The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: The War Begins with Fort Sumter

A Southern Son of the Union (1805–1825)

Robert Anderson was born on June 14, 1805, in Louisville, Kentucky, a border state torn between North and South. He was raised in a slaveholding family, and like many young men of his region, he grew up steeped in both Southern traditions and American patriotism. Despite his Southern roots, Anderson’s loyalty was shaped early by a strong belief in the United States as a unified nation. He pursued a military education, entering the United States Military Academy at West Point and graduating in 1825, ranking 15th out of 37 cadets. Though not at the very top of his class, Anderson had earned a solid reputation as a disciplined and dutiful young officer.

Forged in Fire: Early Military Career (1825–1857)

After graduation, Anderson served in various artillery and engineering posts, developing expertise in military fortifications. His first taste of combat came during the Black Hawk War in 1832, where he briefly served as a colonel of Illinois volunteers—under the command of future political figures like Abraham Lincoln.

He continued his military service during the Second Seminole War and later the Mexican-American War, where he served as General Winfield Scott’s assistant adjutant general. Despite a serious wound at Molino del Rey in 1847, Anderson continued his career, focusing in later years on artillery instruction and coastal defenses. Though not a widely known national figure, Anderson earned the respect of his peers for his professionalism and steady leadership.

Caught Between Two Worlds (1857–1860)

As tensions between North and South escalated in the 1850s, Anderson found himself in a unique and uncomfortable position. A Kentuckian by birth, he still had deep personal ties to the South. Yet, he also held strong convictions about the Union’s preservation. These tensions came to a head when, in November 1860, just after Abraham Lincoln’s election, Anderson was assigned to command the garrison in Charleston Harbor, South Carolina—a hotbed of secessionist sentiment. He assumed command at Fort Moultrie, but quickly realized the fort was indefensible. On December 26, 1860, under cover of darkness, he moved his small force to the more secure Fort Sumter in the harbor. This action was praised in the North and enraged Southern leaders.

The Spark of Civil War (April 1861)

Anderson’s stand at Fort Sumter became the symbolic flashpoint of the Civil War. As South Carolina seceded and Confederate forces under General P.G.T. Beauregard surrounded the fort, Anderson refused to surrender. Ironically, Beauregard had once been his artillery student at West Point.

On April 12, 1861, Confederate guns opened fire on Fort Sumter. Anderson and his outnumbered men endured a 34-hour bombardment, returning fire with limited supplies. Eventually, with the fort ablaze and no reinforcements in sight, Anderson agreed to surrender on April 13, under honorable terms. He evacuated with his men, taking the American flag with him. The event electrified the nation, and Anderson became a Union hero. In the North, the flag he had lowered became a powerful symbol, and Anderson carried it to rally support for the Union cause.

A Hero’s Welcome and a Heavy Burden (1861–1863)

After the fall of Fort Sumter, Anderson was promoted to brigadier general and received a hero’s welcome in the North. He was chosen to lead the Department of Kentucky and later the Department of the Cumberland, but the stress of his newfound fame, combined with health issues and the emotional toll of leading troops against fellow Southerners, took its toll. By late 1861, he asked to be relieved of command. He spent the rest of the war mostly in administrative or ceremonial roles.

The Return to Sumter (1865)

In a symbolic full circle, on April 14, 1865, four years to the day after Fort Sumter fell, Anderson returned to the fort to raise the same American flag he had lowered in surrender. The ceremony, organized by the Union to mark the end of the Civil War, was a deeply emotional moment for Anderson and the nation. Tragically, that night, President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated—adding a somber footnote to the day of Union triumph.

Final Years and Legacy (1865–1871)

Following the war, Anderson lived quietly with his family, his health in steady decline. He died on October 26, 1871, in Nice, France, where he had gone for medical treatment. His body was returned to the United States and buried at West Point Cemetery, fittingly among fellow soldiers and leaders of the nation he had served with honor.

Major Robert Anderson remains a significant figure in American history—a man of duty caught between the loyalties of region and nation, whose actions at Fort Sumter helped galvanize the Union and shape the early course of the Civil War. Though never a commanding general in the mold of Grant or Sherman, his quiet courage and sense of honor made him a symbol of national unity at the moment it mattered most.

Fall of the Flag: The Southern Seizure of Federal Forts – Told by Major Anderson

When South Carolina seceded from the Union in December 1860, I knew the nation stood on the edge of disaster. Yet I was still stunned by how swiftly and decisively the Southern states acted. Before the ink had dried on their declarations of secession, Southern militias were already moving to seize federal forts scattered across their states. These were not just symbolic prizes—they were strategic strongholds, built to defend the Union, now being turned against it.

The Quiet Fall of Forts Without a Fight

Many of these forts fell without a single shot fired. The Union was simply unprepared. President Buchanan, still in office at the time, refused to reinforce our positions in the South, hoping to avoid provocation. That hesitation allowed the South to act quickly and catch many of our small garrisons off guard—or entirely outnumbered. In most cases, officers were surrounded, pressured by local authorities, and presented with demands to surrender. Facing overwhelming force and with no hope of reinforcement, they yielded.

Among the most quietly taken were:

• Fort Pulaski at the mouth of the Savannah River in Georgia, seized by Georgia troops on January 3, 1861.

• Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines guarding Mobile Bay, taken by Alabama troops.

• Fort Barrancas and the Pensacola Navy Yard in Florida, secured by Confederate forces after a brief skirmish.

In nearly all of these cases, the federal forces were either small in number or lacked orders and reinforcements. The Confederacy was determined, and we were left unprepared.

The Arsenal of the South: Forts of Strategic Importance

Of all the forts lost, several were of tremendous strategic importance to the United States. Their loss gave the Confederacy a dangerous head start in organizing its defenses:

• Forts in Charleston Harbor, including Fort Moultrie and ultimately Fort Sumter, were central to controlling the South Carolina coast. I myself had abandoned Fort Moultrie in favor of the stronger Fort Sumter, but I was surrounded before long.

• Fort Pickens, near Pensacola, Florida, was one of the few that remained in Union hands thanks to quick reinforcement by the Navy. Its survival proved critical in maintaining Union naval presence in the Gulf.

• Fort Monroe, at the tip of the Virginia Peninsula, remained with the Union and would later serve as a base for major campaigns—but Virginia’s secession in April 1861 put it in peril.

• Perhaps the most significant early seizure came at the Gosport Navy Yard (Norfolk Naval Yard) in Virginia. Although not a fort, it was one of the most valuable naval installations in the country. In April 1861, as Virginia prepared to secede, Union forces attempted to destroy the yard to prevent its capture, but much of it fell into Confederate hands—including the drydock and the hull of the steam frigate USS Merrimack, later converted into the ironclad CSS Virginia.

How the Confederacy Took the Forts: Coordination and Speed

The success of the South in capturing so many forts early on was due to careful coordination, local knowledge, and overwhelming numbers. In many cases, militias were mobilized before the state even formally seceded. They relied on rapid action and the knowledge that the federal government—still under Buchanan—was unwilling to escalate the situation.

Most garrisons were small—often fewer than 50 men—making resistance impossible. Southern forces often presented demands backed by overwhelming firepower or angry crowds. In a few places, they used clever tactics—cutting off supplies, blocking reinforcements, and encircling the forts. In many cases, local sympathizers among the population provided support, intelligence, and moral pressure on Union officers to surrender peacefully.

The Cost of Delay

The truth is, had we acted sooner—had we reinforced those forts, resupplied those garrisons, and made clear the federal government would not allow its property to be taken—the Confederacy may have been deterred. But our delay was their opportunity. By the time President Lincoln was inaugurated, more than a dozen forts, arsenals, and naval yards were already in Confederate hands. The South had not just left the Union; they had armed themselves with its very weapons.

A Coordinated Military Campaign Before the First Shot – Told By Major Anderson

While much attention is given to the seizure of forts during the early days of Southern secession, I must tell you—those acts were only a part of a much broader military strategy taking shape across the South. From December 1860 to March 1861, even before a single shot was fired at Fort Sumter, the Southern states were moving with chilling precision to prepare for war. They were not simply declaring independence; they were arming, building, transporting, and training for a full-scale conflict. And much of it happened before President Lincoln even set foot in the White House.

Arming the South: Factories, Arsenals, and Seized Armament

As states broke away from the Union, their leaders quickly understood that control of arms and munitions would determine the strength of their cause. After seizing federal arsenals, Southern states began stockpiling weapons and converting local industries into war-making machines. Small arms manufacturers, blacksmiths, and powder mills were either commandeered or contracted to produce rifles, pistols, sabers, ammunition, and artillery components. In places like Augusta, Georgia, and Richmond, Virginia, ordnance depots and munitions works were either built or expanded.

