figure A.4 divides the state into five principle landform areas. As noted, the lumber region was part of the Appalachian Plateau covering the western half of the State. After the 1860 census, land was severed from McKean, Potter, Elk, and Clinton Counties to form an eleventh county, named Cameron. Because the state legislature authorized its creation after the census, the county does not appear in maps depicting social or economic data derived from the census. 10. Geographers also refer to this region as the Allegheny Plateau. 11. This quote was taken from a letter written by John Peet in 1834, describing life after his arrival in Potter County around the year 1811. M. A. Leeson, History of the Counties of McKean, Elk, Cameron and Potter (Chicago: J. H. Beers, 1890), 994, 45.

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12. Victor L. Beebe, History of Potter County, Pennsylvania (Coudersport: Potter County Historical Society, 1934), 100–101. 13. Alice Wessman, A History of Elk County, Pennsylvania (Ridgway: Elk County Historical Society, 1982), 227–232. 14. Quoted in Paul W. Heimel, ‘‘Beloved, Beleaguered, and Belittled: Ole Bull’s New Norway,’’ Pennsylvania Heritage 19, no. 2 (spring 1993): 13. 15. Quoted in Heimel, ‘‘Beloved, Beleaguered, and Belittled,’’ 14. 16. Almost 170,000 people lived in the ten counties of the lumber region out of a state population of 2.9 million. The average population density of Pennsylvania in 1860 was 63.4 persons per square mile. Philadelphia contained a concentration of 4,039.5 people per square mile, skewing the true rural average. Removing Philadelphia from the sample lowers the state average to a more meaningful 51.2 persons per square mile. The lumber region, at 17.5 persons per square mile, was nearly three times less dense. Potter, McKean, Elk, and Forest were the sparsest counties, averaging 7.9 persons per square mile. Figure A.5 depicts the patterns of density. 17. See Figure A.6. The census was an imperfect snapshot of a population in motion. It was not unlike photography of the period in which moving subjects caused the image to blur. Seasonal patterns of labor undoubtedly changed the gender ratios of the individual counties depending on the time of census. Contemporary evidence suggests that laborers could travel great distances in search of work. 18. David J. Cuff, ed., The Atlas of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989), 5. 19. Agricultural statistics for the state were tallied from the Agricultural Census. For useful secondary research on agriculture in the mid-nineteenth century consult Paul W. Gates, The Farmer’s Age: Agriculture 1815–1860 (New York: Lewis Historical Publishing Co., 1926). A wealth of information specific to Pennsylvania can be found in Stevenson Whitcomb Fletcher, Pennsylvania Agriculture and Country Life, 1840–1940 (Harrisburg: Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, 1955). 20. Wayne D. Rasmussen argued that labor shortages and ‘‘accumulated technological knowledge’’ made the Civil War a period of major revolution in agriculture. Rasmussen measured the revolution in the adoption of advanced machinery and a subsequent stimulation of commercial agriculture. ‘‘The Civil War: A Catalyst of Agricultural Revolution,’’ Agricultural History 39, no. 4 (October 1965): 187–195. Eminent agricultural historian Paul Gates emphasized how expansion of railroads was critical for widening the market for implements. Farmer’s Age, 280. Since World War II, scholars have employed more econometric approaches to industrial and agricultural history, no doubt influenced by the role of national war economies in the narrative of the Second World War. Considerable debate remains over the economic impact of the war, particularly the growth of industrial capitalism, the long-term effect of wartime legislation, and shifting political and economic power from agricultural to industrial elites. Phillip Shaw Paludan summarized the state of this debate in ‘‘What Did the Winners Win? The Social and Economic History of the North During the Civil War,’’ in Writing the Civil War: The Quest to Understand, eds. James M. McPherson and William J. Cooper Jr. (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 174–200. Curiously absent in his narrative is any sustained discussion of the impact on the North’s agricultural economy. 21. Figure A.3 illustrates on a small scale how terrain affected the value of farms. 22. Climate statistics are drawn from recent statistical analysis, which admittedly presents a problem for interpreting the nineteenth century. For discussions of these present-day soil moisture, temperature and ‘‘climate regimes’’ of Pennsylvania consult William J. Waltman et al., Soil Climate Regimes of Pennsylvania (Penn State Agricultural Experiment Station Bulletin 873, April 1997), 16, 18–19.

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23. Rufus Barrett Stone, McKean: The Governor’s County (New York: Lewis Historical Publishing Co., 1926), 190. 24. See Figure A.9. 25. Figures A.10, A.11, and A.12 provide data on lumber manufacture in the state. Figure A.10 attests to the importance of lumbering in the region’s economy, while Figures A.11 and A.12 provide evidence of the levels of capital invested and lumber processed in the region. 26. David C. Smith, ‘‘The Logging Frontier,’’ Journal of Forest History 18, no. 4 (October 1974): 97. 27. Figure A.13 maps the penetration of these river systems into the mountains, suggesting their importance as economic and cultural conduits with other regions of the state. 28. E. P. Thompson considered this task-orientation to be a hallmark of a traditional society, before the time-discipline of industrialization that equated time with money. E. P. Thompson, Customs in Common (New York: New Press, 1993), 13, 358–359. 29. For a brief but useful overview of seasonal concerns, see Thomas L. Wall, Clearfield County, Pennsylvania: Present and Past (Clearfield, Pa.: Thomas L. Wall, 1925), 2–3. 30. Scholars have debated details of the transition from subsistence to market-oriented production and the values and goals these stages represent. Central in the early controversy was whether early agriculturalists embraced capitalist values or sought the independence of subsistence. More recent scholarly consensus emphasizes the workings of a dual economy combining personal exchanges with market transactions. Daniel Vickers described early American economic goals as a search for ‘‘competency.’’ For a more detailed discussion of the important concept of ‘‘competency’’ consult Daniel Vickers, ‘‘Competency and Competition: Economic Culture in early America,’’ William and Mary Quarterly ser. 3, vol. 47, no. 1 (January 1990): 3–29. For discussions of the dual economy and nineteenth century rural values, read Christopher Clark, The Roots of Rural Capitalism: Western Massachusetts, 1780–1860 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990); Allan Kulikoff, The Agrarian Origins of American Capitalism (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1992); James A. Henretta, ‘‘Families and Farms: Mentalite in Pre-Industrial America,’’ William and Mary Quarterly ser. 3, vol. 35, no. 1 (January 1978): 3–32; Michael Merrill, ‘‘Cash Is Good to Eat: Self-Sufficiency and Exchange in the Economy of the Rural United States,’’ Radical History Review 4 (September 1976): 42–71; Bettye Hobbs Pruitt, ‘‘Self-Sufficiency and the Agricultural Economy of EighteenthCentury Massachusetts,’’ William and Mary Quarterly ser. 3, vol. 41, no. 3 (July 1984): 333–364; and Sally McMurry, Transforming Rural Life: Dairying Families and Agricultural Change, 1820–1885 (Baltimore: John’s Hopkins University Press, 1995), 43–45. 31. ‘‘Caution,’’ Clearfield Republican, 16 December 1863. 32. ‘‘Caution,’’ Clearfield Republican, 7 January 1863. 33. Advertisement for A. J. Nourse, dealer in tinware, sheet iron stoves, and copper works, McKean Democrat, 13 June 1861. 34. Most of the newspapers of the region carried advertisements of this nature. Specific examples cited come from the following papers and issues: Brookville Republican, 11 February 1863 and 30 November 1861; Raftsman’s Journal, 17 September 1862 and 3 December 1862; Clearfield Republican, 2 March 1864 and 7 May 1862; McKean Democrat, 13 June 1861. 35. An excellent recent study of antebellum, pre-greenback currency and its pitfalls is Stephen Mihm, A Nation of Counterfeiters: Capitalists, Con Men, and the Making of the United States (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007). Mihm’s book describes the ease and commonality of counterfeiting in an era of diverse paper currency. 36. Untitled, Democratic Watchman, 29 January 1864. Some counterfeit notes were in fact photographic reproductions that proved difficult to detect when worn.

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37. An item appeared in the Democratic Watchman of Bellefonte, 7 November 1862, regarding currency printed by the Hoffer Brothers store. ‘‘Hoffer’s fractional checks are having a good circulation. A great many prefer them to Government shinplasters.’’ The term shinplasters was also used in regard to U.S. paper money issued in small denominations from 1862–1878. 38. ‘‘A Drowned Man Found,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 22 May 1861. 39. W. J. Rorabaugh, The Alcoholic Republic: An American Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979), 141–142. 40. Untitled, Raftsman’s Journal, 27 May 1857. Quoted in Thomas R. Cox, ed., ‘‘The Diary of William Langdon for 1855: A Pennsylvania Lumber Raftsman’s Year,’’ Journal of Forest History 26, no. 3 (July 1982): 135. 41. Joseph F. Quay to Andrew Gregg Curtin, 2 September 1864, Pennsylvania State Archives, Slifer-Dill Papers, microfilm. 42. U.S. War Department, The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1880–1901), ser. 3, vol. 4: 990. 43. Eli Bowen, The Pictorial Sketch-Book of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia: Willis P. Hazard, 1852), 162. 2. Patterns of Protest: The Raftsmen’s Rebellion of 1857 1. In his path-breaking synthesis on republicanism Robert Kelley asserted that ‘‘republicanism was the distinctive political consciousness of the entire Revolutionary generation.’’ Robert Kelley, ‘‘Ideology and Political Culture from Jefferson to Nixon,’’ American Historical Review, 82, no. 3 (June 1977): 536. 2. ‘‘Lumbermen’s Meeting,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 9 July 1856. 3. For an excellent discussion of the importance of republicanism, see: Daniel T. Rodgers, ‘‘Republicanism: The Career of a Concept,’’ Journal of American History 79, no. 1 (June 1992): 11–38. 4. Gordon Wood, The Creation of the American Republic, 1776–1787 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1969), viii. 5. Michael Holt considered this reflex of republicanism in sociological terms, where the parties ‘‘regarded each other as negative referents.’’ The two-party system thrived on conflict. Michael F. Holt, The Political Crisis of the 1850s (New York: W. W. Norton, 1978), 4–6, 35. 6. Rodgers used this term in his essay, deriving it in part from Steven Hahn, The Roots of Southern Populism: Yeomen Farmers and the Transformation of the Georgia Upcountry, 1850–1890 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983). For an excellent overview of labor republicanism, see Rodgers, ‘‘Republicanism,’’ 28–31. 7. Republicanism was a flexible concept that different groups applied in different ways. Wageworkers developed a unique rhetoric that scholars have termed ‘‘labor republicanism.’’ Labor historians looked closely at the language of wageworkers and discovered their repeated use of republican concepts. Campaigning for better pay and working conditions, workers spoke out against the dependence and corruptions of wage labor capitalism. Dependence on wages, they argued, threatened the foundations of the republic, namely virtue and justice. These principles vigorously influenced labor activists seeking economic equality. Excellent works in this genre include Sean Wilentz, Chants Democratic: New York City and the Rise of the American Working Class, 1788–1850 (New York, 1984); Stephen J. Ross, Workers on the Edge: Work, Leisure, and Politics in Industrializing Cincinnati, 1788–1890 (New York, 1985); and Leon Fink, Workingmen’s Democracy: The Knights of Labor and American Politics (Urbana, 1983).

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8. In the context of South Carolina, Lacy Ford asserted, ‘‘upcountrymen clung tenaciously to an inherited ‘country-republican’ ideology in which personal independence formed the very foundation of liberty.’’ Ford created the term ‘‘country-republicanism’’ to refer to yeomen ideals of independence and their corollary antipathy to dependence symbolized by wage labor. He differentiated the term from the racialized republicanism ‘‘which emphasized black slavery as the basis for white liberty’’ and freelabor ideology prominent in Eric Foner’s work on the Republican Party, Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Men: The Ideology of the Republican Party before the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). Lacy K. Ford, Jr., Origins of Southern Radicalism: The South Carolina Upcountry, 1800–1860 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 50, 52. 9. Stephanie McCurry described the importance of property rights, including those over family, and the producer ideology of republicanism. Stephanie McCurry, Masters of Small Worlds: Yeoman Households, Gender Relations, and the Political Culture of the Antebellum South Carolina Low Country (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 13– 15, 77–78. 10. Michael Williams explained the efforts of farming-lumbermen as crucial in a continental log transport system, using the major waterways as the primary conduits. For his discussion of ‘‘the continental log transport system,’’ see Americans and Their Forests: A Historical Geography (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 175–179. 11. There are a number of monographs and articles that discuss the symbiosis of early nineteenth century lumbering and farming. See Graeme Wynn, Timber Colony: A Historical Geography of Early Nineteenth Century New Brunswick (Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1981); Beatrice Craig, ‘‘Agriculture and the Lumberman’s Frontier in the Upper St. John Valley, 1800–70,’’ Journal of Forest History 32, no. 3 (July 1988): 125–137; Richard W. Judd, ‘‘Lumbering and the Farming Frontier in Aroostook County, Maine, 1840–1880,’’ Journal of Forest History 28, no. 2 (April 1984): 56–67; and Sally McMurry, ‘‘Evolution of a Landscape in the Adirondack Region, 1857–1894,’’ New York History 80, no. 2 (April 1999): 117–152. 12. Lincoln’s flatboat resembled early arks piloted along the Susquehanna and Delaware Rivers in Pennsylvania. By 1800, timber rafts were common on the rivers of the Keystone State. Farmers with access to water sometimes built crude flat-bottomed boats to transport and sell marketable crops downriver. If the fragile craft survived the voyage, they could sell the lumber of the boat as well. For Lincoln’s experiences on flatboats, consult David Herbert Donald, Lincoln (London: Jonathan Cape, 1995), 34–35. See also Williams, Americans and Their Forests, 98. Rafting timber to markets in a world context is much older. In Japan, for instance, there are colorful wood-block prints from the Tokugawa period (1600–1867) that depict lumbermen riding small rafts to the lumberyards. 13. See Figure A.14. Examples of bank notes illustrating rafts included a $5 Clearfield Bank note (c. 1862), a $1 Jersey Shore Bank note (1858), and a $10 Tioga County Bank note (no date). A number of other notes were decorated with depictions of men chopping and hauling trees, as well as other sylvan scenes. A good reference to these local bank notes is D. C. Wismer, Obsolete Banknotes of Pennsylvania (New York: Numismatic Publications, 1985) 8, 22, 91. The hanging wall map of Clearfield County published in 1866 by Pomeroy contains a marvelous vignette of a raft on the West Branch Map of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania (see Figure A.15). From actual Surveys & Official Records by D. G. Beers, Assisted by J. H. Goodhue and F. B. Roe. Published by A. Pomeroy, 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 1866. Engraved by Worley & Bracher. 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. Printed by Fred. Bourquin, 320 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 14. Mark Reinsberg, ‘‘Descent of the Raftsmen’s Guard: A Roll Call,’’ The Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 53, no. 1 (January 1970): 1–7; also the scintillatingly

