A few days before Christmas, at a state convention held at Saint Andrew’s Hall in Charleston, the delegates of South Carolina voted unanimously to secede from the Union.
Although warnings of secession had appeared with increasing frequency in Southern papers after Abe’s election, many people in the North, including Elizabeth and Ninian, were astounded when South Carolina finally made good on the threat. The stock market roiled, politicians debated to no avail, and citizens North and South wondered with trepidation or fervor which state would be next to secede. Any hopes that South Carolina could swiftly be restored to the Union through negotiation were dashed when its newly appointed leaders declared that the three federal forts within its borders fell within their jurisdiction. While President Buchanan dithered over the appropriate response, perhaps wishing that Abe could replace him immediately and relieve him of the responsibility, the federal officer in charge of one of the forts took action. On the night of December 26, Major Robert Anderson moved his troops from their vulnerable position at Fort Moultrie on the mainland to the more defensible Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor. The next day the South Carolina militia seized Fort Moultrie and Castle Pinckney and demanded Major Anderson’s surrender. Major Anderson declined and resolutely held his post while the South Carolina military settled in for the siege.
In the midst of unprecedented national turmoil and alarm, Abe remained obliged to continue the work of his fledgling administration, and appointing a cabinet was foremost. He invited his former rivals for the Republican nomination, including Mr. Chase, to meet with him in Springfield, while others, such as Mr. Seward, sent proxies. Much to her chagrin, Mary was not allowed to sit in on their private meetings, but at the dinners and receptions she hosted during their visits she had many opportunities to speak with the potential cabinet secretaries and to weigh their merits. Elizabeth understood why Abe was obliged to consider his former rivals and other prominent party men for these important posts, but she hoped he did not overlook loyal, eminently qualified men closer to home—namely, her own dear Ninian. It would be bad form if Ninian came right out and requested a position, but he could, and did, intimate that he was ready and eager to serve in whatever capacity his brother-in-law deemed fit. Between themselves, Ninian and Elizabeth agreed that attorney general would be a high honor for which his skills and experience well suited him, but postmaster general was also prestigious enough.
Their anticipation was overshadowed by dire reports from the East. On January 5, the New York Herald reported that a steamship called the Star of the West had set out from New York for Charleston with supplies and troops to relieve Major Anderson at Fort Sumter. Other newspapers confirmed the story, noting where and when the merchant vessel had been spotted as it journeyed south along the coast. “I would feel reassured by President Buchanan’s long overdue action,” said Mary disparagingly, “except that the people of Charleston can get the news from Eastern papers as easily as we do. Surely their military forces will be ready and waiting when the Star of the West arrives. I can imagine all too well what a horror it would be if Americans turned their weapons upon their fellow Americans!”
Her words proved terribly prescient.
On January 10, Mary departed for New York—escorted by Clark, who knew the city well and could bring his merchant’s skills to bear—so that she might purchase a wardrobe befitting the wife of the president-elect. After that, they would continue on to Cambridge to visit Robert at Harvard, and then bring him home so that he could accompany the family on the presidential train to Washington the following month. Mary confided to her sisters that along the way she intended to meet with prominent Republicans at levees and dinners, ostensibly so that they could pay their respects, but also so that she could evaluate their loyalty to her husband and raise support for her favorite candidates for his cabinet.
Elizabeth could not imagine that Abe knew anything about Mary’s plans to go politicking, and she was quite sure he would not approve.
Mary and Clark boarded the eastbound train even as newspapers blazed with alarming new reports from South Carolina. The previous day, the Star of the West had sailed into Charleston Harbor and had been fired upon by militia and young military cadets. Struck in the mast but not seriously damaged, the steamer nonetheless had been forced back into the channel and out to the open sea.
On that same day, far to the south, delegates in Mississippi voted in favor of secession. The next day Florida seceded from the Union, and the next day Alabama followed suit. One after another the Southern states fell, like books carelessly arranged on an unsteady shelf. Former president John Tyler, living in retirement in Richmond, Virginia, published an appeal for a peace conference to make one last great effort to resolve the crisis without bloodshed. In unwitting mockery of Mr. Tyler’s plea, Georgia seceded two days later, and two days after that five senators from Alabama, Florida, and Mississippi rose to offer farewell speeches before resigning their seats in the Senate and departing Washington for their homes in the South.
The papers somberly described how Senator Jefferson Davis, the last to speak, reiterated his opinion that states had the constitutional right to leave the Union and that his home state of Mississippi had justifiable cause for doing so. Even so, he regretted the conflict that had divided them. “I am sure I feel no hostility toward you, senators from the North,” he said. “I am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may have been between us, to whom I cannot now say, in the presence of my God, I wish you well; and such, I feel, is the feeling of the people whom I represent toward those whom you represent.” Weary from illness and strain, he expressed his hopes that their separate governments would eventually have peaceable relations and offered a personal apology for any pain he might have inflicted upon any other senator in the heat of debate.