Even colleges and foundries turned to making bullets and casting cannonballs. What the South lacked in industrial size compared to the North, they tried to make up for in local ingenuity and early action. They also sent agents northward and even to Europe to purchase arms and powder, stockpiling whatever they could find.

Seizing the Steel Veins: Railroads and Strategic Transport

The Southern leadership understood that the war would not be won by guns alone—it would be won by the speed and coordination of movement. And so, they turned to their railroads. Southern governors and Confederate organizers quickly took control of key rail hubs, especially those linking state capitals, ports, and supply depots.

Railways like the Western & Atlantic, the Virginia Central, and the Memphis & Charleston were commandeered for military use. Locomotives were repurposed, and soldiers were deployed to protect or repair the lines. Military planners even began drawing up timetables to coordinate troop and supply movement. Bridges were fortified, and telegraph lines were secured to maintain communication along these vital corridors. These efforts gave the South a critical edge in moving men and materials where they were most needed once the war began.

Training Grounds and the Mobilization of Militias

Military training camps were being established throughout the South by January 1861. State militias began drilling under the command of former U.S. Army officers who had resigned their commissions. Some camps trained infantry, while others focused on artillery drills or cavalry tactics. In Virginia, Georgia, and Mississippi, these camps also began instructing new recruits on fortification construction, marksmanship, and field organization.

The South’s early efforts weren’t always coordinated across state lines, but the formation of the Confederate Provisional Government in February 1861 brought new direction and centralized purpose to these efforts. Men from every walk of life were signing up, many wearing homemade uniforms and carrying outdated weapons—but with burning conviction.

Coastal Defenses and the Home Front

The Southern coastline, stretching from the Chesapeake Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, was particularly vulnerable. Recognizing this, Confederate leaders began reinforcing and rearming coastal forts, positioning heavy artillery at key harbor entrances, and establishing local batteries to repel any Union assault. Earthwork forts were hastily built or strengthened, especially around New Orleans, Charleston, Savannah, and Pensacola.

Meanwhile, women, children, and the elderly on the home front were not idle. Towns organized to collect supplies, sew uniforms, and even melt down church bells for use in artillery. The South was rapidly transforming into a society at war—even before war had officially begun.

The Confederacy Before It Was Called One

By the time President Lincoln was inaugurated on March 4, 1861, the South already had the makings of a nation at war. They had seized forts, railroads, shipyards, and arsenals. They were producing arms, training soldiers, and coordinating transportation. They had installed a provisional government, appointed cabinet members, and raised their new flag.

Though I stood surrounded at Fort Sumter, I knew that war had already begun in all but name. The South had prepared, acted, and positioned itself to fight not just for independence—but for survival. All that remained was the first shot.

The Seizure of U.S. Ships by the Confederacy – Told by Major Anderson

Before the first cannon roared over Charleston Harbor and before my men raised their rifles at Fort Sumter, the Confederacy had already begun quietly assembling its war machine. Their early victories did not come through blood, but through bold seizures of federal property—arsenals, forts, and crucially, ships and shipyards. These actions were not formal declarations of war, but they were clear signs of rebellion—measured steps taken with speed and calculation.

It was as if the Confederates were laying the kindling around the Union—waiting only for someone to strike the match.

The Fall of the Gosport Navy Yard

One of the greatest prizes captured by the Confederates before the war officially began was the Gosport Navy Yard, located in Norfolk, Virginia—what many now call the Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Though Virginia had not yet seceded in early April 1861, its sympathies were clear, and Confederate militias were growing bolder by the day.

Federal officials, recognizing the yard’s vulnerability, attempted to evacuate and destroy the facility before it could fall into Southern hands. Ships were set ablaze, stores were demolished—but the destruction was incomplete. On April 20, 1861, Confederates took control of the yard, capturing massive stockpiles of naval guns, munitions, drydocks, and shipbuilding equipment.

Most notably, they seized the burned hull of the USS Merrimack, which they would later raise, refit, and transform into the infamous ironclad CSS Virginia—a vessel that would soon challenge the Union’s naval superiority.

A Loss of Ships Without a Fight

Even before Fort Sumter fell, Southern sympathizers in seceded states like Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, and Texas had already moved to capture or claim federal vessels docked in their waters. Many Union ships, especially supply or support vessels, were caught off guard. Some were surrendered by commanding officers who faced local pressure or lacked reinforcements. Others were outright seized by armed militias.

In New Orleans, the Confederates took control of the U.S. Revenue Cutter Lewis Cass, which had been part of the Treasury Department’s customs fleet. In Galveston, Texas, the U.S. Revenue Cutter Henry Dodge was seized and later recommissioned by the Confederate Navy.

More significantly, several smaller federal vessels—lightships, tenders, and patrol boats—were taken from Southern ports and rivers and either absorbed into Confederate service or destroyed to prevent their return to the Union.

Civilian Steamships Requisitioned

Beyond federal warships, the Confederacy also took bold action in requisitioning commercial vessels that had value to a future war effort. In the ports of Savannah, Charleston, and Mobile, Confederate authorities seized or purchased steamships, sidewheelers, and ferries, converting many into makeshift gunboats, blockade runners, or troop transports.

One notable example was the steamer Marion, taken from Charleston harbor and used early on as a Confederate transport. The City of Richmond, a commercial sidewheeler, was commandeered for government use. These vessels, though not designed for war, were essential in the South’s early efforts to build a navy from scratch.

The Value of What Was Taken

Let it be plainly said: the Confederacy captured not only ships but time, resources, and strategic initiative. By the time President Lincoln called for troops after Fort Sumter, the South already had in its possession:

• A major naval yard with drydock and shipbuilding facilities.

• Over 1,000 naval guns and large quantities of powder from federal stores.

• Several cutters and federal vessels, repurposed for their new navy.

• Commercial steamships modified for war or smuggling.

This was not accidental. It was part of a coordinated effort to ensure that when war came, the South would not be starting from nothing.

A War Begun Before It Was Declared

As I sat within the walls of Fort Sumter in early April, watching Confederate batteries rise around me, I knew that the war had already begun, even if no one had yet called it by name. The seizure of ships, shipyards, and supply lines was not mere protest—it was preparation for a rebellion in full motion.

By the time the first shot was fired over Charleston Harbor, the Confederacy already had the tools in hand to challenge the Union at sea. And I, having once taught some of the very men now turning those tools against their former flag, could only watch as the nation slipped further into conflict.

Last Chance for Peace: Turbulent Weeks Before Sumter – Told by Major Anderson

When President Abraham Lincoln took office on March 4, 1861, the Union had already begun to fray. Seven states had seceded, forming a Confederate government in Montgomery, Alabama, just weeks before. As I sat within the walls of Fort Sumter, isolated in Charleston Harbor, I knew better than most that war was no longer a distant possibility—it was looming on the horizon. The country waited to see how Lincoln would act. Would he reinforce us here at Sumter? Would he back down? Would he attempt some political compromise to preserve the Union? Every move from Washington or Montgomery felt like it might tip the scale toward peace—or war.

A Garrison Under Siege

Inside Fort Sumter, my men and I were in a tense and deteriorating situation. We had been cut off from fresh supplies for weeks. The Confederates surrounding us in Charleston had constructed artillery batteries on all sides—Morris Island, Sullivan’s Island, James Island. They had complete control of the harbor, and we were entirely at their mercy when it came to food and fuel. Every day, our rations dwindled. We began rationing heavily—salt pork, hardtack, and meager portions were all we had. My greatest fear was not being bombarded—but starving in silence.

Despite this pressure, my men maintained discipline. They were tired, anxious, and aware of the national spotlight upon them. We avoided provocative actions, hoping to buy time for a peaceful solution. Still, every passing day brought more cannons trained upon our position. It was clear the Confederates were not just posturing. They were preparing.

Washington Hesitates, the South Prepares

News reached us slowly and irregularly, but we learned that President Lincoln had convened his cabinet and was wrestling with what to do about Fort Sumter. Some urged him to abandon the fort, arguing it would avoid war. Others demanded we be resupplied or reinforced to maintain the Union’s authority.

The South, meanwhile, was hard at work. More states joined the Confederacy—Texas, then others followed. Southern leaders treated the mere presence of Union troops in Charleston Harbor as an act of war. They claimed the fort now belonged to the Confederacy. From our viewpoint inside its walls, I knew it still belonged to the United States. I had taken an oath to defend it.

The Resupply Decision

Then came word that the Lincoln administration had finally decided: a resupply mission would be attempted. No warships would attack Charleston, but a small fleet would bring food and provisions, and we were to hold until it arrived. On April 6, I received a letter from Lincoln through a messenger that confirmed it. I was relieved—we could hold out a little longer. But Charleston's leaders were not interested in waiting.