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titled Richard E. Matthews, The 149th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry Unit in the Civil War (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Co, 1994), 1–2. 15. See Figure A.16, from J. H. Newton, surveyor, Caldwell’s Illustrated Historical Combination Atlas of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania (Condit, Ohio: J. A. Caldwell, 1878), 68. 16. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525. 17. In fact, an act passed March 29, 1824 declared that ‘‘cutting or causing to be cut, timber trees, knowing the same to be growing on lands of another, without latter’s consent, be declared a misdemeanor punishable by fine at the discretion of the court.’’ Civil Penalties could amount to double or triple the trees value. In 1840 another act was passed adding penalties to purchasers of timber known to be illegal. James Elliot Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry of America, vol. 2 (Chicago: The American Lumberman, 1907), 548. 18. James Mitchell, Lumbering and Rafting in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania, on the West Branch of the Susquehanna River (Clearfield: 1911), 41. 19. Thomas R. Cox, ed., ‘‘The Diary of William Langdon for 1855: A Pennsylvania Lumber Raftsman’s Year,’’ Journal of Forest History 26, no. 3 (July 1982): 133. 20. See clippings from The Mariettan in Raftsman’s Journal, 9 May 1855. 21. Clinton Republican, 12 April 1905. 22. Lumbermen built ‘‘spar’’ rafts by lashing together long unbroken pine trunks destined as spars and masts in the shipbuilding trade. Raftsmen also built and piloted ‘‘board’’ rafts, composed of rough planks produced at local water-powered mills. These board rafts were easier to construct but commanded lower prices. They did not fill orders in the more lucrative spar market and the journey down river weathered the boards considerably with sand and mud. River debris discolored the wood and damaged planing equipment, making the boards undesirable among furniture makers and owners of planing mills. Most of these boards were categorized as ‘‘barn boards,’’ suitable only for rough construction. Tonkin, My Partner, The River, 10. 23. Cox, ed., ‘‘Diary of William Langdon for 1855,’’ 133, 136. Calculating prices for timber rafts is difficult. There are few references to prices paid over time, and the evidence has an anecdotal quality at times. Defebaugh’s epic History of the Lumber Industry in America gives some basic ranges of value. Timber rafts, whether made of long spars, or composed of shorter lengths of timber (typically 40–60 feet in length), were sold by the cubic foot. The cost reflected the buyer’s assessment of how many board feet of lumber could be produced from a single stick, which of course depended on its dimensions not to say quality. Long spars were a specialty item that commanded better prices. Defebaugh indicates that the average timber half-raft contained anywhere from 3,500 to 5,000 cubic feet of wood. Before the Civil War, the price range fluctuated from roughly 5 to 12 cents per cubic foot. Langdon’s sale in 1855 did not include any notation of the dimensions of his raft, and thus it is speculative to estimate. His raft was composed of 20 spars, typically 80 to 100 feet long, suggesting he received close to 15 cents per cubic foot for the whole raft. As Thomas R. Cox noted in the annotations of Langdon’s diary, this was a low price for spars, reflecting a market that was glutted with unusually high volumes of timber. Cox, ‘‘Diary of William Langdon,’’ 133. During the Civil War, there was a demand by the War Department for white pine but Defebaugh asserts that prices remained on the low end of that pay scale, perhaps 5 to 6 cents per cubic foot. Evidence from newspaper sources suggests that while 1861 was a terrible year for selling timber, each year afterward saw prices that rose as high as 14 to 16 cents for white pine timber. See Raftsmans Journal, 24 April 1861; ibid., 16 April 1862; ibid., 23 March 1864; Clearfield Republican, 7 May 1862; ibid., 11 March 1863; ibid., 4 May 1864. Immediately after the war, prices rose to 28 to 29 cents per cubic foot, settling to 20 to 25 cents around 1873, and falling to 16 cents by 1878. Raft prices during the war, then, seem to have remained

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middling, and this does not account for inflation, either natural or war-induced. After the war, prices soared at a time when rafting traffic and readily available white pine were diminishing significantly. Thus a smaller full-raft, made entirely of white pine, fluctuated from $350 to a postwar high of $2,030. A larger full-raft might be valued from $500 to $2,900. Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry in America, vol. 2, 572, 615. 24. John C. French, ‘‘Clarion River Was Famous Rafting Stream of Keystone,’’ in Rafting Days in Pennsylvania, ed. J. Herbert Walker (Altoona, Pennsylvania: The TimesTribune Co, 1922), 60. On the upper reaches of the rivers, the more narrow twisting courses would only allow passage of half-rafts or ‘‘pups.’’ Further along, raftsmen would couple two half-rafts into a full raft. In the broadest sections of the river, two rafts were joined side-by-side into a ‘‘fleet.’’ John H. Chatham, ‘‘Susquehanna Rafting Surpassed Other Streams’’ in Rafting Days, ed. Walker, 30. 25. Historians of forestry in North America have charted the progress of woodland clearing, marking its centers over time. Lumbermen constituted the forefront of continental settlement, pushing back the boundaries of the old growth forests. Until the 1840s, the white pines of Maine were the primary source for American lumber. After workers stripped large areas of native timber, industrialists continued to shift their interests farther westward, drawing their labor force with them. New York State reigned in the 1850s, with Pennsylvania surpassing it the following decade. At the same time, lumbermen began to ravage the forests of the Great Lakes region, and by the 1890s, Michigan and Wisconsin were the nation’s primary timber source. At the turn of the century, the epicenter had shifted southward to the yellow pine forests of the Deep South, eclipsed again by the Douglas fir trees of the American northwest, nearing peak production in the 1920s. See Figure A.17. 26. The only manufactures that contributed more to the state economy were the extractive industries of coal and iron, the vital milling of flour, and the production of clothing, cotton goods, and leather. Sawmills were the most abundant manufacturing establishment in the state and sawn lumber accounted for nearly 4 percent of the annual value of Pennsylvania manufactures. In larger terms, the state held 15 percent of the nation’s sawmills producing eleven and a half percent of its timber wealth. These crude comparative figures would not satisfy economists because they only account for the capital invested and annual value of products. Table A.1 lists the ten most valuable manufacturing commodities in the state with information about raw materials and labor. The information comes from Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Manufactures of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1865), 538– 44, 738. 27. Tonkin, My Partner, 10. 28. Williams, Americans and Their Forests, 146. 29. Manuscript schedules of manufactures, Clearfield County, Pennsylvania, 1850 and 1860. In 1850, 96 water-powered sawmills had produced 22,150,000 feet of boards. In 1860, a combined 70 mills produced 21,060,000 feet of boards. The county’s 6 steam mills had produced 6,350,000 feet while the remaining 64 water mills produced 14,710,000 feet of boards. 30. This method differed sharply from rafting where farmers squared timbers by hand using broadaxes. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 349. 31. Thomas R. Cox considered the character of log drivers as a factor contributing to bad relations and wrote ‘‘Friction between raftsmen and log drivers developed almost at once.’’ His account of the tensions between the two groups in Pennsylvania is thorough. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 352. 32. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 350–351. Cox’s article is an excellent study of the shift from rafting to log driving and the resulting tensions. Some ambiguity exists

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about the origins of the Susquehanna boom project and the dates for the first boom and log drive. Cox asserts that a temporary boom was built in 1849, followed by a larger more permanent boom in operation by 1851. 33. This reaction parallels E. P. Thompson’s observation that English people of the working-class resisted the encroachment of capitalist transformations in a language emphasizing ‘‘custom.’’ E. P. Thompson, Customs in Common (New York: New Press, 1993), 6, 102. 34. Quote by John M. Chase in Rumberger, ‘‘The ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters.’ ’’ 35. Antebellum Americans were consumed by concerns for political and economic corruption. The classic text on this expands upon republicanisn and economic issues. Mark W. Summers, The Plundering Generation: Corruption and the Crisis of the Union, 1849–1861 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 167–172. 36. Legislative Journal, House of Representatives, 1852, 77–78. 37. The classic statement of anti-corporatism in Pennsylvania is Louis Hartz, Economic Policy and Democratic Thought, Pennsylvania, 1776–1860 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1948). The anti-corporate concern was illustrated in a number of issues, including the heated debates over the impact of the Pennsylvania Canal. In John Majewski’s study of Cumberland County, residents focused anti-corporate sentiment on railroad ventures, fearing the consequences of powerful transportation monopolies. Majewski’s work is a comparative study of antebellum economic development in Virginia and Pennsylvania. His citations provide excellent historiographical links to further discussion of republicanism and economic debates. John Majewski, A House Dividing: Economic Development in Pennsylvania and Virginia before the Civil War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 85–86, 107. Pauline Maier argued that many Americans in the antebellum period saw corporations as aristocratic and thus anti-republican. ‘‘The Revolutionary Origins of the American Corporation,’’ William and Mary Quarterly ser. 3, 50, no. 1 (January 1993): 66–69. 38. Most of this summary of legal transformation is derived from the work of historian Morton J. Horwitz, The Transformation of American Law, 1780–1860 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1977), 102, 101, 31, 71, 73. See also Jonathan Prude and Stephen Hahn, The Countryside in the Age of Capitalist Transformation: Essays in the Social History of Rural America (Chapel Hill; University of North Carolina Press, 1985). 39. ‘‘Lumbermen’s Meeting,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 27 August 1856. 40. Legislative Journal, House of Representatives, 1852, 142, 195, 224, 251, 335, 373, 396, 397, 419; other examples include: 1857, 304, 401, 751. 41. ‘‘Log-Floaters Take Notice,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 24 September 1856. 42. ‘‘Juggles and chips’’ were the portions of the tree chopped away in the squaring process. Critics argued that the amount of wood wasted in this process was considerable. ‘‘The Timber Business,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 March 1857. 43. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 354. 44. Legislative Journal, House of Representatives, 1857, 427, 478, 877, 1078. In 1857, examples of navigation improvement companies included the Little Clearfield Creek Navigation Company. 45. The judgment also involved specific legal interpretations of property rights and claims of priority usage. For more on this, consult Horwitz, The Transformation of American Law, 40–43. 46. ‘‘Susquehanna Rafting,’’ Daily Patriot, 9 April 1873. 47. Raftman’s Journal, 19 March 1856. 48. In a lengthy newspaper account of the raftsmen-logger war, John B. Rumberger had an amusing cultural gloss why tensions erupted into violence between the two groups. ‘‘Something in their free life in the open, something in their marvelous fitness

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of body, something in the untamed spirit that the great woods bred in them, led them to rejoice in a fight as a famished man glories in a meal.’’ ‘‘The ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters.’ ’’ 49. ‘‘Lumbermen’s Meeting,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 9 July 1856. 50. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 352–353. As it turns out, peeling the logs actually became a boon for the log drives. Logs with bark caused more friction and contributed to more frequent jamming. Peeled timber was also more resistant to fungi and insects as it sat in piles awaiting the spring floods. Tonkin, My Partner, 25–26. 51. Samuel A. King, ‘‘A Log Drive to Williamsport in 1868,’’ Pennsylvania History 29, no. 2 (April 1962): 155–56. Apparently, the cable was meant to slow up the drive and perhaps knock men into the water who were accompanying the drive aboard boats and rafts. The field manager, Hiram Woodward, cut the cable before it could sweep the shanty ‘‘with women and children inside’’ into the water. Although women were often employed in lumbering operations as cooks and washerwomen, the danger to women and children may have been embellishment. 52. ‘‘Lumbermen’s Meeting,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 9 July 1856. 53. ‘‘Log-Floaters Take Notice,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, appeared regularly throughout the Fall of 1856 after August 27. 54. ‘‘Log Floating,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 May 1857. Editor S. B. Row printed this warning in the May 6 issue directly above an item ‘‘Hostilities Commenced’’ giving details of the battle on May 1. Thomas Cox suggests that Row may have composed the article of warning before the outbreak of violence. Row’s wording that ‘‘they have determined to apply a corrective’’ seems to support that view. If written afterward, it is no longer prediction but admission of facts. Thomas R. Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods: Log Drivers, Raftsmen, and the Emergence of Modern Lumbering in Pennsylvania,’’ Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 104, no. 3 (July 1980): 358. 55. A man named Ensworth led the logging operation on Clearfield Creek. John B. Rumberger, ‘‘The ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters,’ ’’ Lock Haven Express, 17 June 1915. 56. Rumberger, ‘‘The ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters.’ ’’ Joseph Fiscus, a leader of the raftsmen, testified that the creek was 60 or 70 yards wide at that point. 57. An initial account published in the Raftsman’s Journal stated that the loggers outnumbered the ‘‘vigilance committee’’ of raftsmen at first. ‘‘Notwithstanding the disparity of numbers, the raftsmen attacked the floaters and for some time fought desperately, maintaining the unequal conflict until the arrival of reinforcements, when the floaters were driven from the field.’’ ‘‘Hostilities Commenced,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 May 1857. At the trial, loggers testified that the rafters fired without provocation and that there was no battle per se—only a group of armed men who chased them away from their work by shooting at them. When both groups met at the loggers’ camp, a man named George Miller recounted ‘‘We parleyed a while.’’ Again, there was no sign of a battle, much less one in which the rafters were outnumbered. No raftsmen were injured and it seems unlikely that the loggers had weapons other than axes or tools. The initial account also neglected to mention that both groups first met on opposite sides of the creek, which would have made hand-to-hand fighting impossible. ‘‘Proceedings of Court,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 26 August 1857. 58. On the charges of riot, the judge fined the two leading men $25 each and eight others $10 each plus court costs. The five men accused of nuisance received fines between $1 and $15. Litigants in another case of nuisance on the Sinnamahoning River against John Tyler and others settled out of court. ‘‘Proceedings of Court,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 26 August 1857. 59. For the best information on the raftsmen’s war see, Cox, ‘‘Transition in the Woods,’’ 345–364; Rumberger, ‘‘ ‘Loggers’ Against ‘Rafters’ ’’; and R. Dudley Tonkin, My Partner, the River: The White Pine Story on the Susquehanna (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1958), 23–27.

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60. ‘‘Susquehanna Rafting,’’ Daily Patriot, 9 April 1873. Figure A.18 maps the original boundaries of the white pine forests and their sad remnant in 1880. 61. Franklin B. Hough’s ‘‘Report on Forestry’’ was published in 1878. The excerpts about rafting were cited by Defebaugh in his history of lumbering. Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry of America, vol. 2, 572, 602–603. 62. ‘‘Susquehanna Rafting,’’ Daily Patriot, 9 April 1873. 63. Remarks of Harry White, 8 April 1863. Senate debate on ‘‘An Act for the erection of a boom in the Susquehanna River, at or near the borough of Jersey Shore, Lycoming County.’’ The Legislative Record (Harrisburg: Telegraph Job Office, 1863), 730. 64. Legislative Record, 1863, 729. 65. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525. 3. The Limits of Patriotism: Early Mobilization in the Mountains 1. ‘‘Patriotic Young Ladies,’’ Brookville Republican, 20 July 1862. 2. Untitled, Democratic Watchman, 25 July 1862. 3. Lewis Cass Aldrich, ed., History of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania (Syracuse, N.Y.: D. Mason, 1887), 105–6. 4. James M. McPherson, For Cause and Comrades: Why Men Fought in the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 8–9. Use of the French term rage militaire is taken from McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 17. 5. According to the State Adjutant General’s report of 1866, 344,408 soldiers were furnished by Pennsylvania over the course of the war. This figure is undoubtedly higher than the true number of enlisted men because it does not take into account reenlistment of three-month men into new three-year units. A convenient summary of enlistment statistics can be found in Richard A. Sauers, Advance the Colors! Pennsylvania Civil War Battleflags, vol. 1 (Harrisburg: Capitol Preservation Committee, 1987), 247. Census officials considered ‘‘military age’’ to be white males between the ages of 18 and 45. Although the number of men truly fit for military service would be a fraction of these figures, I cite them for reference purposes. Joseph C. G. Kennedy, comp., Population of the United States in 1860; Compiled from the Original Returns of the Eighth Census, Under the Direction of the Secretary of the Interior (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864), xvii. 6. Figure A.19 indicates levels of enlistment (in companies of all types) throughout the state. 7. What the actual imbalance was is difficult to judge. The practice of soldier voting is murky for lack of evidence. The total number of votes cast by soldiers was only a fraction of the total number of men in arms, leaving one to wonder about the discrepancy. Summaries of the 1861 Pennsylvania soldier vote appear in Tribune Almanac and Political Register for 1863 (New York: Tribune Co., 1863), 63. Under ‘‘Votes of Union Soldiers’’ the editors wrote: ‘‘The average proportion of Republican Unionists and Democrats, taking the States together, vary but slightly—the ratio of the whole is about four to one; and this is doubtless true of the entire force under arms.’’ The Pennsylvania soldier vote in 1861 was: 11,351 Republican; 3,173 Democrat. 8. Untitled, McKean Democrat, 2 May 1861. 9. ‘‘Departure of McKean County Troops,’’ McKean Democrat, 2 May 1861. 10. ‘‘For the Seat of War,’’ Clearfield Republican, 8 May 1861; untitled, Raftsman’s Journal, 1 May 1861. 11. ‘‘The Pennsylvania Troops,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 29 May 1861. 12. William J. Miller, The Training of an Army: Camp Curtin and the North’s Civil War (Shippensburg, Pa.: White Mane Publishing, 1990), 15–18. Miller’s work expands upon the poor conditions at Harrisburg in the early months of war. 13. ‘‘From Camp Curtin,’’ Clearfield Republican, 5 June 1861.

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14. Correspondence to Simon Cameron, the secretary of war, blamed the officers of the Second Regiment who ‘‘urged them on to riot.’’ The regiment consisted primarily of men from south-central Pennsylvania but also included a company of men from Bellefonte. Records do not indicate whether the near riot involved men from other commands, but there were at least a half-dozen other regiments waiting in Harrisburg to receive pay. James D. Cameron to Simon Cameron, 27 July 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 359. James D. Cameron, the son of the secretary of war, supervised the transportation of Union troops over the Northern Central Railroad. 15. Andrew G. Curtin to Simon Cameron, 27 July 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 358. See also Miller, Training of an Army, 45–49. 16. ‘‘Three Months Volunteers,’’ Crawford Democrat, 6 August 1861. James D. Cameron concurred on July 24 in a letter to his father, ‘‘Harrisburg is filled with returned volunteers, complaining bitterly that they are not paid. This they give as their chief reason for not reenlisting.’’ James D. Cameron to Simon Cameron, 24 July 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 348. 17. G. Blight Brown to Craig Biddle, 28 August 1861 in Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-19, Records of the Department of Military and Veterans’ Affairs, Office of the Adjutant General, General Correspondence, box 9 (hereafter PSA, AG, GC). 18. Joshua B. Howell to A. S. Russell, 10 September 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 9. 19. ‘‘The West Branch Greys,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 21 August 1861; J. K. Maxwell to E. M. Biddle, 24 July 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 8; C. L. Lamberton to Andrew G. Curtin, 4 May 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 6. 20. For examples of this genre see, Granville Fernald, The Story of the First Defenders: District of Columbia, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts (Washington, D.C.: Clarence E. Davis, 1892); James Wren, ‘‘The First Defenders. The Washington Artillery of Pottsville,’’ Philadelphia Weekly Press, 21 July 1886; W. F. Mackay, ‘‘The First Defenders,’’ Philadelphia Weekly Press, 28 April 1886. 21. Figure A.20 indicates the patterns of three-month enlistment throughout the state. 22. One author remarked, ‘‘The Northern Tier of Pennsylvania was populated by immigrants from New England and New York. North Potter County, the most populated section, was a New York settlement. The state boundary line merely defined a political division.’’ Richard E. Matthews, The 149th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry Unit in the Civil War (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland & Co, 1994), 9. Ruthanne Heriot, ‘‘Discord in Civil War Volunteer Units—An Incident Explained,’’ The Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 63, no. 4 (October 1980): 367–72 also documents cases of Pennsylvania soldiers traveling to New York State to enlist. 23. Figure A.21 indicates a broader origin among initial enlistments, after the wave of ‘‘First Defenders.’’ 24. Andrew G. Curtin to the Pennsylvania Assembly, 9 April 1861, George Edward Reed, ed., Pennsylvania Archives, ser. 4, vol. 8 (Harrisburg: State Printer, 1902), 364. 25. Edward G. Everett, ‘‘Pennsylvania Raises an Army, 1861,’’ The Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 39, no. 2 (summer 1956): 85, 92. 26. This thesis forms the basis of several influential works, notably James M. McPherson, For Cause and Comrades: Why Men Fought in the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Joseph Allan Frank, With Ballot and Bayonet: The Political Socialization of American Civil War Soldiers (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1998); and Reid Mitchell, Civil War Soldiers: Their Expectations and Their Experiences (New York: Viking, 1988). 27. The view that desertion can be viewed as politics has received some attention in articles and monographs. For one example in a southern context, see Katherine A. Giuffre, ‘‘First in Flight: Desertion as Politics in the North Carolina Confederate Army,’’ Social Science History 21, no. 2 (summer 1997): 245–263.

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28. For more on the tradition of electing officers, consult Bell Irvin Wiley, The Life of Billy Yank: The Common Soldier of the Union (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1952; reissued 1978), 24. 29. For comments on the influence of civic associations in the lives of soldiers, see Reid Mitchell, The Vacant Chair: The Northern Soldier Leaves Home (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 23; Mitchell also addresses soldiers’ lack of discipline in The Vacant Chair, 23–25 and also in his classic study Civil War Soldiers, 57–59. 30. David Donald, ‘‘Died of Democracy,’’ in David Donald, ed., Why the North Won the Civil War (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1960), 90. 31. Simon Cameron to Andrew G. Curtin, 22 May 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 227–228; J. F. Ovenshire to Andrew G. Curtin, 27 May 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 6. 32. Emphasis added. Ruthanne Heriot, ‘‘Discord in Civil War Volunteer Units,’’ 370. Heriot’s article documents the incident of these Pennsylvania soldiers deserting rendezvous camps in New York State because of negligent treatment. Twenty-seven men signed a letter to the Pittsburgh Post on 27 June 1861 stating their grievances. The point of officer elections is further illustrated in Mark H. Dunkelman, ‘‘ ‘A Just Right to Select Our Own Officers’: Reactions in a Union Regiment to Officers Commissioned from Outside Its Ranks,’’ Civil War History 44, no. 1 (March 1998): 24–34. Dunkelman evaluated the phenomenon in relation to the paternalism of officers rather than a heritage of democracy. 33. Mark Reinsberg, ‘‘Descent of the Raftsmen’s Guard: A Roll Call,’’ The Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 53, no. 1 (January 1970): 6. 34. ‘‘From Camp Curtin,’’ Clearfield Republican, 5 June 1861. 35. Andrew G. Curtin to Abraham Lincoln, 21 August 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 441. 36. Simon Cameron to Andrew G. Curtin, 7 September 1861, OR, ser. 3, vol. 1: 491– 492, 489. 37. J. R. Dunbar to E. M. Biddle, 1 May 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 6; J. R. Lynch to Craig Biddle, 27 August 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 9; Robert Thorne to Andrew G. Curtin, 3 September 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 9. 38. Martin Crawford observed this socioeconomic distinction between recruits from rural Virginia in 1861 and 1862. Ashe County’s Civil War: Community and Society in the Appalachian South (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 2001), 90–94. 39. ‘‘Letter from Camp Johnson,’’ Raftman’s Journal, 29 May 1861. The letter was dated 20 May 1861. A response to these charges was printed in the paper on June 5. The author, under the name ‘‘Guelich,’’ denied that soldier’s families were mistreated and praised the work of the local relief committee to supply all needy families with flour, molasses and meat, among other things. ‘‘Letter from Smith’s Mill,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 5 June 1861. 40. ‘‘To the Public,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 2 October 1861. 41. R. Chatham to Andrew G. Curtin, 26 August 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 9. 42. William A. Blair makes this point in his essay, ‘‘We Are Coming, Father Abraham-Eventually: The Problem of Northern Nationalism in the Pennsylvania Recruiting Drives of 1862,’’ in Joan E. Cashin, ed., The War Was You and Me: Civilians in the American Civil War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 183–208. 43. ‘‘Farmers Attention,’’ Brookville Republican, 24 April 1861. 44. Clearfield Republican, 14 August 1861. 45. As an example, Bingham Duncan described the dire economic consequences of secession on the iron industry of Lawrence County. Duncan referred to it as a serious depression resulting in significant out-migration in 1860–61. Unemployed industrial workers were prominent among early volunteers. Bingham Duncan, ‘‘New Castle in 1860–61: A Community Response to a War Crisis,’’ Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 24, no. 4 (December 1941): 251–260.

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46. A. B. Clark to Andrew G. Curtin, 4 June 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 7; Henry J. Rigden to Andrew Porter, 21 May 1861 in PSA, AG, GC, box 6. 47. Historian Phillip Shaw Paludan implied that residents of the city and countryside responded in the same way to war, asserting that ‘‘the rural North echoed the patriotic enthusiasm that resounded after Sumter.’’ Phillip Shaw Paludan, ‘‘A People’s Contest’’: The Union and Civil War, 1861–1865 (New York: Harper & Row, 1988), 156. 48. See Table A.2 for an explanation of sampling methods and categorization methods. 49. Puddlers were skilled iron workers who made wrought iron from molten ‘‘puddles.’’ See Figure A.22. It was not unusual that lumbermen appeared prominently in this sample of early enlistees. The occupation ‘‘lumberman’’ covered a spectrum of individuals including well-to-do lumber entrepreneurs, small land-owning farmers who engaged in rafting, and young unmarried men who did winter wage work in the forests. The majority of the lumbermen listed in muster rolls were the last category of young men. Newspapers along the major rivers reported the abysmal state of the lumber trade that spring. For men without family to consider, enlistment would have seemed an attractive option. 50. Michael C. C. Adams, Fighting for Defeat: Union Military Failure in the East, 1861–1865 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 39–40. 51. Archibald Stewart, Esquire, of Indiana County found a unique way to contribute money and stimulate improvement of the Pittsburgh home guards. He gave funds to purchase a six-pound Dahlgren cannon to be used as a prize in drill contests. The ‘‘Champion Gun’’ was awarded to the best drilled company (Pittsburgh Post, 28 May 1861). 52. ‘‘Two New Companies Organized,’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 May 1861. 53. Alfred A. DeBain to Simon Cameron, 17 April 1861, Library of Congress, Simon Cameron papers, microfilm roll 7. 54. The complete rosters of all Pennsylvania regiments appear in Samuel P. Bates, History of Pennsylvania Volunteers, 1861–5, 5 vols. (Harrisburg: B. Singerly, 1869–71). Company G, Forty-second Regiment was the only company raised solely in Elk County. County residents formed nearly half of Company E, 172d Regiment, and perhaps a third of Company F, Fifty-eighth Regiment. A few citizens from the county appear on the muster rolls of Company K, 111th Regiment and Company C, 211th Regiment. 55. As American historians have emphasized, the egalitarian model of white male citizenship did not initially apply to Native Americans, black people, or women. Even when citizenship was extended to black Americans, residents of the west coast were beginning a campaign that systematically excluded Chinese immigrants from the rights of citizenship. James M. McPherson summarized the distinctions between ethnic and civic nationalism in Is Blood Thicker Than Water? Crises of Nationalism in the Modern World (New York: Vintage Books, 1998), 30–37. McPherson overlooked the fact that national identity and ethnic identity are neither mutually exclusive nor inherently competitive. 56. Kenneth H. Wheeler described the importance of community sentiment supporting draft resistance in rural Ohio. ‘‘The Holmes County draft rebellion of 1863 . . . reflects an explicit ideology of localism that undergirded resistance to federal authority.’’ Kenneth H. Wheeler, ‘‘Local Autonomy and Civil War Draft Resistance: Holmes County, Ohio,’’ Civil War History 45, no. 2 (June 1999): 147. 57. In her Reflections on Political Identity, Anne Norton focused on the plight of ‘‘liminal’’ people within the nation. Though she referred specifically to ‘‘frontier’’ regions, her categorization fits well for residents of the Appalachian Mountains. She described that allegiance to the state is often weakest among those distant from the

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Notes to Pages 60–62

sources of political and economic power. In Norton’s essay, frontiersmen are the epitome of liminal Americans. She considered their individualism and contempt for authority a product of their distance ‘‘from institutions and relations that would integrate them firmly in structured economic, social, and political hierarchies.’’ The lumber region of Pennsylvania shared characteristics of frontier existence, but conforms to another category of social and economic liminality. Norton argued that a similar conflicting identity often occurs ‘‘among the inhabitants of regions poorly integrated into the political or economic structures of the nation.’’ This is largely because ‘‘their lack of a material infrastructure integrating them in structures of exchange with the rest of the nation reproduces itself in a less secure allegiance and a peculiar identity.’’ Under Norton’s theory, economic and social marginalization contributed to Democratic opposition. Anne Norton, Reflections on Political Identity (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988), 53, 57, 64, 67. 58. Historian Edward G. Longacre considered them to be symptoms of eroding enthusiasm, which ‘‘did not survive their three-month enlistment.’’ These letters never reached their recipients and lay unopened until 1939 when they were discovered among the George Cadwalader papers at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Edward Longacre published a small sampling of them under a ‘‘Notes and Documents’’ piece entitled ‘‘ ‘Come home soon and don’t delay’: Letters from the Home Front, July, 1861,’’ Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 100, no. 3 (July 1976): 395–406. In assessing their meaning, Longacre wrote, ‘‘they present a deeply disturbing picture of northern home front morale in dissolution at a period preceding the days when the hardships and discomforts of war were manifest on a national scale.’’ Longacre was no doubt trying to correct an historical oversight in which ‘‘little attention has been paid to a powerful psychological factor in their refusal to remain with the colors’’ (396–397). Cadwalader’s troops were primarily from Lancaster, Franklin and Dauphin Counties. 59. The 132d Pennsylvania was a nine-month regiment raised in August 1862 from the counties of Bradford, Columbia, Carbon, Montour, Luzerne and Wyoming. By the spring of 1863, it had already been engaged at Antietam and Fredericksburg. William H. French to Charles H. Howard, 6 February 1863, OR, ser. 1, vol. 25, pt. 2: 72–73. 4. The Rhetoric of Loyalty: Partisan Perspectives on Treason 1. ‘‘A Copperhead Smashed,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 May 1863. The item originally appeared in the Hollidaysburg Whig. 2. The waning of widespread public patriotism suggests a complexity that challenges the traditional linear narrative of the rise of antiwar sentiment. In most historical accounts, a naive war enthusiasm coupled with a Republican campaign against partisan politics stifled criticism of the war until 1862. In the context of Pennsylvania, Arnold Shankman argued that war opposition lay in a period of ‘‘slumber’’ throughout 1861. Arnold Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 1861–1865 (Rutherford, N.J.: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1980), 77. Melinda Lawson’s work on northern nationalism points to New York City and the Midwest as focal points of partisan conflict rising predominantly in early 1862. Melinda Lawson, Patriot Fires: Forging a New American Nationalism in the Civil War North (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2002), 71–76. In a chapter on the ‘‘doctrine of loyalty,’’ intellectual historian George Fredrickson argued that the first six months of 1863 marked the period of greatest crisis over the fate of the Union and the meaning of loyalty. George M. Fredrickson, The Inner Civil War: Northern Intellectuals and the Crisis of the Union (New York: Harper & Row, 1965), 130. 3. Edward Pessen admonished readers that the ‘‘North’’ and ‘‘South’’ were ‘‘of course, figures of speech that distort and oversimplify a complex reality, implying homogeneity in geographical sections that, in fact, were highly variegated. If, as Bennett