When they learned of the resupply attempt, the Confederate government made their decision. General P.G.T. Beauregard, a former student of mine at West Point, was given authority to demand our surrender. If I refused, he was to open fire. My answer was respectful, but clear: I would not give up the fort unless we were starved out or forced by overwhelming force.

The Final Night

On the night of April 11, Confederate messengers delivered Beauregard’s final demand for surrender. Again, I declined. I went to sleep that night knowing that come morning, I might awaken to the thunder of cannon fire. My men knew it too. We gathered, prayed, and waited—bracing ourselves for what was to come.

At 4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861, the silence of Charleston Harbor was shattered by the roar of a mortar shell fired from Fort Johnson. It arched through the sky and exploded above us. The war had begun.

No Turning Back

Those final weeks were some of the most trying in my life—not just for the physical strain or danger, but for the immense emotional burden of watching our nation unravel. I still hoped for peace, even in those final hours. But peace never came. The decisions made in March and early April—by Washington, by Montgomery, and by Charleston—made it clear: the Union would fight for its survival, and the Confederacy would fight for its independence.

From that moment forward, the course of American history had changed, and I, from within the battered walls of Fort Sumter, had stood witness to the moment the storm finally broke.

A Silent March to War: Our Move to Fort Sumter – Told by Major Anderson

In December of 1860, I found myself posted to Charleston Harbor, commanding a small detachment of U.S. Army troops. Though my uniform still bore the colors of the United States, the city that surrounded us no longer claimed the same allegiance. South Carolina had seceded from the Union on December 20, the first state to do so. The air was thick with uncertainty, and the streets buzzed with talk of independence and confrontation. Militias drilled openly, and the city’s newspapers called for the removal of Union forces from their midst. I was the commander of a few loyal men surrounded by rising hostility.

Our garrison was stationed at Fort Moultrie, an aging and vulnerable coastal fortification built for another era. Its walls were low, exposed, and deteriorating. Worse yet, it faced the city—our weakest side pointed directly at the enemy. The fort lacked secure provisions, was surrounded by Confederate sympathizers, and could not be held if attacked. It would have been little more than a death trap.

A Difficult Decision

As commander, I bore a heavy responsibility—not just to protect my men, but to preserve the flag under which we served. I understood that to remain in Fort Moultrie would be to invite destruction. After careful deliberation and with no orders forbidding such an action, I resolved to move my entire garrison to the stronger, more defensible Fort Sumter, situated on an artificial island in the middle of Charleston Harbor.

The move had to be carried out in secrecy, for if word leaked, we would surely be intercepted. Charleston’s harbor bristled with Southern sentiment, and the city had its eyes fixed on our every move. We planned carefully, quietly loading supplies, arms, and ammunition onto boats under the cover of darkness.

A Midnight Crossing

On the night of December 26, 1860, as darkness fell over Charleston, we began our quiet evacuation. The sea was calm, and the sky held no moon—God’s mercy, I believe, for we needed shadows to cover our retreat. My men moved swiftly and silently, first lowering the American flag at Fort Moultrie, then ferrying across the harbor in longboats, loaded with all the equipment we could carry. The men rowed in silence, every creak of the oars sounding louder than cannon fire in our ears. We knew we were being watched, perhaps even tracked.

I made the crossing with them, heart pounding in my chest. Every flicker of lantern light on the water felt like a shot across our bow. But by God’s grace, we arrived at Fort Sumter without incident, landing on its darkened shore and entering its gates without detection. The transfer was complete by morning.

A New Stronghold

Fort Sumter, though unfinished and lacking supplies, was a far more defensible position than Moultrie. Its high walls and island location gave us the advantage. Once inside, my men quickly set to work preparing for what we knew was coming. We mounted guns, moved powder into magazines, and began reinforcing weak points in the masonry. The harbor now looked different from inside those walls—we were surrounded on all sides, but we had turned Fort Sumter into a challenge the Confederacy could not ignore.

Back at Fort Moultrie, the Southern militias seized the abandoned position within hours. Across the harbor, Confederate flags were now raised over our former station and over Castle Pinckney as well. Charleston erupted in outrage over our move—they claimed it was an act of war. But to us, it was an act of self-preservation, and a stand for the Union.

The Waiting Begins

The days that followed were filled with tension. Supplies were low. My men slept in shifts, keeping watch on the harbor and the growing number of Confederate guns pointed in our direction. I sent word to Washington, hoping for support—a resupply, a reinforcement, a plan. But communication was slow, and politics even slower. The Southern batteries grew by the day, their guns positioned with deliberate care and unspoken threat.

We did not know how long we would last. But I had made a promise to defend the flag above Fort Sumter, and my men shared that purpose. Every man knew we were outnumbered, isolated, and likely to face attack. Yet no one faltered. They sharpened bayonets, cleaned muskets, reinforced walls—and waited.

A Line in the Sand

By moving to Fort Sumter, we had drawn a line in the sand. The Union was still intact in name, but in spirit, it was shattering. Our presence on that island became more than a tactical position—it was a symbol. The Confederacy wanted us out, but we would not go willingly. And so, as the harbor filled with enemy guns and tempers flared in Washington, Montgomery, and Charleston, we stood ready.

What began as a midnight crossing on a quiet harbor would soon erupt into the first battle of a terrible war. And we would be at its center.

The Baltimore Riots and Lincoln’s Bold Response – Told by Major Anderson

When I and my men surrendered Fort Sumter on April 13, 1861, we did so under honorable terms, having held out as long as we could. Our flag was lowered with dignity, and we were permitted to evacuate. But though the cannon fire in Charleston ceased, the shockwaves of that bombardment raced through the nation. In the North, the attack unified public opinion. In the South, it confirmed their belief that war had truly begun.

On April 15, President Abraham Lincoln issued a call for 75,000 volunteers to suppress the rebellion. It was a call not just to arms—but to motion. Northern states began mustering troops and sending them southward by rail, many of them converging on the vital route through Baltimore, Maryland—a city sitting uneasily between North and South.

A City on Edge

Baltimore was no ordinary city. Though Maryland had not seceded, it was deeply divided. Many of its people sympathized with the Confederacy. The city’s mayor, police commissioner, and a portion of its population saw the arrival of federal troops as an invasion. As regiments began passing through, tension built with each train that rolled into the station.

On April 19, 1861, the storm finally broke.

That day, the 6th Massachusetts Infantry arrived at Baltimore’s President Street Station. They were expected to change trains to continue toward Washington, D.C.—but the two rail lines weren’t connected directly. The soldiers would have to march through the city streets, a half-mile trek dragging their gear and arms behind them. That march, though brief, was like pouring oil onto fire.

Stones and Lead: The Riot Begins

As the Massachusetts men began their march, a mob gathered—angry, shouting, armed with bricks, clubs, and pistols. The soldiers were pelted with rocks and insults. Then, somewhere along the route, a gunshot rang out. Chaos erupted. The troops, marching in small detachments, found themselves separated and surrounded. Some fired back. Windows shattered. Civilians joined the fray, many attacking from alleys and rooftops.

By the time the smoke cleared, four Union soldiers lay dead, along with twelve Baltimore civilians. Dozens more were wounded. It was the first bloodshed of the war on Northern soil, and it came not from Confederate armies—but from an American city attacking American soldiers.

Lincoln’s Dilemma: A Capital in Danger

News of the Baltimore Riots reached President Lincoln quickly. He faced an immediate crisis. Washington, D.C., was now isolated. The rail lines from the North ran through Baltimore—and the city was in open revolt. With Confederate Virginia to the south and secessionist sentiment in Maryland, the capital was nearly cut off from reinforcements and supplies. It was a terrifying moment. The Union itself, barely beginning to fight, faced the real possibility of losing its capital.

President Lincoln, calm but resolute, knew hesitation would be fatal. Though a man of law and principle, he now authorized extraordinary measures. In short order, he suspended certain civil liberties and approved the use of martial law along key transportation routes in Maryland. He authorized the arrest of local officials suspected of Confederate sympathy, including Baltimore’s mayor, police commissioner, and even members of the state legislature.

Martial Law Declared: A Nation Divided, A City Silenced

By summer, federal troops occupied Baltimore. Telegraph lines were monitored, newspaper editors were arrested, and habeas corpus was suspended—measures that sparked fierce debate across the country. But Lincoln’s goal was clear: keep Maryland in the Union at all costs, or the capital would be lost. It was a bold and dangerous move, but it succeeded.

Though resentment simmered in Baltimore for the rest of the war, the rail lines were secured. Thousands of Union troops poured through, and Washington was reinforced just in time to prepare for the coming Confederate onslaught.

A Fire Ignited at Home

I remember hearing of the riots while still traveling north from Charleston. I had just seen what war looked like on the battlefield, and now I saw that war could burn in the streets of our own cities, among neighbors and kin. The Civil War was not some distant campaign—it was in our streets, our train stations, and our hearts. The riot in Baltimore was a stark reminder that the North was not united in body or spirit, and that Lincoln would need both wisdom and iron resolve to hold the Union together.