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H. Wall has written, ‘there never has been the ‘one’ South described by many historians,’’ neither has there been the one North.’’ Edward Pessen, ‘‘How Different from Each Other Were the Antebellum North and South?’’ The American Historical Review 85, no. 5 (December 1980): 1119. Phillip Shaw Paludan highlighted the multiplicity of northern experiences in his historiographical survey of the North during the Civil War. Phillip Shaw Paludan, ‘‘What did the Winners Win? The Social and Economic History of the North during the Civil War,’’ in James M. McPherson and William J. Cooper, Jr., eds., Writing the Civil War: The Quest to Understand (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1998), 186. 4. J. Matthew Gallman, The North Fights the Civil War: The Home Front (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1994), 186. 5. Adam I. P. Smith, ‘‘Beyond Politics: Patriotism and Partisanship on the Northern Home Front,’’ in Paul A. Cimbala and Randall M. Miller, eds., An Uncommon Time: The Civil War and the Northern Home Front (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 150. 6. Lawson and Smith both concur that the Republican Party waged a successful campaign of loyalty in 1864 to help secure the reelection of Lincoln. Smith attributes this to a skillful manipulation of antiparty tradition. Smith, ‘‘Beyond Politics,’’ 169. Lawson credits the violence of the New York City draft riots as helping to turn voters away from the Democratic message. Lawson, Patriot Fires, 94. 7. It was Ella Lonn who concluded, ‘‘So far as there was a deserter-country in the North, it was to be found in the mountainous region of western Pennsylvania.’’ Ella Lonn, Desertion during the Civil War (Gloucester, Mass.: American Historical Society, 1928; reprint, with an introduction by William Blair, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 205. 8. Arnold Shankman observed that by mid-war, ‘‘a number of voters apparently were convinced that, if not all Democrats were traitors, all traitors were Democrats.’’ Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 131. See also Joan E. Cashin, ‘‘Deserters, Civilians, and Draft Resistance in the North,’’ in Joan E. Cashin., ed., The War Was You and Me: Civilians in the American Civil War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 262–285. Taking research inspiration from Lonn’s pioneering work, Cashin inexplicably wrote that Lonn ‘‘denies that there was a ‘deserter-country’ in the Union as there was in the Confederacy.’’ Cashin argued to the contrary that, ‘‘in the broadest meaning of the phrase, all of the Northern states constituted ‘deserter-country’ ’’ (276). Setting aside the semantic disagreement, Cashin’s essay is a thought-provoking probe into the factors that nurtured draft-resistance across the North. The author emphasized preexisting cultural and community values—‘‘the products of de-centralized, small-town, rural society where the bonds of family and community were still powerful and beliefs in white supremacy were taken for granted.’’ These, she argued, were not the products of the Democrat Party or its rhetoric (263–264). Removing partisan forces from the equation led Cashin to generalize that ‘‘the war and the draft polarized the Northern civilian population’’ (274). I argue that war-opposition should not be detached from its political and partisan moorings. The party rhetoric and heightened political atmosphere intensified the divides between people in the North and accounts for much of the bitterness and violence that resulted. 9. Michael Holt asserted that nationwide ‘‘the central fault line or cleavage in the electorate separated men with different degrees of experience in and different attitudes toward the market economy and the cultural values it spawned.’’ Michael F. Holt, The Rise and Fall of the American Whig Party: Jacksonian Politics and the Onset of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 115. 10. As political historian Joel Silbey related, Democrats feared the economic and social consequences of a state sponsored market economy and held a ‘‘fervent anti-statism in domestic affairs.’’ Joel H. Silbey, ‘‘ ‘To One or Another of These Parties Every

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Man Belongs’: The American Political Experience from Andrew Jackson to the Civil War,’’ in Byron E. Shafer and Anthony J. Badger, eds., Contesting Democracy: Substance and Structure in American Political History, 1775–2000, (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2001), 70, 74. 11. Commenting on the Whigs of Pennsylvania, James Huston remarked, ‘‘Whigs welcomed and sought further market expansion, whereas the Democrats either feared or were ambivalent to commercialism and desired to maintain local economies and local control.’’ James L. Huston, ‘‘Economic Change and Political Realignment in Antebellum Pennsylvania,’’ The Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 113, no. 3 (July 1989): 369–370. 12. James Huston held that Democratic counties coincided with a low production of ‘‘commercial crops’’ and concluded that the Party’s economic base was ‘‘essentially non- or semi-commercial.’’ Such an economic-deterministic approach has its critics. Huston, ‘‘Economic Change and Political Realignment,’’ 369–370. 13. The history of the Pennsylvania oil fields has been told in a number of studies though generally disconnected from the war. The most recent and fascinating work on the region examines the economic, cultural, and ecological impact of the oil boom. A general lack of restraint led to rapacious exploitation of natural resources and fostered a period of social history that could be described generally as anarchic. Brian Black, Petrolia: The Landscape of America’s First Oil Boom (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). 14. Joel H. Silbey put it thusly, ‘‘The shocks that caused these changes centered around a series of ethnocultural, regional, and economic issues of particularly threatening quality.’’ He pointed toward a number of key concerns including an anti-foreign ‘‘backlash’’ resultant from the immigrant tide of the 1840s and 1850s. Additionally in the 1850s, antislavery groups were more successful in convincing voters that the Democratic Party was the tool of southern slave interests. A Respectable Minority: The Democratic Party in the Civil War Era, 1860–1868 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1977), 14–16. 15. Huston, ‘‘Economic Change and Political Realignment,’’ 372. 16. Marc Egnal, ‘‘The Beards Were Right: Parties in the North, 1840–1860,’’ Civil War History 47, no. 1 (March 2001): 44–45. 17. In Egnal’s words, ‘‘The rise of Greater New England had transformed the Northern Democrats from the non-commercial party of the North to the non–New England party of the North.’’ For the author’s discussion of ‘‘Yankee culture’’ and Republican regional identity, see Egnal, ‘‘The Beards were Right,’’ 40–45. 18. Huston’s research identified this pattern in Pennsylvania, underscoring the importance of the state as a borderland. ‘‘The farther one traveled north in Pennsylvania . . . the stronger the Republicans became.’’ Huston, ‘‘Economic Change and Political Realignment,’’ 379. 19. Adam I. P. Smith has written the most penetrating analysis of the ‘‘no party’’ movement in his recent study, No Party Now: Politics in the Civil War North (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). Smith argues convincingly that ‘‘this rush to abandon party politics was obviously prompted by the need to rally round the flag in wartime, but it drew very clearly on a long-standing antiparty discourse’’ (36). Though some supporters of the ‘‘no party’’ movement were motivated by patriotism, ‘‘the sine qua non of the Union movement was the assertion that continued partisan opposition by the Democrats was disloyalty’’ (42). 20. ‘‘What is Our Duty?’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 16 July 1862. 21. Mark Neely describes this tradition in more detail as well as the reaction of intellectuals. Mark E. Neely Jr., The Union Divided: Party Conflict in the Civil War North (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002), 8–12.

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22. ‘‘No Party,’’ McKean Democrat, 20 June 1861. The item originally appeared in the Luzerne Democrat. 23. ‘‘The ‘No-Party’ Party,’’ McKean Democrat, 28 September 1861. 24. ‘‘Union,’’ McKean Democrat, 28 September 1861. 25. ‘‘Party Before Country,’’ The Raftsman’s Journal, 25 June 1862. 26. As Mark Neely described, ‘‘The true dynamic of party opposition during wartime was not formulating alternative policies but waiting and watching and committing to as little as possible.’’ Neely, The Union Divided, 134. Arnold Shankman interpreted this variation as evidence of a party ‘‘stumbling about, unsure how to function as a loyal opposition.’’ Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 77. 27. Although this item was clipped from the Fredonia Advertiser of nearby New York State, it spoke to conditions in the lumber region. ‘‘Political Parties again in Motion,’’ McKean Democrat, 22 August 1861. 28. Walter Licht, ‘‘Civil Wars: 1850–1900,’’ in Pennsylvania: A History of the Commonwealth, eds. Randall M. Miller and William Pencak (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2002), 206–207. In his under-appreciated Ph.D. dissertation, Stanton Ling Davis referred to this shift as ‘‘a political upheaval of cataclysmic proportions.’’ ‘‘Pennsylvania Politics, 1860–1863’’ (Ph.D. diss., Western Reserve University, 1935), 36–38. 29. Leonard L. Richards discussed this peculiarity of party discipline in his work, The Slave Power: The Free North and Southern Domination, 1780–1860 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000), 168–169. 30. See Figure A.23. 31. ‘‘Democratic Representative Convention,’’ McKean County Democrat, 22 August 1861. 32. ‘‘A Rally for the Constitution and the Union,’’ McKean Democrat, 2 May 1861. 33. Ibid. 34. ‘‘Monster Meeting! Grand Outpouring of the Democracy. The Union—The Constitution and Enforcement of the Laws,’’ Clearfield Republican, 4 September 1861. 35. ‘‘To the Democrats of Clearfield County,’’ Clearfield Republican, 4 September 1861. 36. ‘‘The Meeting at Curwensville,’’ Clearfield Republican, 4 September 1861. 37. ‘‘Democratic County Convention,’’ McKean Democrat, 28 September 1861. 38. Untitled, McKean Democrat, 14 September 1861. 39. Untitled, McKean Democrat, 31 August 1861. 40. The meeting took place on September 4, 1861. ‘‘Union Meeting in Portland,’’ McKean Democrat, 28 September 1861. 41. ‘‘ ‘Administration’ vs. ‘Government,’ ’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 September 1861. 42. ‘‘Wasting More ‘Powder,’ ’’ Clearfield Republican, 28 August 1861. 43. ‘‘The Question Settled,’’ Clearfield Republican, 1 April 1863. 44. Referring to the slate of local elections in 1861, Arnold Shankman argued, ‘‘on the whole, the campaign did not stress the issue of loyalty to the government.’’ Shankman was wrong, however, in one respect. Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 78. 45. 1861 Pennsylvania election results were not detailed in Greeley’s Tribune Almanac. Voting totals appeared in some local newspapers. The district including McKean, Elk, Clearfield and Jefferson was summarized in the Clearfield Republican, 23 October 1861. 46. To be truthful, Assemblyman C. R. Earley (occasionally listed as Early) was not on the drafting committee of the St. Mary’s Resolutions. As the main speaker, however, he likely influenced their contents and certainly endorsed them at the time. ‘‘Democratic Representative Convention,’’ McKean Democrat, 22 August 1861.

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Notes to Pages 72–77

47. Part of this loss is attributable to men in the army who were not of voting age, perhaps 20–25 percent or more (400–500 men?). For 1860 voting strength consult Greeley’s Tribune Almanac and Political Register for 1861, 47. For the number of lumber region companies that served throughout the Civil War, I compiled a database from the Appendix of Richard A. Sauers, Advance the Colors! Pennsylvania Civil War Battle Flags, vol. 1 (Harrisburg: Capitol Preservation Committee, 1987), 248–303. Sauers lists dates of service and county of origin as it appeared on regimental records. 48. ‘‘Good for Forest,’’ Brookville Republican, 29 July 1863. 49. ‘‘Carrier’s Address to the Patrons of the Clearfield Republican, Clearfield Republican, 7 January 1863. 50. ‘‘Negroes to the Rescue!’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 February 1863. 51. Both Democratic and Republican newspapers claimed that these letters from soldiers were often solicited or wholly fraudulent to serve the purposes of the opposition. It is impossible to judge the truth and this evidence should be treated with care. ‘‘Letter to General Patton,’’ Clearfield Republican, 28 January 1863. 52. Jean H. Baker made this point in Affairs of Party: The Political Culture of Northern Democrats in the Mid-Nineteenth Century (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983; new edition, New York: Fordham University Press, 1998), 212–213. Leonard L. Richards credited racism with a small role in Democratic support for antebellum southern domination. Richards, The Slave Power, 116. 53. The Legislative Record, 1863 (Harrisburg, 1863), 216, 268, 298, 496, 642. 54. ‘‘Work for the Legislature,’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 January 1863. 55. The Legislative Record, 1863, 522. 56. An indispensable study of the northern draft is James W. Geary, We Need Men: The Union Draft in the Civil War (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1991), xiii– xvii; also consult Eugene C. Murdock, One Million Men: The Civil War Draft in the North (Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1971). The most comprehensive historiography of the northern draft is James W. Geary, ‘‘Civil War Conscription in the North: A Historiographical Review,’’ Civil War History 32, no. 3 (September 1986): 208–228. 57. November 1861 prices taken from Clearfield Republican, 27 November 1862; March 1863 prices taken from Democratic Watchman (Bellefonte), 27 March 1863; March 1865 prices taken from Clearfield Republican, 1 March 1865. Clearfield papers did not carry market updates at mid-war and the figures from nearby Bellefonte are an imperfect judge. The Clearfield market did not have access to railroads and commodities averaged 10–20 percent higher than the same goods in Bellefonte. Bellefonte prices in March 1863 had risen over 25 percent for wheat, roughly 50 percent for butter, eggs, and oats, and nearly 90 percent for corn. Clearfield prices were more likely closer to these figures at mid-war. 58. ‘‘Coffee, Sugar and Tea,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 16 October 1861. 59. The reader can only wonder how dreadful the original version tasted. Samples of this advertisement appeared in the Clearfield Republican in March 1863. 60. ‘‘Kerosene,’’ Democratic Watchman, 12 December 1862. 61. Untitled, Clearfield Republican, 30 December 1863; see also untitled, Clearfield Republican, 7 January 1863. ‘‘We observe that quite a number of newspapers throughout the country have been compelled to suspend publication on account of the rise in the price of paper.’’ 62. ‘‘Butter,’’ Clearfield Republican, 4 May 1864. 63. ‘‘Families of Poor Conscripts,’’ Clearfield Republican, 19 November 1862. 64. ‘‘Farmers Affected by the War,’’ Democratic Watchman, 30 October 1863. 65. Untitled, Clearfield Republican, 21 September 1864.

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66. James Elliott Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry of America, vol. 2 (Chicago: The American Lumberman, 1907), 580. 67. ‘‘The Lumber Business,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 24 April 1861. 68. ‘‘The Timber Business,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 5 March 1862. 69. The history of the lumber industry during the war is complex, and interpretations of wartime production levels vary. Defebaugh’s account argues that lumber production and raft sales in western Pennsylvania rose only slightly before peace in 1865. The statistics of lumber processed at Williamsport and exported from the Philadelphia market overseas indicate minor increases in 1864 and 1865 followed by more dramatic production in the late 1860s through peak output in the 1870s. Defebaugh, History of the Lumber Industry of America, vol. 2, 580, 586, 599. Thomas R. Cox et al. argued that on the whole, the northern lumber industry improved from 1863. Defebaugh’s work looked exhaustively at the nation by region, whereas Cox and his colleagues generalized about the entire North. Cox’s narrative also favors the perspective of the industrialist owners of sawmills rather than small producers, such as the raftsmen. This Well-Wooded Land: Americans and Their Forests from Colonial Times to the Present (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1985), 127–129. 70. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 10 February 1984. 71. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 28 September 1864. 72. Anonymous (‘‘One of the Million’’) to Abraham Lincoln, 22 June 1864, Abraham Lincoln Papers, page numbers 33924–33927. 73. Joseph F. Quay to Andrew G. Curtin, 2 September 1864, Pennsylvania State Archives, Slifer-Dill Papers [microfilm]. 74. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 2 December 1863. 75. The Legislative Record, 1863, 693–694. 76. The Legislative Record, 1863, 599. 77. ‘‘Lincoln Lumber,’’ Clearfield Republican, 6 May 1863. 78. ‘‘War Tax,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 May 1864. 79. ‘‘The Practical Contrast,’’ Clearfield Republican, 10 October 1864. 80. ‘‘Taxation! Taxation!’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 27 April 1864. 81. Adam I. P. Smith argued this in his essay ‘‘Beyond Politics,’’ 150. 82. As Mark Neely has pointed out, the devoted partisanship of newspapers makes them ‘‘useless as barometers of public opinion.’’ The several small-town papers throughout the mountains resembled the York Gazette, which he described as ‘‘elevated in journalistic stature only a little above a political party bulletin board.’’ Neely, The Union Divided, x, 47. 83. For an early example of this Democratic defense mechanism, see ‘‘Another Appeal to Mob Law,’’ Clearfield Republican, 26 June 1861. 84. ‘‘Worth Looking Into,’’ Clearfield Republican, 14 August 1861. 85. Apparently, the postmaster had returned the issues claiming they had not been picked up by their subscribers. ‘‘The Post Masters,’’ Democratic Watchman, 1 May 1862. 86. James B. Fry to James V. Bomford, 11 June 1863, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, entry 3138, box 34. 87. James V. Bomford to Major E. Mathews, July 4, 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, entry 3126, vol. 1. 88. ‘‘$300 Reward,’’ Democratic Watchman, 18 July 1862. 89. ‘‘Printing Office Destroyed,’’ Brookville Republican, 6 May 1863; ‘‘A Disloyal Newspaper Office Gutted,’’ Brookville Republican, 19 November 1862; ‘‘Another Outrage Upon Democratic Rights,’’ Democratic Watchman, 29 May 1863; untitled, Democratic

202

Notes to Pages 81–84

Watchman, 5 June 1863; untitled, Democratic Watchman, 31 July 1863; ‘‘Another Outrage,’’ Clearfield Republican, 27 April 1864. 90. ‘‘Copperheads—Origin of the Term—What It Means,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 March 1863. 91. For a recent, scholarly explanation of the origins of the term ‘‘copperhead’’ see Jennifer L. Weber, Copperheads: The Rise and Fall of Lincoln’s Opponents in the North (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 2–3. Weber draws primarily on Charles H. Coleman, ‘‘The Use of the Term ‘Copperhead’ During the Civil War,’’ Mississippi Valley Historical Review 25, no. 2 (Sep. 1938): 263–264. In addition, consult Paul S. Smith, ‘‘First Use of the Term ‘Copperhead,’ ’’ The American Historical Review 32, no. 4 (July 1927), 799–800. 92. S. B. Benson, Brookville to H. S. Campbell, 18 July 1863. NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 93. ‘‘Union League Badges’’ advertisements, Brookville Republican, 6 May 1863. 94. ‘‘A Loyal Man,’’ Brookville Republican, 27 May 1863. 95. For examples of this rhetoric, see ‘‘Union Leagues,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 March 1863. 96. The Union Leagues have been the topic of a number of essay length treatments, predominantly embedded in studies of Northern politics. These writings mainly focus upon the high-profile urban leagues of Philadelphia and New York. An examination of rural leagues is necessary. Frank L. Klement argued that they appeared with the ebbing of ‘‘a tidal wave of patriotism’’ as a measure to foster public patriotism. Klement, Dark Lanterns: Secret Political Societies, Conspiracies, and Treason Trials in the Civil War (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1984), 34. In her study of northern patriotism, Melinda Lawson concurred, emphasizing the crucial role of Republican Party leaders in shaping the Leagues. Lawson, Patriot Fires: Forging a New American Nationalism in the Civil War North (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2002), 88–89. Consult particularly her chapter entitled ‘‘ ‘A Profound National Devotion,’ The Metropolitan Union Leagues,’’ (98–128); Mark E. Neely, Jr., ‘‘A Secret Fund: The Union League, Patriotism, and the Boundaries of Social Class’’ in The Boundaries of American Political Culture in the Civil War Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005), 71–96; and Adam I. P. Smith, ‘‘The Union Leagues and the Emergence of Antiparty Nationalism’’ in No Party Now: Politics in the Civil War North (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 67–84. Smith addresses ‘‘the origins of the Union League movement as secret fraternities’’ (68). 97. ‘‘Union League,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 28 October 1861. 98. ‘‘Union Leagues,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 March 1863. 99. ‘‘The Reaction,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 18 March 1863. 100. ‘‘Union Leagues,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 25 March 1863. 101. The nineteenth century politics of fear is a common theme of political history of the period. In Michael Holt’s classic study The Political Crisis of the 1850s, he described the motive force of political parties ‘‘in sociological terms.’’ Leaders created voter loyalty by maligning opponents as anti-republican, fostering a ‘‘negative reference group behavior.’’ Michael F. Holt, The Political Crisis of the 1850s (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1978), 184. 102. The Joseph Holt Report was dated 8 October 1864, OR, ser. 2, vol. 7: 931–953. Frank Klement discusses it at length in, Klement, Dark Lanterns, 136–150. 103. ‘‘Dying Confession of a K. G. C.,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 13 May 1863. The item originally appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer. 104. ‘‘Keep It Before the People,’’ Brookville Republican, 10 June 1863.

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105. The Philadelphia papers helped circulate stories, widely clipped, of secret Democratic societies throughout the state. One such example described a secret meeting in Berks County of about one-hundred people. ‘‘Conspiracy in Pennsylvania,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 16 April 1863. See also ‘‘The Rebel Co-Workers in the North. K. G. C.,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 May 1863. 106. Historians do not agree on the truth or fiction behind the Knights of the Golden Circle. Frank Klement looked closely at the phenomenon and dismissed it largely as confidence schemes magnified by Republican propaganda. The ‘‘bogeyman’’ quote is his. Read especially Frank L. Klement, Dark Lanterns: Secret Political Societies, Conspiracies, and Treason Trials in the Civil War (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1984), 33. Jennifer Weber’s recent study of the ‘‘Copperheads’’ revives a Republican view of the war and disagrees with Klement. Weber argues that the threat of Democratic ‘‘secret societies’’ was very real because of the mass of diverse reports—‘‘the vast majority were legitimate reports that historians cannot dismiss.’’ Despite the assertion, Weber did not offer any fresh evidence to defend the view. Jennifer Weber, Copperheads, 25. In the case of the lumber region of Pennsylvania, the reports that Weber champions as ‘‘real’’ turned out to be predominantly exaggerated or incorrect. 107. Klement, Dark Lanterns, 8, 30. 108. Arnold Shankman’s study of Pennsylvania asserted, ‘‘Others blamed the Knights of the Golden Circle (K.G.C.) for the widespread hostility to the draft, but it is not likely that there were any K.G.C. lodges in the Keystone State.’’ Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 17, 94, 148. The quote appears on page 148. As James McPherson wrote, these Democratic secret societies ‘‘existed more in the fevered imaginations of Republicans than in fact.’’ James M. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 599. 109. ‘‘Democratic Clubs,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 February 1862. 110. ‘‘Union Leagues,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 March 1863. 111. ‘‘The People in Motion!’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 July 1863; ‘‘Club Meeting,’’ Clearfield Republican, 27 April 1864. 112. ‘‘Fourth of July Celebration,’’ Brookville Republican, 19 August 1863. 113. ‘‘Union Leagues,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 March 1863. 114. ‘‘The People in Motion!’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 July 1863. 115. ‘‘Is Justice Cheated? Or Is This a Despotism?’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 Mar 1865. 116. Testimony of William Phoenix; the case against Patrick Curly, Samuel Lownsberry, and Jacob Wilhelm; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. 117. Testimony taken from the case against Patrick Curly, Samuel Lownsberry, and Jacob Wilhelm; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. The case against Jacob Wilhelm received tremendous scrutiny, much at the insistence of state Republican leaders including Governor Curtin, who felt Wilhelm was made an unfortunate example. Fleming’s summary notes appear as one of the pieces of evidence gathered in a thorough review process by the Judge Advocate General’s office. It should be said that the opinion of the court differed from attorney Fleming as to the intent and meaning of the ‘‘Democratic Castle.’’ 118. ‘‘Public Meeting,’’ Clearfield Republican, 3 August 1864. 119. ‘‘The Meeting Next Saturday,’’ Clearfield Republican, 10 August 1864. 120. ‘‘Grand Rally of Freemen,’’ Clearfield Republican, 17 August 1864. 121. ‘‘The Monster Meeting,’’ Clearfield Republican, 17 August 1864. 122. Testimony taken from the case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607.

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Notes to Pages 88–90

123. Figure A.24 shows the full text of the Constitution. It was submitted as evidence item ‘‘B’’ in the case against Gainer P. Bloom, et al. 124. Testimony of Samuel Miles, president of the Brady Township subdivision, regarding statements made by the accused Gainer P. Bloom. The case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607. 125. As Gainer Bloom wrote: ‘‘This delegate [to the Clearfield town meeting, Frank McBride] was furnished with letters and figures to use in communicating with different members of the order so that only those for whom it was intended could read it should it fall in other hands. I could not understand them. Some numbers were to be placed on Republican Houses with some on Democratic Houses. This is what was to be placed on Democratic Houses 15–19Ⳮ34. . . . I don’t recollect what was placed on a Republican House.’’ Affidavit of Gainer P. Bloom, 4 January 1865. The case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607. 126. Summary report of Addison A. Hosmer, Bureau of Military Justice, to the War Department, 25 July 1865. The case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607. 127. Testimony of ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ member, Isaac Kerb. The case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607. Variations of ‘‘to stick together and help each other’’ were recorded in both cases e.g. testimony of Jacob Rinehart; case against Patrick Curly, Samuel Lownsberry, and Jacob Wilhelm; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. 128. ‘‘Letter from Karthaus Township,’’ Clearfield Republican, 28 December 1864. 129. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 10 August 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 607. 130. Lacking direct evidence on the subject of Republican organizations, this study makes no assertions about their truth or fiction. 131. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 3 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 132. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 11 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. The Democratic press depicted Benson as a vindictive tool of the Republicans. In a lengthy expose on his ‘‘political’’ arrest in connection to the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ J. Blake Walters argued it was in part ‘‘for the purpose of getting some evidence out of me against Gov. Bigler and Senator Wallace—for, when I was first confined at Harrisburg, I was frequently questioned concerning them, and told that it was they who had brought all this trouble upon us, and that now they stood aloof and let us suffer.’’ ‘‘Fifty-Four Days in Lincoln’s Bastiles,’’ Clearfield Republican, 29 March 1865. The fact that Bigler and Wallace went free defied Benson’s imagination. He had reported on December 14, ‘‘I presume Senator Wallace will be arrested tomorrow’’ but such was not the case. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 14 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, 19th District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. While Benson was made out to be unrestrained, he was quite the opposite. Later correspondence showed concern over evidence sufficient to bring about conviction. Benson also curbed the zeal of military expedition leaders, especially Frederick

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A. H. Gaebel, the expedition’s commander. Of him Benson wrote, ‘‘I have refused to give my consent to arrest any more citizens at present. If the man Gable [sic] had this authority he would arrest every man in Clearfield Co.’’ S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 11 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 133. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 11 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 134. Petition of ‘‘the undersigned, loyal citizens of Clearfield, Pennsylvania County’’ to Abraham Lincoln, 15 April 1865. Morrow B. Lowry to James B. Fry, 3 March 1865. Both found in the file of the case against Patrick Curly, Samuel Lownsberry, and Jacob Wilhelm; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. 135. Commenting on the trial of Gainor P. Bloom, the editor of the Clearfield Republican asserted, ‘‘It was the belief then, as it still is, that these arrests and examinations were made with the hope of eliciting such information as would warrant the arrest of Messrs. Bigler and Wallace.’’ Clearfield Republican, 15 Mar 1865. See also ‘‘The ‘Star Chamber’ Gone Up,’’ Clearfield Republican, 15 Mar 1865. 136. This is one of the few extant letters to be found anywhere between these critical figures during this period. William A. Wallace to William Bigler, 27 December 1864. William Bigler papers, Historical Society of Pennsylvania, box 11, folder 24. 137. Klement argued that Mid-western political leaders opposed Democratic secretsocieties which had formed as grass-roots responses to the draft and other military policies. Klement, The Copperheads of the Middle West, 161–162. 138. Given the scarcity of Bigler materials, this letter must be weighed with caution. Samuel S. Bigler, Harrisburg, to William Bigler, 30 August 1863. William Bigler papers, Historical Society of Pennsylvania, box 11, folder 22. 139. General Orders No. 36, HQ, Department of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 21 March 1865. RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348 140. H. S. Campbell to H. B. Swope, editor Clearfield Republican, February 10, 1865, published in the Clearfield Republican, 1 Mar 1865. 141. ‘‘Mutual protection societies’’ is a term that does appear in contemporary sources though not in materials related to the ‘‘Democratic Castle’’ (as observed by the author). Historians have used the term generally to characterize their intent. Klement, The Copperheads of the Middle West, 139, 161–163; Weber, Copperheads, 27, 128. For a contemporary use of the term in the specific context of the Midwest see Joseph Holt, Report of the Judge Advocate General on the ‘‘Order of American Knights,’’ or ‘‘Sons of Liberty’’ (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864), 3. 142. Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 145–149. 143. W. W. White to James V. Bomford, 8 August 1863, 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Eighteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3375, vol. 1. 144. Testimony of Jacob Rinehart from the case against Patrick Curly, Samuel Lownsberry, and Jacob Wilhelm; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. 145. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 28 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 146. The case against Gainer P. Bloom, George Rousher, Benjamin Boyer, Henry Yoas, and Charles Keller; RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1031, MM 1607.