He showed both in those first terrible days. And I, a soldier who had once taught his enemies at West Point, knew we had entered a conflict that would test not just armies, but the soul of the republic itself.

The Final Demand: The Eve of War at Fort Sumter – Told by Major Anderson

The tension in Charleston Harbor had reached a boiling point by the second week of April 1861. I had held Fort Sumter with a dwindling garrison since our nighttime move from Fort Moultrie in December. Surrounded by Confederate batteries and starved of supplies, we waited with discipline and hope for peace—but prepared for war. Then, as fate would have it, the man leading the Confederate forces across the harbor was General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard—my former pupil at West Point.

Years ago, I had trained Beauregard in artillery. He was bright, ambitious, and proud—a promising officer with a keen eye for tactics. Now he was commanding the guns aimed directly at my position. There was no personal hatred between us, only the heavy sorrow of finding ourselves on opposite sides of a fractured nation.

Messages Across the Water

The days before April 11 were filled with messages and careful negotiation, passed by boat between our fort and Beauregard’s headquarters. The Confederate government, newly formed in Montgomery, Alabama, had made its position clear: Fort Sumter, as a federal outpost in what they now claimed as their territory, must be surrendered.

Beauregard, respectful and perhaps even conflicted, sent envoys under a flag of truce to present the Confederate position. I responded with firmness, but restraint. I explained that I could not surrender the fort unless forced to do so by starvation or by overwhelming force. I had no authority to abandon it, and I would not do so out of fear or pressure. These exchanges remained civil—marked with decorum, even courtesy—but beneath them simmered the certainty that time was running out.

Meanwhile, I knew that a relief expedition was en route from Washington. President Lincoln had notified South Carolina authorities that he intended only to send supplies—food, not weapons or reinforcements—to the garrison at Sumter. The Confederate leadership rejected this as a veiled act of aggression. In their minds, any attempt to resupply the fort was a violation of their sovereignty.

April 11: The Final Ultimatum

On the night of April 11, 1861, just before 1:30 a.m., Confederate representatives once again arrived at our gates under a white flag. They were sent by General Beauregard to deliver a final ultimatum: Fort Sumter must be surrendered, immediately. If not, the Confederate forces would open fire.

I received the delegation in the cold darkness of the fort’s interior. The atmosphere was heavy. The men delivering the message were solemn, respectful—fully aware that they were carrying the weight of history in their hands. I read the terms carefully. They offered honorable conditions, but the essence was unchanged: surrender or be fired upon.

I responded with a calm firmness that masked the heaviness I felt in my chest. I told them I could not accept their demand, but I added—perhaps as a final offering of peace—that if they would wait a little longer, the question of surrender would resolve itself. Our provisions were nearly gone. Within days, we would be unable to hold the fort, and I might be compelled to yield. Perhaps that might satisfy their demands without bloodshed.

The envoys returned to Beauregard. He conferred with his officers. They replied that while my answer was courteous, it did not meet their terms. They would not wait.

The Last Night of Peace

I returned to my men and informed my officers. We were to expect an attack at any moment. I walked the walls of Fort Sumter that night, gazing out at the black water of Charleston Harbor, now ringed by Confederate batteries. The moonlight flickered faintly on their gun barrels. The stars above were calm and silent, unaware of the storm about to be unleashed below.

Inside the fort, my men made ready. They were tired, underfed, and outnumbered—but brave. We moved ammunition into place. Cannons were loaded. Orders were given with quiet efficiency. Some men prayed. Others stood watch, rifles in hand. It was the last night of peace many of us would ever know.

Honor and Heartbreak

I could not help but think of Beauregard—my former student—now the one to fire upon his old instructor. I did not hate him. I believed he was acting as his duty demanded, just as I was. But the sorrow was undeniable. This was not a war between strangers. It was a war between brothers, classmates, fellow citizens, and in our case, even teacher and pupil.

As the night turned to morning, we waited in silence. Then, at 4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861, a single mortar shell arched into the sky from Fort Johnson, exploding over our heads. The roar of artillery followed from every direction. The war had begun.

The Storm Breaks: The Assault on Fort Sumter – Told by Major Anderson

In the still, black hours of the morning of April 12, 1861, I stood on the ramparts of Fort Sumter, knowing what was coming. Hours earlier, I had received the final word from General Beauregard, my former student, that our refusal to surrender had sealed our fate. My men were at their posts, weary but steady. We had waited months in isolation—undermanned, underfed, and encircled—and now, the hour had come.

At exactly 4:30 a.m., a brilliant white light streaked across the sky from Fort Johnson, followed by a thunderous crack as the shell burst over our fort. That mortar round was the signal, and within moments, Confederate batteries opened fire from every direction—Morris Island, Sullivan’s Island, James Island, and even the mainland. Charleston Harbor lit up with fire, and the American Civil War had begun.

Answering the Guns

It was some time before we returned fire. I gave orders to hold our fire until daylight, both to conserve our limited ammunition and to avoid firing blindly into the darkness. At dawn, our men opened the embrasures, aimed our cannon, and fired back—not in anger, but in solemn duty. We concentrated our return fire primarily on Fort Moultrie and the iron battery on Cummings Point, which were hammering us relentlessly.

But our situation was dire from the beginning. Fort Sumter was not fully armed, and many of our upper-tier guns were exposed and unusable due to the unfinished state of the fort. We had no powder cartridges prepared, and so the men—some of whom were simply volunteers or mechanics, not trained artillerymen—had to fashion makeshift powder bags from flannel shirts, socks, and any scrap cloth they could find. It was an extraordinary and dangerous improvisation, but they made do without complaint.

The Roar and the Fire

For thirty-four hours, the thunder of cannon fire echoed across the harbor. Shells slammed into our walls. Smoke choked the air. The sound was unrelenting—like nothing I had ever heard in my decades of service. Stone cracked, bricks shattered, and at times, parts of the parapet collapsed. The flagpole was hit and partially felled, but we quickly raised the flag again, tying it to a makeshift staff.

Miraculously, we suffered no fatalities during the bombardment. Some of the men were bruised or burned, and several were nearly buried when a wall caved in, but no one was killed in the shelling itself—a fact I still regard as providential.

By the second day, fires had broken out inside the fort. Shells from hotshot batteries had ignited the wooden quarters and the officers' barracks. The flames spread quickly, choking our interior with black smoke and forcing us to move ammunition to avoid explosion. We poured water onto the fires, but the cisterns were running dry. The men, already exhausted, fought both the enemy and the blaze with heroic determination.

The firing on Fort Sumter had united the North. What had once been political disagreement was now armed rebellion, and men across the Union were rising to answer President Lincoln’s call. For me, the battle had ended—but for the country, it had just begun.

The Final Assault on Fort Sumter, April 13–14, 1861 – Told by Major Anderson

As the sun rose on April 13, 1861, the second day of bombardment at Fort Sumter, we awoke to the deafening roar of artillery that had not ceased through the night. The Confederate batteries had redoubled their efforts, and the intensity of fire was growing by the hour. From Fort Moultrie, Morris Island, and Cummings Point, their cannons poured iron and flame upon us with startling precision. My men, weary from the long night and suffocating smoke, returned fire as best they could—but it was clear we were now simply trying to endure.

We had begun this battle with bravery and preparation, but we were outgunned, outmanned, and cut off. Still, not one of my men wavered. Inside those thick stone walls, battered and burning, the spirit of the Union still stood.

Fighting Fire, Not Just the Enemy

What the Confederate guns had not destroyed, the fire now threatened to finish. During the early morning hours, a red-hot shot—fired deliberately by the enemy—landed in our officers’ quarters, and soon flames were licking through the interior of the fort. Sparks caught the wooden roof supports, and thick black smoke began to fill our halls.

The men rushed to save the powder stores, dragging barrels from rooms as flames crept dangerously close. Some climbed into burning structures to retrieve ammunition or supplies. We formed bucket lines from the nearly depleted cisterns, but the flames gained ground. There were moments we could hardly breathe—our lungs stung with smoke, our uniforms soaked with sweat and ash. Every moment was a choice between fighting the fire and manning the walls.

A Banner Struck, A Symbol Raised Again

During one of the fiercest waves of bombardment that morning, a Confederate shell struck the flagpole, sending it crashing down. For a brief, painful moment, the Stars and Stripes disappeared from view, and cheers erupted from across the harbor. But my men acted without hesitation. Sergeant Peter Hart, a volunteer and friend, braved the fire and falling debris to retrieve the flag and nail it to a makeshift staff, raising it again high above the parapet. The cheers across the harbor fell silent. The flag still flew, battered but defiant.

It was a powerful moment—a symbol that we still stood, still resisted, though we were nearly spent.

A Difficult Decision

By mid-afternoon, I knew the truth: we could not endure much longer. Our gunpowder was nearly gone, our food reduced to scraps. The heat was unbearable, the air choking. Fires had made many sections of the fort uninhabitable, and we had no fresh reinforcements, despite knowing that a relief fleet had tried to reach us.

At that moment, another message arrived—a white flag from General Beauregard, requesting a truce and offering terms of surrender. He had sent representatives to discuss ending the battle before more blood was shed or lives lost. I gathered my officers. With the men’s safety in mind and the honor of our flag upheld, I agreed to open negotiations.

Terms of Honor and an Unthinkable Accident

The Confederates offered us honorable terms: We could evacuate the fort with our men, arms, and personal property. We would be allowed to fire a 100-gun salute to the American flag before lowering it, and then depart by steamer to Union territory. I accepted.

On the morning of April 14, my men dressed in uniform and prepared for the ceremony. With solemn pride, they began firing the salute. But as we neared the fiftieth round, tragedy struck. A spark reached a powder charge prematurely, causing a devastating explosion. Private Daniel Hough, a veteran gunner, was killed instantly—the first fatality of the Civil War. Private Edward Galloway was mortally wounded. The salute was halted. The cost of this symbolic farewell was suddenly too high.

With heavy hearts, we lowered the flag and folded it carefully. I carried it with me personally as we marched out of Fort Sumter and boarded the transport. The Confederates, to their credit, honored our departure without insult. We left battered but proud—having stood our ground as long as humanly possible.

A War That Had Truly Begun

As I looked back at the blackened walls of Fort Sumter, now under Confederate control, I felt no shame. We had done our duty, and we had held to the last possible moment. But I also knew that the firing on Sumter had done more than damage a fort—it had shattered the last thread of national unity. The country I loved had plunged into war, and the road ahead would be long and bloody.

The world now knew what I had feared for months: the Union was no longer simply divided by words, but by war, and it had begun here—beneath the smoke and flame of Charleston Harbor.

A President Tested: Lincoln’s Response to Fort Sumter – Told by Major Anderson

When Abraham Lincoln took the oath of office on March 4, 1861, he inherited a nation already coming apart at the seams. Seven Southern states had declared secession, a Confederate government had formed in Montgomery, and across the South, federal forts and arsenals were falling into enemy hands—some without resistance, others by force. I was already stationed in Charleston Harbor, surrounded, isolated, and commanding Fort Sumter, one of the last remaining Union strongholds in the Deep South.

President Lincoln was new to war, but he was not blind to its approach. Though his inaugural address pleaded for unity and promised not to interfere with slavery where it existed, he made one truth clear: the Union was perpetual, and no state had the right to leave it. It was a calm and reasoned message—but the South took it as a challenge.

The Burden of Sumter

While I stood surrounded by Confederate guns, Washington debated whether to hold or abandon Fort Sumter. Supplies were dwindling. Food was nearly gone. Ammunition was low. And I had no orders to surrender, nor any sign of reinforcement. President Buchanan, before leaving office, had hesitated—sending a relief mission that turned back when fired upon. That mission’s failure placed our garrison in deeper peril.

Now, the question sat before President Lincoln: Should he hold Fort Sumter, or withdraw and risk appearing weak? Should he reinforce it and risk war? Either decision could bring consequences far beyond Charleston Harbor.

Lincoln’s Calculated Response

Lincoln chose a measured yet decisive course. He sent word to South Carolina authorities that he intended to send provisions—food only—to the garrison at Fort Sumter. It was a strategic move. He would not fire the first shot. He would not send troops or arms—just bread for hungry soldiers. If the South wanted war, they would have to start it.

This message, though clear and peaceful, was viewed in Charleston as a provocation. Confederate forces under General P.G.T. Beauregard, my former student at West Point, had been preparing for weeks. When news of the provisioning fleet arrived, they acted swiftly. On April 11, Beauregard issued a final demand for our surrender. I declined, saying we would hold until forced out by starvation or bombardment.

The Attack That Changed Everything

On April 12, 1861, at 4:30 a.m., Confederate guns opened fire on Fort Sumter. The harbor erupted with flame and thunder. For thirty-four hours, my men and I held our post, returning fire as best we could, defending the flag and the honor of the Union. We were vastly outgunned, and our position soon became untenable—fire, smoke, and falling stone made defense impossible. On April 13, with our provisions nearly gone and parts of the fort ablaze, I agreed to surrender under honorable terms.

When Lincoln received news of the bombardment, he did not respond with rage, but with resolve. The attack on Fort Sumter unified the North in a way no speech ever could. Even his critics rallied behind him. Days later, he issued a call for 75,000 volunteers to suppress the rebellion. In response, four more states seceded, choosing war over Union. The country was now fully divided.

A Quiet Strength in the White House

I did not meet Abraham Lincoln during those early weeks, but I felt his presence in every telegram, every order, every delay. I knew he bore the weight of the nation on his shoulders. He had been president for just over a month when the first shots were fired, and already he had to make decisions that would define history.

He did not act rashly, nor did he shrink from the moment. His decision to resupply, not reinforce, Fort Sumter was both morally and strategically sound. It left no doubt who fired first. He gave the Union a just cause. He gave the war a beginning that would rally the North—and in that way, the fall of Fort Sumter was not a defeat, but a beginning.

A War Awakened, A Union Determined

As I departed Charleston with the flag folded beside me, I understood what had been set in motion. Lincoln would not let the Union die. He would not abandon us, and he would not allow our surrender to be in vain. The shots fired at Fort Sumter may have opened the war—but Lincoln’s calm strength would guide the nation through it.

I had done my duty. Now it was time for others to rise.

A Nation Enlists: Raising Armies North and South – Told by Major Anderson

When the guns fell silent at Fort Sumter, and we lowered our flag in smoke and sorrow, I knew that the war had truly begun. But what I could not yet see from the walls of that battered fort was the way the people of both the North and South would respond. The echo of those cannon shots rolled across the hills and valleys of this country and stirred men in cities, towns, and farms to take up arms. In the weeks that followed, America turned from a land of uncertainty into one of marching boots, drumbeats, and swelling ranks of volunteers.

President Abraham Lincoln, just days after the bombardment, issued a call for 75,000 volunteers to put down the rebellion. That number would swell quickly into the hundreds of thousands. Meanwhile, Jefferson Davis, president of the fledgling Confederacy, called for troops of his own. The race to raise armies had begun.

In the North: A Flood of Patriots

In the North, the response to Lincoln’s call was swift and passionate. Men flocked to recruiting stations in every state. In Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, and smaller towns across the Union, the sight of young men enlisting became as common as the waving of flags. I was moved by the stories I heard—brothers signing up together, fathers leaving their families, farmers trading plows for muskets, and students setting down their books to wear blue uniforms.

Recruitment was largely organized at the state level. Each governor was tasked with raising regiments to meet Washington’s quotas. Volunteers signed up for periods ranging from 90 days to three years. Many believed the war would be short—a show of strength, a single battle perhaps. They wanted to be there when it ended.

Posters, newspapers, speeches, and parades rallied public enthusiasm. Community leaders, clergy, and even veterans of past wars urged men to serve. Recruiting officers worked tirelessly, often overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of willing hands. Some states exceeded their quotas in a matter of days. It was not hard to find men ready to fight—it was harder to arm and train them quickly enough.

In the South: Duty and Defiance

In the South, I found the fervor was no less fierce. The call to defend home, state, and sovereignty stirred men from Virginia to Texas. The Confederate government called on each state to supply troops, and local militias were quickly absorbed into a larger Southern army. The pride of defending one's homeland, combined with a deep sense of honor and duty, brought tens of thousands of men into ranks.

Recruitment in the South was often more personal and community-based. Local leaders raised companies, towns formed full regiments, and neighbors marched together into war. Courthouses, churches, and taverns served as meeting grounds for sign-ups. Banners were sewn by the women of the town, and ceremonies sent the men off with cheers, hymns, and prayer.

Like the North, many Southern soldiers believed the war would be brief. Their confidence came not from arrogance, but from a belief that they were in the right—and that such conviction would bring quick success.

Motives, Pride, and Resolve

Neither side needed to rely on force or desperation at the outset. Enthusiasm for enlistment was overwhelming. Men were driven by a mixture of patriotism, loyalty, adventure, duty, and pride. In both North and South, those who did not volunteer sometimes faced social pressure—being labeled as cowards or traitors in their communities. And for those who did enlist, their departure was often treated as an act of heroism.

As an officer trained in the quiet discipline of the peacetime army, I was astounded by the scale and speed of this mobilization. Before the smoke of Fort Sumter had fully cleared, both sides were fielding armies numbering in the tens of thousands. These were not yet seasoned soldiers, but they were eager, proud, and determined.