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147. General Orders No. 36, HQ, Department of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 21 March 1865. RG 153: Records of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, Army; Court Martial Case files, box 1968, OO 348. The language of the specification was standardized and appears verbatim in other trials observed by the author for Pennsylvania. The same specification appeared in the Philip Bergeman case in the anthracite coal region. ‘‘The Mauch Chunk, Pa.. Rioters,’’ New York Times, 5 February 1864. See also the Columbia County cases. John G. Freeze, A History of Columbia County, Pennsylvania (Bloomsburg, PA: Elwell and Bittenbender), 442–483. The language is similar to the charge against Clement L. Vallandigham in the celebrated 1863 case. ‘‘Publicly expressing . . . and declaring disloyal sentiments and opinions, with the object and purpose of weakening the power of the Government in its efforts to suppress an unlawful rebellion.’’ The Trial of Hon. Clement L. Vallandigham by a Military Commission: and the Proceedings Under His Application for a Writ of Habeas Corpus in the Circuit Court of the United States for the Southern District of Ohio (Cincinnati: Rickey and Carroll, 1863), 11. 148. Arrests of civilians for ‘‘disloyal practices’’ was part of Abraham Lincoln’s suspension of the writ of habeas corpus nationally in September 1862. As Mark E. Neely, Jr., and others have pointed out, this action was meant pragmatically to help enforce the conscription laws that began first with the 1862 militia draft culminating in the 1863 enrollment act. Democratic critics charged dark motives that included stifling critiques of Emancipation or even attempts to affect elections. The War Department was responsible for communicating the directions for arrest but as Neely points out ‘‘proved incapable of controlling or coordinating so vast a system.’’ The net result was a mass of arrests ‘‘without any legal guidelines,’’ many of which proved distressing to the Lincoln administration. Neely, The Fate of Liberty, 52–54. 149. The role of the church in the debate over loyalty deserves extended treatment beyond the reach of this study. Religious studies of the north during the war are appearing without consensus on broad issues. An example of disagreement is whether the war fractured northern denominations. It is well known that sectional strains that created the war were accompanied by a split of many denominations into southern and northern wings with long-lasting consequences. An important but problematic work by Harry S. Stout argues that northern clergymen could have been divided by the war but ‘‘were virtually cheerleaders all.’’ While he acknowledged ‘‘rare critical voices,’’ Stout asserted that American nationalism dampened reflective moral arguments that might have opposed the war as unjust. The text of his lengthy tome emphasizes the broad consensus that supposedly cut across denominational lines. Harry S. Stout, Upon the Altar of the Nation: A Moral History of the Civil War (New York: Viking, 2006), xvi–xvii. In contrast, Mark A. Noll interprets not theological unity but contrast. He argues that northern clergy were deeply divided over the fundamental issue of the morality of slavery and that the Civil War could be read as a crisis over biblical interpretation. Mark A. Noll, The Civil War as a Theological Crisis (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006). For more on issues of religion in the era of the Civil War, read Robert Miller, Both Prayed to the Same God: Religion and Faith in the American Civil War (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2007) and Randall M. Miller, Harry S. Stout, and Charles R. Wilson, eds., Religion and the American Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). An exceedingly relevant essay on Midwestern churches and the debate over loyalty appears by Bryon C. Andreasen, ‘‘Civil War Church Trials: Repressing Dissent on the Northern Home Front,’’ in Paul A. Cimbala and Randall M. Miller, eds., An Uncommon Time: The Civil War and the Northern Home Front (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 214–242. 150. ‘‘Clarion and Conemaugh Presbyteries,’’ Brookville Republican, 1 July 1863. 151. The resolutions were adopted at the June meeting of the Clarion Presbytery in Brookville, June 16 & 17, 1863. ‘‘Clarion Presbytery,’’ Brookville Republican, 1 July 1863.

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152. ‘‘Infidelity and the War,’’ Democratic Watchman, 11 March 1864. 153. ‘‘Served Him Right,’’ Clearfield Republican, 31 August 1864. 154. ‘‘Disgraceful Conduct,’’ Brookville Republican, 6 May 1863. 155. Untitled, Raftsman’s Journal, 24 August 1864. 156. Untitled, Clearfield Republican, 20 May 1863. 157. In fairness, the man also concluded by saying, ‘‘but I must say the majority of the Democrats proved that they were not Copperheads by taking no notice of it.’’ ‘‘Death to Copperheads,’’ Clearfield Republican, 19 October 1863; Untitled, Clearfield Republican, 28 October 1863. 158. ‘‘Battle of Cows Run,’’ Clearfield Republican, 14 August 1861. 159. Untitled, Brookville Republican, 8 July 1863. 160. ‘‘Shameful,’’ Clearfield Republican, 23 September 1863. 5. Everyday Resistance in Pennsylvania’s Deserter Country 1. The regiment went by several designations: the Thirteenth Pennsylvania Reserves, the Forty-second Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers, and the First Pennsylvania Rifles. It was initially raised in the ‘‘wildcat district’’ of Forest, McKean, and Elk Counties predominantly of lumbermen. Company K of the regiment was recruited at Curwensville, Clearfield County in the summer of 1861. Samuel P. Bates, History of Pennsylvania Volunteers, 1861–5 vol. 1 (Harrisburg: B. Singerly, 1869), 907, 941. 2. John S. McKiernan to H. S. Campbell, 14 November 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 3. James B. Fry, final report of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, 17 March 1866, OR, ser. 3, vol. 5: 912. 4. This research project has been shaped by a number of eminent historians and social scientists who studied rural protest movements in other contexts. Two classic examples are by the historian E. P. Thompson, who explored the English peasantry of the eighteenth century, and political scientist James C. Scott, whose book researched contemporary peasant protest in Malaysia. E. P. Thompson, Customs in Common: Studies in Traditional Popular Culture (New York: The New Press, 1993). James C. Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). In Civil War studies, scholars have paid greater attention to resistance on the Confederate home front than on the North. Among the exceptions are Kenneth H. Wheeler, ‘‘Local Autonomy and Civil War Draft Resistance: Holmes County, Ohio,’’ Civil War History 45, no. 2 (June 1999): 147–159; Judith Lee Hallock, ‘‘The Role of the Community in Civil War Desertion,’’ Civil War History 29, no. 2 (June 1983): 123–134; Bob Sterling, ‘‘Discouragement, Weariness, and War Politics: Desertions from Illinois Regiments during the Civil War,’’ Illinois Historical Journal 82, no. 4 (winter 1989): 239– 262; William M. Anderson, ‘‘The Fulton County War at Home and in the Field,’’ Illinois Historical Journal 85, no. 1 (spring 1992): 23–36. More recent work has included two excellent essays: Joan E. Cashin, ‘‘Deserters, Civilians, and Draft Resistance in the North,’’ in The War Was You and Me: Civilians in the American Civil War, ed. Joan E. Cashin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 262–285; and Paul A. Cimbala, ‘‘Soldiering on the Home Front: The Veteran Reserve Corps and the Northern People,’’ in Union Soldiers and the Northern Home Front: Wartime Experiences, Postwar Adjustments, eds. Paul A. Cimbala and Randall M. Miller (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 182–218. 5. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 12 December 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 990. 6. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 15 December 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 793. 7. James B. Fry to E. M. Stanton, 17 March 1866, OR, ser. 3, vol. 5: 668. Ella Lonn concurred in her classic study of Civil War desertion. Lonn, Desertion During the Civil

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War (Gloucester, Mass.: American Historical Association, 1928; reprint, with an introduction by William Blair, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 138–139. 8. Grace Palladino, Another Civil War: Labor, Capital, and the State in the Anthracite Regions of Pennsylvania, 1840–68 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990), 5–14. 9. Iver Bernstein, The New York City Draft Riots: Their Significance for American Society and Politics in the Age of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 114–124. 10. W. W. White to James V. Bomford, 18 July 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, Eighteenth District, entry 3375, vol. 1. 11. U.S. Census, Population Schedules, 1860, Pennsylvania, Elk County, Borough of St. Mary’s. In 1860, the town had 190 men 18 years of age or older. 82.6 percent (157) of them came from Europe or Canada. Fully 65.3 percent (124) of them were born in Germany. 12. Waterford was the district headquarters, where prisoners were forwarded. S. B. McClain to H. S. Campbell, 16 August 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 13. A. A. Lyon to H. S. Campbell, 15 July 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 14. There are numerous examples of this pattern: Punxsutawney Borough sought separation from ‘‘Copperhead’’ Young Township; R. C. Winslow to H. S. Campbell, 18 May 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52; Curwensville asked for separation from neighboring Pike township; E. A. Irwin et al. to H. S. Campbell, 11 March 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52; a petition signed by all the residents of Smethport sought separation from Keating Township; H. S. Hawlin to H. S. Campbell, 8 March 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52; St. Mary’s Borough requested division from troublesome Benzinger Township; W. James Blakely, M. D., et al. to H. S. Campbell, 10 April 1864, NARA, RG110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 15. U.S. Census, Population Schedules, 1860, Pennsylvania, Elk County, Borough of St. Mary’s. Of the town’s 190 adult men in 1860, 63.7 percent (121) were married, 99 living with children. Of the 69 single adult males, 30.4 percent (21) were born in the United States and 69.6 percent (48) born outside the United States. 16. For a fascinating example of the porous boundaries of capital and wage work, read Elaine Kelly Pease, ed., ‘‘Oil Fever: Letters by Timothy W. Kelly,’’ The Western Pennsylvania Historical Magazine 70, no. 3 (July 1987): 211–229. Timothy Kelly went to the oil region in 1861, seeking to strike it rich in the oil business. After investing his entire savings in a small parcel of land and a pumping engine, Kelly went bankrupt when the project failed to produce oil. Unable to sell his land or engine, he was forced to drive boats on the river, transporting oil downstream. Kelly admitted, ‘‘I have no money or no way of earning it but by the hardest kind of work.’’ 17. This letter was sent by the district provost marshal to the deputy marshal of Tioga County. The information about the miner’s meeting came from ‘‘Judge Lyman’’ the agent of the mining company. The Provost Marshal concluded his report, ‘‘You need

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not fear any resistance there.’’ W. W. White to Josiah Emery, 15 June 1863, NARA, RG110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Eighteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3375, vol. 1. In October, White reported that miners initially resisted enrollment and officers were forced to use company records to supply names. W. W. White to James B. Fry, n.d. [between items dated 22 October and 24 October 1863], NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Eighteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3375, vol. 1. 18. Palladino, Another Civil War, 5. 19. Kenneth H. Wheeler reached an identical conclusion in his study of rural Ohio. He focused on a region disassociated from the market economy, asserting ‘‘In Holmes County, the citizens incorporated Democratic Party rhetoric and antiwar sentiment into an ideology of localistic patriotism that could justify armed opposition to the federal government as a means of defending freedom and liberty.’’ ‘‘Local Autonomy and Civil War Draft Resistance,’’ 148. Recall also that Joan E. Cashin stressed community-centered values. ‘‘Deserters, Civilians, and Draft Resistance in the North,’’ 263–264. 20. The most prominent articulation of this concept appears in Scott, Weapons of the Weak, xvi–xvii. 21. ‘‘The Conscription Law,’’ Clearfield Republican, 1 April 1863. 22. ‘‘Passage of the Conscription Bill, and the Annihilation of State Sovereignty,’’ Clearfield Republican, 4 March 1863. 23. ‘‘The Conscription Act Void,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 November 1863. 24. ‘‘The Conscription Law Declared to be Unconstitutional,’’ Clearfield Republican, 18 November 1863. 25. ‘‘An Act for enrolling and calling out the national forces, and for other purposes,’’ 3 March 1863, OR, ser. 3, vol. 3: 88–93. 26. H. S. Campbell to James B. Fry, 17 August 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Historical Reports of State Acting Assistant Provost Marshals General and District Provost Marshals, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, m1163, roll 5. 27. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 12 December 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 990. 28. Section 5, ‘‘AN ACT for enrolling and calling out the national forces, and for other purposes,’’ 3 March 1863, OR, ser. 3, vol. 3: 88–93. 29. At the time of the 38th Congress (March 4, 1863–March 3, 1865), Pennsylvania consisted of 24 congressional districts. With the exception of Philadelphia (which contained five districts), Berks, and Lancaster Counties (each one district), the remaining districts encompassed two or more counties. The lumber region spanned the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Congressional Districts. Figure A.25 depicts the boundaries of the lumber region districts, indicating the headquarters of each. For all the northern congressional districts, consult Kenneth C. Martis, ed., The Historical Atlas of Political Parties in the United States Congress, 1789–1989 (New York: Macmillan, 1989), 116–117, 264. 30. The provost marshals also displayed political favoritism by advertising official communique´s only in ‘‘loyal’’ Republican newspapers. These instructions came from officials in Washington and ordered state marshals to consult Republican notables for appropriate newspapers. 31. Historians have written mixed reviews about the functioning of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau during the war. Provost marshals, like anyone else, could be corrupt and inefficient. Grace Palladino, for instance, blamed the local provost marshal for adding to the bitterness among coal miners in eastern Pennsylvania. Palladino, Another Civil War, 6–7. Robert Sterling linked incompetent provost marshals with public unrest in the Midwest. Robert E. Sterling, ‘‘Civil War Draft Resistance in the Middle West,’’ (Ph.D. diss, Northern Illinois University, 1974). There are a few historians who praise

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the bureaucratic efforts of the bureau, including Harold M. Hyman, A More Perfect Union: The Impact of the Civil War and Reconstruction on the Constitution (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1973), 219–221. For an informative discussion of this debate, consult James W. Geary, We Need Men: The Union Draft in the Civil War (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1991), 71–72. 32. S. B. McClain to H. S. Campbell, 4 April 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, Nineteenth District, entry 3396, box 52. 33. S. B. McClain to H. S. Campbell, 23 March 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, Nineteenth District, entry 3396, box 52. 34. H. S. Campbell to James V. Bomford, 25 May 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, Nineteenth District, entry 3396, box 52. 35. James M. McPherson referred to the draft and bounty system as ‘‘a clumsy carrot and stick device to stimulate volunteering.’’ Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 605. 36. Geary, We Need Men, 85–86. 37. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 27 June 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 38. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 18 November 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 39. H. S. Campbell to James V. Bomford, 29 June 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received from the Districts, Nineteenth District, entry 3140, box 36. 40. H. S. Campbell to James B. Fry, 17 August 1865, Historical Reports of State Acting Assistant Provost Marshals General. 41. A. A. Hopkins to H. S. Campbell, 26 August 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 42. H. S. Campbell to James B. Fry, 17 August 1865, Historical Reports of State Acting Assistant Provost Marshals General. 43. George W. Tanner to H. S. Campbell, 7 September 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 44. Cathcart considered his wounding worthy of the equivalent of combat pay, arguing ‘‘suffering from a distressing wound I think I should be entitled to more than ordinary compensation as it was received in the service of the government.’’ David J. Cathcart to John S. McKiernan, 19 June 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received from the Districts, Nineteenth District, entry 3140, box 36. 45. ‘‘An Enrolling Officer Shot,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 24 June 1863; ‘‘Wounding an Enrolling Officer,’’ Clearfield Republican, 1 July 1863. 46. H. S. Campbell to James V. Bomford, 25 June 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3394, vol. 6. 47. A. L. Mason to H. S. Campbell, 29 March 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52.