From Volunteers to Veterans

The reality of war would soon settle in. Battles like Bull Run and Wilson’s Creek would show that this would not be a short conflict. But in those early days, there was no shortage of brave men willing to fight. The war began not with drafts or coercion—but with open hearts and raised hands, from farms, towns, and city streets alike.

As I reflect on those weeks following the fall of Fort Sumter, I am struck by the will of a divided people, each believing in their cause, each willing to bleed for their vision of America. The armies that formed in the spring of 1861 were not just military forces—they were the embodied spirit of a nation at war with itself.

The Confederate Army Grows

The Grey Creole: The Life of General P.G.T. Beauregard (1818–1893)

Pierre Gustave Toutant-Beauregard was born on May 28, 1818, near New Orleans, Louisiana, into a wealthy French Creole family. Raised on a sugarcane plantation, young Beauregard grew up speaking French before he ever learned English. His heritage—rooted in French aristocracy and Southern honor—gave him a unique identity, one that would follow him throughout his life. From the bayous of Louisiana to the battlefields of the Civil War, Beauregard carried himself with a mix of European polish and Southern fire.

At the age of 12, he began preparing for a military career, eventually earning an appointment to the United States Military Academy at West Point. He arrived speaking broken English, but quickly adapted, excelling in engineering and artillery. In 1838, he graduated second in his class, earning a commission in the Corps of Engineers.

A Rising Officer in a Growing Nation

For the next two decades, Beauregard served in the U.S. Army with distinction. He fought in the Mexican-American War (1846–1848), earning two brevets for gallantry. He served under General Winfield Scott and distinguished himself in the siege of Veracruz, the assault on Chapultepec, and other key engagements. After the war, he returned to engineering, working on coastal defenses and harbor improvements, particularly around New Orleans.

By the late 1850s, Beauregard’s military career was flourishing. He was briefly appointed Superintendent of West Point in 1861—but the appointment lasted only five days. With Louisiana seceding from the Union, Beauregard resigned his commission to join the Confederacy, one of the first prominent U.S. officers to do so.

The First Shot of the Civil War

Beauregard was appointed the first brigadier general in the Confederate Army, and almost immediately found himself commanding forces in Charleston, South Carolina. There, he faced a unique situation: the Union garrison at Fort Sumter, commanded by none other than Major Robert Anderson, his former West Point artillery instructor.

In early April 1861, after negotiations failed and with supplies en route to the fort, Beauregard received orders from Confederate President Jefferson Davis to demand the surrender of Fort Sumter, and if refused, to open fire. On April 12, 1861, at 4:30 a.m., his forces fired the first shots of the American Civil War. After 34 hours of bombardment, Anderson surrendered the fort.

That moment cemented Beauregard’s name in history: the man who fired the first shot of the Civil War.

Glory at Bull Run, Conflict Within

Beauregard’s next great moment came at the First Battle of Bull Run (Manassas) on July 21, 1861. Serving as a co-commander alongside General Joseph E. Johnston, Beauregard helped deliver the first major Confederate victory. His flair for battlefield drama and strategic coordination earned him national fame in the South.

But Beauregard’s career was soon marked by clashes with Confederate leadership. He had strong opinions on military strategy and took issue with President Davis’s decisions more than once. His temperament, pride, and aristocratic bearing sometimes made him difficult to work with. Still, he remained a capable and respected commander.

A Career of Campaigns and Controversy

Beauregard served in numerous campaigns throughout the war. He commanded forces at Shiloh in 1862 after General Albert Sidney Johnston’s death, though the battle ended in a costly Confederate retreat. He later oversaw the defense of Charleston, employing brilliant engineering tactics to withstand repeated Union assaults and naval bombardments.

In 1864, Beauregard helped delay the Union advance toward Richmond in the Petersburg Campaign, giving General Lee time to fortify the Confederate capital. Though his role became more administrative in the final months, he remained a loyal and energetic commander until the end of the war.

The Struggles of Peace

After the Confederacy collapsed, Beauregard returned to Louisiana. Though he had once helped spark the war, he now advocated for reconciliation, urging his fellow Southerners to accept the Union’s victory and look toward rebuilding. He worked in railroad administration and later in public service, serving as a supervisor of the Louisiana Lottery—one of the few stable sources of income available in the postwar South.

Though he was never far from controversy, Beauregard became a symbol of Southern pride and resilience, known for his integrity and his commitment to peaceful reconstruction. He was one of the few former Confederate generals to publicly support civil rights and voting rights for Black citizens during Reconstruction, a stance that cost him favor among many of his former peers.

Final Years and Lasting Legacy

General P.G.T. Beauregard died on February 20, 1893, in New Orleans. He was 74 years old. At his funeral, thousands turned out to honor one of the South’s most famous generals—the first Confederate officer to achieve national fame, and one of its last surviving heroes.

Though history may judge him for firing the first shot, his story is far more complex. He was a soldier of loyalty, a strategist of distinction, and a man who, in the aftermath of war, sought peace. In a nation struggling to find its identity, Beauregard’s life mirrored its trials—divided, determined, and ultimately searching for redemption.

My Account of the Assault on Fort Sumter – Told by P.G.T. Beauregard

The Waiting Game: April 11, 1861

By the evening of April 11, 1861, the harbor of Charleston had grown eerily still, but the tension was unbearable. The batteries that surrounded Fort Sumter—on Morris Island, James Island, Sullivan’s Island, and the mainland—were fully manned, loaded, and ready. I had done everything in my power to prepare for this moment. The Confederate government in Montgomery had made its position clear: Fort Sumter must be surrendered or taken by force.

I had spent weeks tightening the noose around Major Robert Anderson, my former instructor at West Point. A strange irony, to be sure. I held deep respect for him, but my duty now lay with the Confederate States. And so, with great reluctance, I sent my aides under a flag of truce to deliver a final demand: surrender the fort, or face bombardment.

Anderson’s response, as expected, was dignified and measured. He stated he would not surrender, but if left alone, he would be forced to evacuate due to starvation in just a few days. I sent this reply to Montgomery for consideration. But the Confederate authorities were finished waiting. They ordered me to open fire if Anderson did not yield at once.

The Opening Salvo: April 12, 4:30 A.M.

I gave the order just before dawn on April 12. At 4:30 a.m., a single mortar round was fired from Fort Johnson, arching high over the harbor and bursting above Fort Sumter. It was the signal shot—the first of the war. Within moments, our batteries thundered to life. The air trembled as cannon after cannon opened fire, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the gray morning sky.

The people of Charleston, drawn by curiosity and patriotic fervor, gathered on rooftops and along the waterfront to watch the assault unfold. But to me, it was not a spectacle—it was a solemn, weighty act. For all our planning, for all our resolve, I understood what we had done: we had crossed the line from politics to war.

Anderson did not respond immediately. He waited until daylight to return fire, aiming his limited cannons at Fort Moultrie and the iron-clad battery at Cummings Point. But he was hopelessly outmatched. We had more than forty guns bearing down on him from all sides. His position, though strong in walls, was weak in supplies, in powder, in food. Still, his men fought bravely. I admired their determination.

Endurance and Flame: April 12–13

The bombardment continued throughout the day and into the night. We fired hundreds of rounds from heavy artillery, rotating shifts across the batteries. Our gunners showed discipline, aiming to disable the fort without causing unnecessary loss of life. My orders were clear: inflict damage, not slaughter.

On April 13, I received word that fires had broken out inside the fort. Anderson’s quarters were ablaze. Our hotshot had found its mark. Still, he did not yield. The Stars and Stripes remained flying, even as the roof above it burned and the air inside turned to smoke.

That afternoon, a white flag was raised. Major Anderson sent word requesting a ceasefire to negotiate terms of surrender. I accepted. After all, our goal had never been to destroy him or his men. I had always hoped for a peaceful solution—but that was no longer possible. The war had begun, and now we needed to end this first encounter with honor on both sides.

Terms of Surrender and Final Farewell: April 14

We met under flags of truce and agreed to Anderson’s terms: he and his garrison would evacuate peacefully, with their arms, personal property, and full military honors. They would be allowed to fire a 100-gun salute to their flag, which had flown bravely throughout the bombardment. I consented without hesitation. Though we stood opposed, I recognized their courage.

On the morning of April 14, under a clear sky, the fort fell silent. Anderson’s men dressed in uniform, formed ranks, and began their salute. But then—a tragic accident. One of the guns exploded during the ceremony, killing Private Daniel Hough and mortally wounding another soldier. The salute was ended at fifty rounds. A somber stillness followed. It was a bitter and ironic footnote to the first chapter of the war.

Later that day, Anderson and his men boarded a transport ship, carrying with them the flag they had defended, folded with care. As they passed out of the harbor, I stood in silence, not with joy, but with reflection. We had won the fort, but lost the peace forever.

A War Awakened

With the fall of Fort Sumter, the Southern Confederacy had made its stand. The Union had been challenged not with words, but with fire. In the days that followed, President Lincoln called for troops. The North answered. More states seceded. And the lines were drawn.

Looking back, I knew what had been set in motion. The bombardment of Fort Sumter was not the end of a dispute—it was the beginning of a national agony. I had fired the first shot not in hatred, but in duty to my people. And yet, I carried the weight of that moment for the rest of my days.

A Confederate Reflection on the War’s Beginning – Told by P.G.T. Beauregard

I have always held Major Robert Anderson in high regard. He was my instructor at West Point, a man of integrity and quiet discipline, and I served under the flag of the United States for many years myself. But while I respect him as a soldier, I must speak plainly: his account of the war’s beginning, though sincere, does not reflect the full truth as we in the South experienced it.

This war did not begin with the Confederacy firing the first shot in blind rebellion. It began long before April 12, 1861—in years of mounting political hostility, constitutional violations, and open threats to the rights of sovereign states. The firing on Fort Sumter was not an act of aggression—it was a response to a garrison placed in the harbor of a sovereign state, after that state had seceded peacefully and rightfully from a voluntary union.

South Carolina’s Sovereignty Ignored

Major Anderson claims he acted to preserve his men and protect the Union flag when he abandoned Fort Moultrie and moved to Fort Sumter in late December 1860. But I must ask plainly: what right had he to move his forces at all—without orders, into a stronger position, in a harbor now claimed by South Carolina? His move was seen, not unreasonably, as a deliberate act of provocation.

The fort, surrounded by Charleston’s people and its militia, stood as a foreign post in a sovereign land, refusing to leave, refusing to surrender, and signaling to the South that the Union government would use force to hold territory against the will of the state. Major Anderson may have believed he was exercising restraint—but to the people of Charleston, his actions were a silent but aggressive occupation.

A President’s Deception

President Lincoln, too, must be addressed. He sent word that he was merely sending “provisions” to Fort Sumter—but any man of military sense knows that sending ships to supply a hostile garrison, without the consent of the surrounding government, is an act of war. It matters little whether the cargo holds bread or bullets. The arrival of a fleet, including armed vessels, under cover of resupply, was a tactic to force the Confederacy to fire first, so the North could claim moral superiority.

The Confederate government, not yet hardened by war, sought peace. I sought peace. I sent multiple envoys to Major Anderson, asking for a peaceful surrender to avoid bloodshed. He refused, even while admitting that he could not hold out much longer. We offered honorable terms, we treated him with respect, and even allowed his men to evacuate with full honors after the bombardment. The South was not eager for war—but neither would we be intimidated.

The First Shot Was Not the First Act

Much is made of the first shot fired from Fort Johnson. Let it be remembered: that shot was fired after months of unlawful military occupation, political betrayal, and blatant refusal to recognize the South’s right to self-governance. We did not choose war. We were defending our homes, our ports, and our right to live under a government of our own choosing.

It may suit the Northern cause to claim the Confederacy started the war in a fit of rage—but we fired in defense, not in ambition. The blockade of our ports, the massing of Union troops along our borders, the refusal to negotiate or recognize our independence—these were the true beginnings of the war. The guns of Fort Sumter were simply the answer to months of silent escalation.

Honor and Restraint in Charleston Harbor

I take pride not in having fired upon the flag I once served, but in having done my duty. We bombarded Fort Sumter with discipline and honor. We allowed the garrison to evacuate safely. No lives were lost in the engagement itself—a testament to our restraint and professionalism.

It was not we who burned the South to the ground, nor we who unleashed total war on civilians. We fought to defend our people and our lands from what we believed was an overreaching government—one that no longer respected the Constitution or the rights of states.

History Will Judge Us All

Major Anderson served his country well, and I do not doubt his sincerity. But I ask that those who read his account also hear mine. The Confederacy did not seek war—but we would not be dominated. We acted with clarity, with conviction, and with deep sorrow for what was to come.

In the end, history may tell many versions of how this war began. But for those of us who stood at its opening moments—on both sides of Charleston Harbor—we remember a more complicated truth: one of brotherhood broken, of principle defended, and of a terrible storm that neither side could stop once it began.

The Enlistment of Soldiers North and South – Told by General P.G.T. Beauregard

When the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter in April 1861, I knew—as surely as any soldier ever has—that the moment would awaken a fury across both the North and the South. It was not simply the start of a battle—it was the signal that the age of talking was over. We were no longer debating in halls or writing in newspapers; we were going to settle the question by force of arms.

But an army does not march on flags and principles alone. It marches on men, and in those early weeks, both sides scrambled to raise soldiers, build companies, and forge armies out of the farms, factories, towns, and cities of a once-shared nation.

The Southern Spirit: A Call to Defend Our Soil

In the South, our call was one of defense. The Union had refused to recognize our right to self-govern, and we believed we were fighting to protect our homes, our families, and our independence. Volunteers poured in. It seemed every town square became a recruiting post. Men rode or walked dozens of miles to sign their names to the muster rolls. In many cases, they joined up with their neighbors, forming local companies where every man knew the next by name or kin.

We had no standing army of size, and so we relied on the state militias and the surge of volunteers who responded to the call of patriotism and duty. There was, at first, no shortage of them. Young men, proud and eager, filled the ranks, believing the war would be short and the victory ours. Flags were stitched by hand, and uniforms were homemade. Men left with cheers ringing in their ears, with church bells sounding behind them.

Recruitment offices sprang up overnight. Local leaders, including judges, landowners, and veterans of the Mexican War, often took the lead in raising regiments. Governors across the South appointed officers quickly, sometimes based on influence more than experience—but there was no time for perfection. We were building an army on the march.

The Northern Muster: Rally to the Flag

The North responded with no less passion. After President Lincoln’s call for 75,000 volunteers, thousands answered within days. There was fury in the streets of the North—not at the South’s leaving, but at what was now seen as rebellion and an insult to the Union flag. Cities like New York, Philadelphia, and Boston saw men lining up to enlist in droves. Bands played on street corners, and parades sent regiments off with banners waving.

Unlike the South, the North already had a stronger federal framework and more resources to draw upon. Still, the early enlistments relied heavily on volunteers, and state governors took charge of organizing and arming their own units. It was a time of chaos and patriotism intertwined—men swearing loyalty, drilling in city squares, and boarding trains to camps with little understanding of what lay ahead.

In both regions, it was not difficult—at first—to find those who would fight. The people were stirred, the cause was clear to each side, and the belief was widespread that this war would be short, glorious, and decided with honor.

Uniforms, Rifles, and Reality

But while the spirit was strong, the organization was lacking. Neither side was prepared for the scale of what was to come. Uniforms were mismatched, weapons scarce, and officers often had more enthusiasm than training. Yet this was the nature of war at its birth—a cause calls, and men answer. It is only later that they learn what the cause demands.

In the South, men often brought their own rifles, and mothers sewed bedrolls and cartridge pouches. In the North, cities funded regiments and equipped men with newer arms. But in both places, the soldier was not yet shaped by hardship—that would come later, with the marches, the battles, and the long winters of war.

Harder Times and the Need for More

As weeks turned to months, it became harder to keep the ranks full. The early wave of volunteers dwindled as the realities of war set in. Enlistments were short—three months, in many cases—and soon both governments had to extend service terms and offer enlistment bonuses, or "bounties," to attract new recruits.

Later would come the drafts, the conscriptions, the resistance to both. But in those early days—before the smoke of Bull Run, before the horrors of Shiloh and Antietam—it was not hard to find men willing to fight. What was harder was preparing them, supplying them, and leading them through a conflict that would test more than just courage. It would test the soul of each man and the endurance of every nation.

How We Prepared Our New Recruits

In the early days of the Confederacy, most Southern soldiers were raw volunteers—brave but untrained. Training camps were hastily established across the South, from Virginia to Texas, often on open farmland or near rail lines. These camps were typically organized at the state level, with local militia officers or Mexican War veterans placed in charge of drilling the men. Instruction focused heavily on basic infantry tactics—marching in formation, loading and firing rifles, and performing bayonet drills. Discipline was emphasized, but the lack of uniformity and professional military instructors meant that training varied widely from camp to camp. Still, enthusiasm ran high, and the men—many of whom came from rural backgrounds—adapted quickly to physical hardship and the use of firearms.

Supplies were scarce, which affected both training and readiness. Uniforms were often pieced together from homespun cloth, and many recruits brought their own hunting rifles instead of military-issued weapons. Artillery units and cavalry received even less formal instruction due to the shortage of horses, cannon, and experienced trainers. As the war progressed, Confederate officers began sending promising recruits to formal military academies or centralized training posts, such as Camp Lee in Virginia, where they received more structured instruction. But early on, Southern training was built more on patriotism and improvisation than precision. The first true education for many of these soldiers came not on the drill field, but on the battlefield itself.