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48. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 29 September 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 49. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 15 August 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 50. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 3 January 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 51. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 2 February 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 52. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 8 February 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 53. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 19 August 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 54. W. H. Taylor to Souther [?], 3 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 55. ‘‘Proceedings of Court,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 20 January 1864. 56. ‘‘The Late Riot Case in Pike Township,’’ Clearfield Republican, 30 March 1864. See also, ‘‘The Late Previous Pardons,’’ Clearfield Republican, 13 April 1864; and ‘‘The Late Riot case—Previous Pardon, etc.,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 April 1864. The veteran was named William Addleman, and his sympathetic accomplices were Solomon Pyle, Richard Bard, and Zenas Hartshorn [sic.] The case also involved other partisan interpretations as to who started the fight and who was present on the night of the attack. Bloom argued that the veteran was drunk and given steel knuckles by his Republican friends to goad Bloom on. Republicans countered that Bloom was well known to be combative and of ‘‘bad reputation’’ and had been drinking that night as well. 57. S. B. McClain to H. S. Campbell, 22 September 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 58. Sylvanus Holmes to H. S. Campbell, 21 November 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 59. H. S. Campbell to Richard I. Dodge, 15 November 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3394, vol. 4. 60. ‘‘Light Wanted,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 February 1863. 61. W. W. White to James V. Bomford, 8 December 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, entry 3140, box 36. 62. ‘‘Thieves About,’’ Clearfield Republican, 15 June 1864. 63. ‘‘Robbery,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 19 October 1864. 64. Ibid. 65. The concept of the ‘‘moral economy’’ was popularized by historian E. P. Thompson. Examining ‘‘food riots’’ in eighteenth-century England, Thompson argued that crowd violence stemmed from economic practices deemed illegitimate. Sense of right and wrong ‘‘was grounded upon a consistent traditional view of social norms and obligations, of the proper economic functions of several parties within the community,

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which, taken together, can be said to constitute the moral economy of the poor.’’ Customs in Common, 188. 66. ‘‘Stop Thief!’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 May 1864. 67. ‘‘$100 Reward,’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 May 1864. 68. untitled, Clearfield Republican, 4 May 1864. 69. untitled, Clearfield Republican, 27 May 1863. 70. ‘‘Fire,’’ Clearfield Republican, 26 August 1863; ‘‘Saw Mill Burnt,’’ Clearfield Republican, 13 May 1863; ‘‘House Burnt,’’ Clearfield Republican, 11 May 1864; untitled, Clearfield Republican, 20 July 1864. 71. S. B. Benson to Richard I. Dodge, 15 November 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, entry 3140, box 36. 72. H. S. Campbell to Richard I. Dodge, 24 October 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3394, vol. 4. 73. W. J. Hemphill to H. S. Campbell, 25 October 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 2. 6. ‘‘Collisions with the People’’: Federal Intervention in Deserter Country 1. Lonn, Desertion During the Civil War, 204–207. 2. Section 25, ‘‘Regulations for the government of the Bureau of the Provost-Marshal-General of the United States,’’ OR, ser. 3, vol. 3: 129. 3. General Order No. 105, OR, ser. 3, vol. 3: 170. 4. General Order No. 111, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 188. 5. Details of the organization and service of the Veteran Reserve Corps is found in the final report of Captain J. W. De Forest, 30 November 1865, OR, ser. 3, vol. 5: 543–567. 6. James V. Bomford to H. S. Campbell, 26 June 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Circulars and Letters Sent, entry 3129, vol. 1. 7. James B. Fry to James V. Bomford, 3 July 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received, entry 3138, box 34. 8. James V. Bomford to W. W. White, 23 July 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Circulars and Letters Sent, entry 3129, vol. 1. 9. James V. Bomford to James B. Fry, 20 October 1863, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, entry 3127, vol. 1. 10. Andrew G. Curtin to James B. Fry, 12 January 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 27. 11. Simon Cameron to Abraham Lincoln, 15 July 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 519. 12. Wayne R. Kime, Colonel Richard Irving Dodge: The Life and Times of a Career Army Officer (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2006), 47. As editor of the definitive versions of Dodge’s many journals, Kime drew on closeness to his subject and meticulous research to write the most authoritative biography of this underappreciated military figure. The work makes clear that in the span of Dodge’s long and respected career, the Civil War interlude was a minor and frustrating chapter in his life. 13. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 10 August 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 607. 14. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525. 15. In that regard, a number of historians have likewise cited Dodge’s reports, sometimes taking them at face value without examining the results of the military campaign that followed. The figures come from easily accessible reports in the published Official

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Records but the final assessment must be gathered through careful sifting of material pertaining to the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau. Ella Lonn’s study paraphrased closely from the report, giving it an aura of scholarly approval. Lonn wrote: ‘‘The nearest approach to the situation which prevailed so long in the Alabama mountains and Mississippi swamps was to be found in Clearfield and Cambria Counties where there had congregated from 1,200 to 1,800 absconders from duty. They were frankly engaged in lumbering on Clearfield River and were said to have erected a fort at the head of the river, well beyond the terminus of the railroad, in which to resist the law if driven to extremities.’’ Since the OR contained no follow-up report from the lumber region, Lonn’s narrative fell silent on the outcome. Lonn, Desertion During the Civil War, 205– 206. In her work on Copperheads, Jennifer Weber referred to Clearfield as ‘‘the most serious resistance in the country’’ based on the report. She too paraphrased Dodge closely, including the imaginative figures and the assumption that resistance was ‘‘reportedly organized and armed.’’ Tellingly, Weber chose to exchange Dodge’s label ‘‘disloyal citizens’’ with ‘‘Copperheads’’—the leitmotif of her work. In this instance, Weber made no improvement upon Lonn’s analysis except that she worked from manuscript sources. Weber, Copperheads, 195. The report is also the basis behind a briefer summary appearing on page 165. Several other works have drawn attention to Clearfield and the Dodge report though with more circumspection. See Paul A. Cimbala, ‘‘Soldiering on the Home Front: The Veteran Reserve Corps and the Northern People,’’ in Paul A. Cimbala and Randall M. Miller, eds., Union Soldiers and the Northern Home Front: Wartime Experiences, Postwar Adjustments (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 197; William A. Blair, Introduction, in William A. Blair and William Pencak, eds. Making and Remaking Pennsylvania’s Civil War (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2001), xv; Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 157–158; William W. Hummel, ‘‘The Military Occupation of Columbia County: A Re-examination,’’ Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 80, no. 3 (July 1956): 338. 16. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 10 August 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 607. 17. Although its performance was deemed slight, the V.R.C. did fulfill emergency field duty on a number of occasions, and De Forest’s report highlights those instances. J. W. De Forest, Report on the operations of the Veteran Reserve Corps Bureau, 30 November 1865, OR, ser. 3, vol. 5: 553 18. Ibid., 549–50. De Forest summarized that the average regiment consisted of six companies of troops fit for active duty, and four companies of soldiers fit only for light duties in hospitals and offices. 19. Ibid., 560. As an example, two companies of the First Regiment, V.R.C., restored order among volunteer regiments disbanded in Rochester, New York in 1864 (or possibly early 1865). The report did not specify the nature or date of the disturbances, however. 20. Ibid., 564. 21. Figure A.29 indicates the location of the contested region and points associated with the expedition. 22. Charles Stewart to Darius N. Couch, 23 August 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 2. 23. George Cadwalader to Jonathan S. Schultze, 2 September 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 1. 24. George Cadwalader to Jonathan S. Schultze, 5 September 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 1. 25. Charles Stewart to Darius N. Couch, 11 September 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 2.

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Notes to Pages 122–125

26. William W. Hummel, ‘‘The Military Occupation of Columbia County: A Reexamination,’’ Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography 80, no. 3 (July 1956): 330. 27. Darius N. Couch to Richard I. Dodge, 14 September 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 88. 28. ‘‘The Columbia Co. Political Prisoners,’’ Clearfield Republican, 30 November 1864. 29. ‘‘Military Rule in Columbia County,’’ Clearfield Republican, 30 November 1864. 30. An indispensable account of the expedition appeared in John G. Freeze, History of Columbia County, Pennsylvania, from the Earliest Times (Bloomsburg, Pa.: Elwell and Bittenbender, 1883), 392–566. Freeze’s narrative upheld the Democratic perspective, and Freeze himself was one of the attorneys who defended the ‘‘political prisoners’’ at their military trial in October. The Fishing Creek Conspiracy is also addressed in Mark E. Neely, Jr., The Fate of Liberty: Abraham Lincoln and Civil Liberties (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 174–175; and Arnold M. Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 1861–1865 (Rutherford, N.J.: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1980), 154–157. 31. Columbia Democrat, 22 October 1864, quoted in Hummel, ‘‘The Military Occupation of Columbia County,’’ 335. 32. ‘‘Was not the sending of Soldiers to Clearfield a Fraud upon the Government,’’ Clearfield Republican, 8 February 1865. 33. Paul A. Cimbala acknowledged the highly charged reactions of northerners in ‘‘Soldiering on the Home Front: The Veteran Reserve Corps and the Northern People,’’ in Paul A. Cimbala and Randall M. Miller, eds., Union Soldiers and the Northern Home Front: Wartime Experiences, Postwar Adjustments (New York: Fordham University Press, 2002), 197–198. An essay by Joan E. Cashin, entitled ‘‘Deserters, Civilians, and Draft Resistance in the North,’’ did well in explaining the communal social values that could foster dissent and protect draft evaders in decentralized, rural areas across the North. Joan E. Cashin, ed., The War Was You and Me: Civilians in the American Civil War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 262–285. 34. Grace Palladino argued this convincingly in her study of the coal region. Her nuanced research places wartime events in the context of an incipient labor movement among miners. The predominantly Irish mine workers saw federal troops as a coercive tool in multiple ways. Not only did the military enforce the unpopular draft but also hindered unionizing activities that affected miners’ fight for better wages. Another Civil War: Labor, Capital, and the State in the Anthracite Regions of Pennsylvania, 1840–68 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990). 35. The letter was sent to Jonathan Schultze, Assistant Adjutant General of the Department of the Susquehanna. Schultze’s commander, Darius N. Couch, commanded the military resources of the region except for the Veteran Reserve Corps. The military districts of the northern home front and the provost marshal districts were distinct entities. The provost marshals of the North could make requests from local military commanders but the two authorities suffered equally from shortages in men and equipment. John Irwin to Jonathan S. Schultze, 3 October 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 1. 36. ‘‘Important Correspondence. Why Troops were Sent to Clearfield,’’ The Raftsman’s Journal, 1 March 1865. 37. Alternately spelled Lounsberry, Lownsberry, or Lonsberry in articles and military records. 38. George Van Vliet to H. S. Campbell, 1 November 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received from the Districts, entry 3140, box 36.

Notes to Pages 125–128

215

39. S. B. Benson to Richard I. Dodge, 14 November 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received from the Districts, entry 3140, box 36. 40. H. S. Campbell to Richard I. Dodge, 15 November 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, Nineteenth District, entry 3394, vol. 4. 41. ‘‘Another Shooting Affair,’’ Clearfield Republican, 2 November 1864; ‘‘A Shooting Affray,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 2 November 1864. 42. ‘‘Lansberry,’’ Clearfield Republican, 30 November 1864. 43. Marshal Campbell suggested offering a $1,000 reward for information on his whereabouts. A fuller treatment of Lansberry’s trial and remarkable acquittal appear in the epilogue. H. S. Campbell to Richard I. Dodge, 7 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, Nineteenth District, entry 3394, vol. 8. 44. W. J. Hemphill to S. B. Benson, 7 November 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Received from the Districts, entry 3140, box 36. 45. H. S. Campbell to Richard I. Dodge, 15 November 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, Nineteenth District, entry 3394, vol. 4. 46. Figure A.30 indicates the location of Knox Township and its relations to the major rivers and towns of Clearfield County. Regarding the estimates of resistance, Dodge wrote ‘‘I am reliably informed that there are at this time from 1,200 to 1,800 deserters, delinquent men, and disloyal citizens, armed and organized, engaged in lumbering on Clearfield River, in Clearfield and Cambria Counties.’’ Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525–526. 47. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 10 August 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 607. 48. ‘‘AN ACT for enrolling and calling out the national forces, and for other purposes,’’ 24 March 1863, OR, ser. 3, vol. 3: 92. 49. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 12 December 1864, OR, ser. 3, vol. 4: 990. 50. Richard I. Dodge to James B. Fry, 1 November 1864, OR, ser. 1, vol. 43: 525–526. 51. Richard I. Dodge to Jonathan S. Schultze, 5 December 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, entry 3126, vol. 3. 52. A number of scholarly works have addressed the vengeful attitude of fighting men toward ‘‘Copperheads’’ and the impact of that hatred on the 1864 election. The most extended treatment of this viewpoint appears in a chapter entitled ‘‘The War against Dissidents: The Home Front and Its Soldiers’’ in Joseph Allan Frank, With Ballot and Bayonet: The Political Socialization of American Civil War Soldiers (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1998), 165–186. Frank argued that ‘‘the troops exercised political influence over their communities’’ and ‘‘demanded that communities show no tolerance of dissidents’’ (172). This assertion was echoed in the most recent study of the peace movement, Jennifer Weber, Copperheads: The Rise and Fall of Lincoln’s Opponents in the North (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 196–198. 53. Details of Gaebel’s fascinating life can be found in the records of the Veteran Reserve Corps. Charles Coolidge, Surgeon of the Board of Enrollment, Fourth Dist., Illinois, 6 June 1864, NARA, RG-110, Veteran Reserve Corps Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 21. 54. Richard I. Dodge to Jonathan S. Schultze, 29 October 1864, NARA, RG-393, Records of United States Army Continental Commands, Departments of the Susquehanna and Pennsylvania, Letters Received, box 1.