Two Peoples, One Storm

In those first weeks, it was clear: the war would not be won by enthusiasm alone. Still, I will never forget the faces of those first volunteers—on both sides—who stepped forward believing they were protecting something worth dying for. Whether it was Union or Confederacy, state or country, they came. By horse, by rail, by foot—they came.

And from those early marches, the great and terrible conflict we now call the Civil War truly began.

Enlistment of Black Soldiers in the Civil War – Told by General P.G.T. Beauregard

When I ordered the first cannon to fire on Fort Sumter in April of 1861, I knew we were beginning a war between two halves of a fractured nation. But what none of us fully foresaw in those earliest hours was that this war would come to involve not only white sons of the North and South—but Black men, free and enslaved, fighting on both sides, each with hopes, fears, and uncertain promises.

Though I served the Confederacy, I watched closely as the Union made the bold choice to enlist Black soldiers—and later, we too debated such a course. This was not a simple decision of military utility; it was a question of politics, power, and identity. The way each side handled their enlistment—and their treatment—tells a great deal about who we were and what this war became.

In the North: The Long Road to Recognition

At the war’s outset, Black men were not permitted to enlist in the Union Army. Even many in the North, though opposed to the spread of slavery, were not yet ready to see Black men as soldiers. But as the war deepened and Union casualties mounted, the need for manpower changed minds. The Emancipation Proclamation, issued by President Lincoln in January 1863, not only declared freedom for slaves in rebelling states—it opened the door for Black enlistment.

Recruitment began swiftly after. Regiments of United States Colored Troops (USCT) were raised, often led by white officers. Cities like Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington became central hubs for this movement. One of the earliest and most famous examples was the 54th Massachusetts Infantry, commanded by Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. Black recruiters, ministers, and abolitionists helped spread the call—promising freedom, equal pay (eventually), and the chance to fight for their own liberation.

But the reality was more complicated. At first, Black soldiers received lower pay than white soldiers, and they were often relegated to fatigue duty—digging trenches, building roads, guarding supply lines. Still, many proved themselves in battle, fighting courageously at Fort Wagner, Port Hudson, and Petersburg. Their presence changed the nature of the war. It was no longer just about Union or secession—it was about freedom.

Exceptions: State-Level Enlistments

But, there are always exceptions. Before federal authorization, some Northern states began enlisting Black soldiers on their own, especially as the need for troops grew. Some of the earliest and most notable:

• Louisiana Native Guard: In 1862, Union forces occupying New Orleans began forming units made up of free Black men. The 1st Louisiana Native Guard was organized in the summer of 1862 and included Black officers—extremely rare at the time.

• Kansas Colored Volunteers: Also in 1862, the 1st Kansas Colored Infantry was formed. Though not initially recognized by the federal government, they were armed and engaged in battle on October 29, 1862, at the Skirmish at Island Mound in Missouri—making them the first Black troops to see combat in the Civil War.

In the South: A Late and Reluctant Turn

For most of the war, the Confederacy refused to enlist Black soldiers. Our cause was built on preserving the way of life we knew, which included slavery. To arm the very men we kept in bondage was considered by many to be unthinkable. Some believed it would admit defeat. Others feared what might come if Black men proved themselves equal on the battlefield.

Still, as the war dragged on and our armies grew thin, the idea gained traction—especially among officers like myself. By 1864, I personally advocated for the enlistment of Black soldiers into the Confederate ranks, not as laborers, but as fighters. I believed that if freedom was offered in exchange for loyal service, many would fight for the South—not out of loyalty to the system that bound them, but for the chance at liberation and survival.

Eventually, in March 1865, the Confederate Congress passed a measure allowing Black men to serve as soldiers, with the promise of freedom for those who fought. It was far too late. The war was already nearing its end, and very few of these men were ever trained or saw combat. But the very fact that we reached such a point shows how desperate the situation had become—and how far the war had shifted in its meaning.

Enslaved Labor, Not Soldiers

In the early years of the Civil War, the Confederate government strictly prohibited Black men—enslaved or free—from serving as combat soldiers. However, tens of thousands of enslaved people were forced into non-combat roles: building fortifications, cooking and caring for soldiers, driving wagons and tending horses, and serving as body servants to Confederate officers.

These men were not enlisted soldiers. They were considered property or laborers, not members of the Confederate military. The Southern leadership believed that arming enslaved people would contradict the very foundation of the Confederacy, which was built on the preservation of slavery.

Among the Ranks: Brotherhood and Division

In both armies, Black soldiers faced prejudice, suspicion, and unequal treatment. In the North, despite fighting under the same flag, many white soldiers doubted their discipline or bravery. Some officers refused to command colored units. Even in victory, their achievements were often overlooked.

In the South, where the enlistment came late, Black men were often still used as laborers, cooks, and orderlies, even after the law changed. Those few who were trained to fight never had the chance to prove themselves. And yet, they too endured the burden of war—marching, serving, bleeding—without the recognition granted to others.

But I witnessed something deeper. In those rare instances where men fought side by side, I saw a brotherhood forged in suffering. Battlefields care little for the color of a man's skin. When the bullets fly, it is courage, discipline, and loyalty that matter. Some in both armies learned that truth, though many would not admit it.

A Legacy Written in Sacrifice

By the end of the war, over 180,000 Black men had served in the Union ranks, with tens of thousands more serving in support roles. Their contribution helped tip the balance, both militarily and morally. Though the South’s use of Black soldiers came too late to change the tide, it stood as a final, silent admission that those we had once held in chains could also bear arms, and bear them well.

As one who helped begin this war, I reflect now with complicated thoughts. We fought for what we believed to be right. But the war changed us all. And among its most enduring legacies is the memory of Black men in blue—and briefly, in gray—who stood, marched, and fought for their own place in the American story.

"The Flag Never Touched the Ground": My Story - Told by African American Sergeant William H. Carney, 54th Massachusetts Infantry

I was born a slave in Norfolk, Virginia, on February 29, 1840. My early years were marked by bondage, as were those of my parents and countless others. But even as a boy, I knew I was not meant to live or die in chains. Through God's mercy and my father's determination, we made our way to freedom in Massachusetts. There, I received an education and began to dream not just of a free life for myself—but for all our people.

In those days, I considered becoming a minister. I studied the Bible, wrote sermons in secret, and prayed that one day I might help lead others spiritually out of the darkness. But when war broke out and the country divided over slavery, I saw that God was calling me not to preach from a pulpit—but to serve on the battlefield.

Joining the 54th: A Call to Fight for Freedom

When President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation opened the door for Black men to serve as soldiers, I knew it was time. I was among the first to answer the call when Massachusetts formed the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry—the first official African American regiment raised in the North. Though I enlisted voluntarily, I understood this was more than service—it was a statement to the world that Black men were willing to fight and die for the Union and for the promise of liberty.

Training was rigorous, and we knew that many questioned our worth as soldiers. But under the leadership of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, we became disciplined, proud, and prepared. We were not marching for glory—we were marching for justice.

Fort Wagner: Where We Proved Ourselves

On the evening of July 18, 1863, our regiment was ordered to lead the charge on Fort Wagner, a Confederate stronghold outside Charleston, South Carolina. It was a suicidal task, but we did not falter. As we moved across the sand, cannon fire rained down, and men fell all around me. Amid the smoke and chaos, I saw our color sergeant struck down, and the flag fall to the ground.

In that moment, I did not think—I ran forward, seized the flag, and held it high. Though bullets tore my flesh and blood ran down my legs, I would not let that banner fall again. I pressed forward, rallying the men, waving the stars and stripes even as we were driven back. Wounded and weary, I returned the flag to our lines and said what has echoed through time:

"Boys, I only did my duty. The old flag never touched the ground."

The Long Road to Honor

I was taken to a hospital and later discharged due to my wounds. I bore the scars proudly. It was not until 1900, nearly four decades later, that I received the Medal of Honor for my actions that night—the first African American to be so recognized. But I never fought for medals. I fought to prove that we were men—worthy of citizenship, of dignity, of freedom.

After the war, I continued to serve—this time as a postal worker and public speaker. I reminded audiences of the sacrifice made by the men of the 54th and of the promise still left unfulfilled for many. I wanted my story to show that even a man born in bondage could rise to carry the flag of a nation that had once denied him humanity.

Our Legacy Lives On

I passed in 1908, but long before that day, I saw how the courage of the 54th Massachusetts inspired others. We proved our valor, not with speeches, but with blood and devotion. The path to equality is long and hard, but we helped pave it with our lives and honor.

I held the flag high—not just for a nation, but for a people still reaching for the light of liberty. And I say again, as I did then: "The old flag never touched the ground."