216

Notes to Pages 128–133

55. Richard I. Dodge to F. A. H. Gaebel, 6 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, entry 3126, vol. 3. 56. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 January 1865. 57. Adams was dubbed ‘‘notorious’’ by the local Republican press. He appears in the 1860 census with his wife and two children, listed as a twenty-seven-year-old laborer with no real estate value. He was likely a tenant farmer. U.S. Census, Population Schedules, 1860, Pennsylvania, Clearfield County, Knox Township. 58. Samuel P. Bates, History of Pennsylvania Volunteers, 1861–65: Prepared in Compliance with Acts of the Legislature (Harrisburg: B. Singerly, 1869–71), vol. 4, 612, 622–623. Adams deserted with his friend Private James M. McKee. 59. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 16 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 60. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. The incident at ‘‘Bloody Knox’’ has been repeated in both scholarly works and local history of the region. See the epilogue for more on the commemoration of the raid in recent years. For scholarly mentions of poor Tom Adams, see Shankman, The Pennsylvania Antiwar Movement, 157–158 and Weber, Copperheads: The Rise and Fall of Lincoln’s Opponents in the North, 195. Weber cited the raid on the Adams’ house and Dodge’s estimate of dissenters as the primary evidence for western Pennsylvania offering ‘‘the most serious resistance in the country.’’ 61. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 January 1865. 62. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 63. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 20 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 64. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 21 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 65. William H. Blair to Richard I. Dodge, 14 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Eighteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3375, vol. 4. 66. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 17 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 67. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 68. ‘‘Correspondence of the Journal,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 January 1865. 69. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 70. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 28 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 71. After mentioning ‘‘a number of deserters and drafted men were . . . induced to report’’ Gaebel added ‘‘a still greater number went over the mountains to Ridgway.’’ F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the

Notes to Pages 133–137

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Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 72. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 73. ‘‘An Arrest and rescue,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 4 January 1865. 74. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 75. Richard I. Dodge to H. S. Campbell, 5 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, entry 3126, vol. 3. 76. Richard I. Dodge to H. S. Campbell, 5 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Letters Sent, entry 3126, vol. 3. 77. Benson’s estimates were wildly inflated and he did not elaborate on their sources. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 17 December 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 78. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 11 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 79. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 14 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 80. ‘‘The Copperhead Pow-Wow,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 17 August 1864. 81. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 20 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 52. 82. ‘‘The War in Clearfield,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 18 January 1865. 83. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 84. ‘‘Important Correspondence. Why Troops were Sent to Clearfield,’’ The Raftsman’s Journal, 1 March 1865. 85. ‘‘The Clearfield County Cases,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 15 March 1865. 86. ‘‘The Clearfield County Cases,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 22 March 1865. 87. F. A. H. Gaebel to Richard I. Dodge, 2 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Veteran Reserve Corp Branch, Letters Received, entry 297, box 22. 88. ‘‘The Fortifications,’’ Clearfield Republican, 28 December 1864. 89. ‘‘Was not the sending of Soldiers to Clearfield a Fraud upon the Government,’’ Clearfield Republican, 8 February 1865. 90. H. S. Campbell to S. B. Benson, 22 March 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3394, vol. 7. 91. B. Cameron to William Blair, 13 May 1864, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Eighteenth District, Letters Sent, entry 3375, Box vol. 3. 92. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 23 January 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53.

218

Notes to Pages 137–145

93. S. B. Benson to H. S. Campbell, 11 February 1865, NARA, RG-110, Records of the Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, Department of Pennsylvania, Western Division, Nineteenth District, Letters Received, entry 3396, box 53. 94. ‘‘Released,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 15 March 1865. 95. ‘‘Released,’’ Clearfield Republican, 1 February 1865. 96. ‘‘The Clearfield Cases,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 5 April 1865. Epilogue 1. ‘‘Nob Mountain Meeting,’’ Orangeville, Columbia County, 29 August 1865 (typed transcript), U.S. Army Military History Institute, Columbia County Historical Society Collection, ‘‘Military Operations in Columbia County, 1864’’ folder. 2. His most epic contribution in this regard was John G. Freeze, History of Columbia County, Pennsylvania, from the Earliest Times (Bloomsburg, Pa.: Elwell and Bittenbender, 1883). See especially his lengthy section on ‘‘Military Occupation’’ and ‘‘The Trials,’’ 392–566. 3. Horace Greeley, The Tribune Almanac and Political Register (New York: The Tribune Association, 1866), 54–55; Ibid. (1865), 54. 4. Joel H. Silbey, A Respectable Minority: The Democratic Party in the Civil War Era, 1860–1868 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1977). 5. ‘‘Arrest of a Murderer,’’ New York Times, March 30, 1875, p. 1. 6. ‘‘Lansbury’s Case,’’ Pittsburgh Post, November 13, 1875, p. 4. 7. ‘‘The Lansbury Trial,’’ Pittsburgh Gazette, November 11, 1875, p. 4. 8. ‘‘Lansbury’s Trial,’’ Pittsburgh Post, November 13, 1875. 9. ‘‘Not Guilty,’’ Pittsburgh Post, November 15, 1875, p. 4. 10. ‘‘Lansbury’s Case,’’ Pittsburgh Post, November 13, 1875, p. 4. 11. ‘‘A Copperhead Smashed,’’ Raftsman’s Journal, 6 May 1863. The item originally appeared in the Hollidaysburg Whig.

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Index

Adams, Tom, 129–30, 133, 144–45 Appalachian Mountains agricultural patterns in, 21–22 characteristics of Northern mountains, 18–21 comparative aspects between Northern and Southern mountains, 1–3, 11, 15 manufacturing patterns in, 22 regional identity and localism, 10–11, 20–21, 25–27, 59–60, 195n57 settlement in Pennsylvania, 18–23 Aurant, Henry, 93–94 Baker, Jean H., 7 Barrett, George R., 91 Benson, S. B., 90, 92, 109, 130–32, 134, 137, 204n132 Bernstein, Iver, 8 Bigler, William attitudes toward secret societies, 91 defense of rafters’ rights, 35, 42 opposition to the war, 69, 87–88 target of military investigation, 90–91, 94, 126, 134, 136, 204n132, 205nn135–36 Bloom, Gainer P., 88 Bloom, George W., 113 Bomford, James V., 117–18 Bowen, Eli, 27 Buckalew, Charles, 140 Bull, Ole, 20 Butler, Cyrus, 124–26, 129, 141–43, 145 Cameron, Simon, 52–53, 68, 118 Campbell, Hugh S., 91, 99, 100–11, 114, 116, 123–26, 128, 131, 134, 136–37 Cathcart, David, 110–11, 129, 132 Chair, Cory H., 132 Chase, John, 9–10, 35, 129, 181n22 Clearfield County antebellum development, 17

anti-newspaper censorship or violence, 80–81 ‘‘Bloody Knox,’’ 128–30, 132, 137, 144–45 development of lumbering, 30–31, 33 Democratic Castle, 86–94, 126, 127 Democratic clubs, 85–87 draft resistance, 86–94, 99, 100, 105, 109, 110–11, 114–16, 120, 130–31, 135 military expedition, 12, 101, 116, 120–21, 123–24, 126–36 military mobilization, 44–45, 47–48, 50, 54–55, 57 partisan debates over loyalty, 61, 66– 69, 71, 73–74, 96–98 political rhetoric of racism, 74–75 rafters’ protest movement, 28–29, 35– 40, 42 regional stereotype, 26, 101, 126–27 riot case, 113 theft and vandalism, 115 union league movement, 82–83, 85 wartime economic conditions, 76–79 Columbia County military expedition, 120–23, 126, 133, 136, 140–41 copperheadism. See dissent conscription laws, procedures, and administration of, 21, 75, 103, 105–7, 109–10, 117 mutual protection societies, 91–94 New York City draft riots, 8, 11, 85, 100–2, 117–18 resistance to, 12, 26, 75–76, 88–94, 102, 104–5, 108–19, 121, 123–24, 127, 142 Cox, Samuel S., 6 Curley, James, 116 Curley, Patrick, 138 Craven, Avery O., 5 Curtin, Andrew G. attitudes toward secret societies, 91 facing draft resistance, 12, 26, 78

232 facing mobilization problems, 49–51, 53 pardon of political prisoners, 113 relationship with Provost Marshal General’s Bureau, 118–19 role in state politics, 68

Index wartime economic conditions, 8–9, 16, 76–79, 115, 184n20, 200n57 Elk County antebellum development, 17, 22 draft resistance, 63, 102–3, 109, 114, 132–33 immigrants, 18–19, 74, 102 military expedition, 132–33 military mobilization, 49, 58–59, 108 rafters’ protest movement, 37, 42 the St. Mary’s resolutions, 68–70, 72 emancipation cause of opposition to the war, 11, 60, 63, 73–74, 77, 79, 83, 101, 104, 125, 206n148 and fears of black migration, 74, 82 and religion, 95–96, 206n149 as a Republican war measure, 10, 74, 105, 139 and the St. Mary’s resolutions, 70

De Forest, J. W., 120–21 Democratic Castle. See secret societies Democratic Party antebellum weakening of political power, 41 attacks against partisan press, 80–81 Democratic Castle, 86–94 Democratic clubs, 62, 85–86 factors for Democratic strength in the lumber region, 63–64 historiography of the copperheads, 4–7, 139, 143, 145 opposition to industrial logging, 35–36, 41–42 opposition to the war, 46, 59, 61, 63, 68–76, 87, 104–5 peace movement, 62, 72 political culture of, 7, 9–10, 63–64, 74 postwar rhetoric, 139–41 racial rhetoric of, 6–7, 11, 74–75, 82 significance of copperhead label, 81–82 desertion communal protection of, 2, 12, 20–21, 59–60, 63, 99–100, 114 definition of, 181n18 dissent American attitudes toward, 3, 139, 143–45 historiography of the copperheads, 4–7, 139, 143, 145 loyalty as rhetoric, 3 , 61–62, 70–71, 81– 84, 94–98, 140–41, 145 the St. Mary’s resolutions, 68–70, 72 Dodge, Richard I., 12, 27, 42, 90, 101, 119– 19, 121, 126–29, 131, 133–36, 212n12, 212n15 Donald, David, 51 draft. See conscription

Kane, Thomas L., 17, 27, 129 Keller, Charles, 94 Klement, Frank L., 5

economics antebellum exchange economy, 24–25 market economy and capitalist development, 2, 8, 15–16, 22, 24–25, 28–29, 31, 63–65, 185n28, 185n30

Labar, L. B., 78 Lansberry, Joseph, 124–26, 141–43, 145 Lansberry, Samuel, 138 legal issues and cases Clearfield County riot case, 113

Fishing Creek Conspiracy. See Columbia County military expedition Fleming, David, 87 Freeze, John G., 141 Fry, James B., 7–8, 80, 117, 135 Gaebel, Frederick A. H., 128–37 Gray, John, 135 Gray, Wood, 5, 143, 180nn9–10 Ham, John, 93 Holmes, Sylvanus, 111–12 Holt, Joseph, 84 Hoover, John, 88 immigrants, 2, 8, 18–20, 58–59, 74, 101–3 Invalid Corps. See Provost Marshal General’s Bureau Johnson, H. L., 137

233

Index Columbia County resistance cases, 122–23 Democratic Castle cases, 87–88, 93–94, 135–38 Lansberry murder trial, 141–43 property rights law, 36 rafters’ protest cases, 36–40 Lincoln, Abraham, 12, 25, 30, 47, 52, 69, 87 Little, R. R., 140 logging. See lumbering Loher, Franz von, 14, 16–17, 26, 182n1 Lonn, Ella, 12, 63 Lowry, Morrow B., 75, 90 loyalty. See dissent lumbering development of log floating, 8, 28, 33– 35, 40 expansion of lumbering frontier, 23, 32, 35, 189n25 industrialization of, 8, 16, 22, 28–38, 40–42 rafters’ protest and resistance, 9, 10, 28–29, 35–43, 191n57 rafting, 8, 23–24, 29–33, 40, 188nn22–23 wartime impact on, 76–79 McClain, S. B., 114 McIntosh, Ezra, 114 McDonald, Alexander, 99–100 McKean County antebellum political realignment, 64 draft resistance, 109–11, 114, 135 early development, 22 military mobilization, 46 no-party politics, 67 partisan debates over loyalty, 68, 70 racial rhetoric of, 74 McKennan, William, 143 McKiernan, John S., 99–100, 125 McPherson, James M., 7 McReynolds, Frank, 91 Meek, Peter Gray, 96 military units and developments. See conscription; Pennsylvania volunteer soldiers; Provost Marshal General’s Bureau Miller, Joseph, 93, 116, 124–25 Milton, George Fort, 5, 143 Murdock, John P., 93–94 New York City draft riots. See conscription

no-party political movement, 61–62, 65– 67, 82, 198n19 Olmstead, Arthur G., 78 Otteson, Jacob A., 20 Owens, Martin, 124 patriotism. See dissent Pennsylvania volunteer soldiers Bucktails, 17, 27, 58, 99, 128–29 enlistment statistics, process, and motivation, 45–54 Fifty-eighth Volunteer Regiment, 111 home-guard troops, 54, 56–58 Pennsylvania Reserve Corps, 50 Phoenix, William, 136 Provost Marshal General’s Bureau difficulties faced by, 7–8, 11–13, 20–21, 26–27, 42–43, 75, 88, 100–3, 107–12, 114, 124, 130, 137 investigations of secret societies, 84, 90–91 policies and procedures of, 80, 107, 109, 117, 131 use of the Veteran Reserve Corps (Invalid Corps), 117, 120–21. See also Columbia County military expedition; Clearfield County military expedition Quay, Joseph F., 78 rafting. See lumbering Republican Party late-1850s prominence, 41 political culture, 64–65 political realignment in the lumber region, 64–65, 67–68 postwar ‘‘bloody shirt’’ rhetoric, 141 union league movement, 62, 82–83, 90, 96 voting strength among soldiers, 71–72, 192n7 republicanism, 9, 28–30, 35–36, 38, 41, 64, 84, 98, 103–4, 181n21, 186n7, 187n8 Rinehart, Jacob, 136 Rousher, George, 93–94 secret societies. See also dissent Democratic Castle, 86–94 Democratic clubs, 62, 85–86

234 Knights of the Golden Circle, 4, 84–86, 91, 203n106 loyal or union leagues, 10, 62, 82–83, 90, 96, 202n96 mutual protection societies, 91–92 Silbey, Joel H., 6, 141 Southworth, John M., 130 Stover, Herbert E., 143 Tate, Levi, 123 Thompson, Wesley, 99 Truesdale, J. C., 95–97 Van Vliet, George, 124–25 Veteran Reserve Corps. See Provost Marshal General’s Bureau violence and intimidation against federal officials, 109–10, 114

Index against newspapers, 80–81 between civilians, 62, 86, 92, 96–98, 108, 112–14, 125 theft and vandalism, 115–16 Wallace, William A. defense of rafters’ rights, 42 opposition to the war, 69, 87–88 target of military investigation, 90–91, 94, 126, 134, 136, 204n132, 205nn135–36 Weber, Jennifer, 7, 203n106, 212n15, 216n60 White, W. W., 102 Wilhelm, Jacob, 92, 137–38 Yoas, Henry, 93