Five days later, Louisiana seceded.
Mary had returned to Springfield by then, still glowing from her marvelous shopping excursion and the attention she had received in the press, although not all of the coverage was favorable. Even so, when the Todd sisters met in Elizabeth’s parlor to share news of the family, Elizabeth could see that Mary was as anxious as she. Their half-sister Martha had married a doctor and settled in Selma, Alabama; their half-sister Elodie was living with her and intended to remain in the South. Their brother George and two of their half-brothers, Samuel and David, were living in New Orleans. Elizabeth had received one letter from Elodie since secession fever had taken hold of the South, but nothing from their brothers.
Her brother Levi urged her not to worry. “Our half-brothers have never been avid letter-writers,” he noted. “They’re likely chagrined that they didn’t support Abe in the election, and now that he’s won, they’re keeping quiet so they don’t appear hypocrites. They’ll come around in time, when they see Abe isn’t one to hold a grudge.”
Elizabeth wanted to believe him, but their half-brothers in the South were not like Levi, who admired Abe and had campaigned for him in Lexington. Recently Levi had even pledged to give up liquor, the better to impress and emulate his brother-in-law, who never drank. Elizabeth fervently hoped Levi would remain sober, for he could be an angry, neglectful drunk, and his marriage had suffered for it. His voice no longer slurred, and he seemed to have acquired a renewed interest in life, but his hands trembled slightly and his skin had a tinge of jaundice. Perhaps, if his sobriety endured, those telltale signs of a chronic drunkard would fade in time.
Amid a shifting whirl of emotions—tremendous pride as Abe prepared to ascend to the highest office in the land, anxiety over their splintering nation, happiness for Mary as her childhood dream came true, worry for their loved ones who had apparently thrown in their lot with the secessionist South—Elizabeth and her sisters helped Mary prepare for the journey to the White House. There were trunks to pack, possessions to store, private family papers to burn, arrangements to rent out their home to make, guests to entertain, gifts to acknowledge, countless letters to write. So many well-wishers and office-seekers sought out Abe at home or at his law office that he was obliged to withdraw to a backroom on the third floor of Clark’s dry goods store to write his inaugural address undisturbed. Mary was in her element, shopping and packing and issuing orders with unbridled delight, but whenever she heard of a new threat against her husband, she grew pale and trembling. Tearfully she begged Abe to travel with a bodyguard, but this he was loath to do. He was among friends and family in Springfield, he said, and he emphatically disagreed that his life was in any danger there.
The day was swiftly approaching when the Lincolns and their entourage would leave Springfield for Washington. Mary’s sisters assured her that even if Abe did not see to his own safety, his campaign manager, Judge David Davis, and Mr. Norman Judd, who had been placed in charge of Abe’s security for the trip, would make any necessary arrangements. Mary frowned a little at the mention of the judge. When Abe had stopped listening out of courtesy whenever Mary suggested certain gentlemen for various cabinet posts, she had written to Judge Davis to persuade him of their merits, hoping he would present her recommendations as his own. Thus far it did not appear that the judge had interceded on her behalf.
In the first week of February, their half-sister Margaret, now Mrs. Charles Kellogg, traveled to Springfield from Cincinnati so that she might join them for the journey to Washington; a day later Martha arrived from Selma. Elizabeth was delighted to see them both, but Martha’s presence brought a particular sense of relief, for she had imagined secession as a violent earthquake tearing an impassible rift between Union states and those that had seceded, as if Alabama had been torn from the map. Elizabeth hoped the nascent rebellion would be put down quickly, before it could complicate travel between North and South, preventing the sisters from moving freely between their households as they pleased.
Now the Todd sisters who had reunited in Springfield were preparing for another journey, and on February 5 they helped Mary host a grand farewell celebration at her home. Family, friends, political supporters, and a few members of the press were invited to visit between seven o’clock and midnight to make a parting call on the president-elect and his wife. Hundreds were expected, but thousands came. Abe himself received the guests as they entered and introduced themselves, then passed them on to be introduced to Mary, who awaited them in the parlor. Elizabeth thought she looked absolutely radiant in her rich white moiré antique silk gown with a full train and a small French lace collar. Her lovely neck and shoulders were adorned by a string of pearls, exquisite in their simplicity, and her rich chestnut hair was elegantly coiled and dressed with a slender floral vine. Her eyes sparkled and her smile beamed as if she felt nothing but joy and anticipation for the years to come, and in that perfect moment, with her sisters basking in her happiness and the toast of Springfield at her home to pay their respects, perhaps she did.
At half past seven on the morning of February 11, Abe and his entourage of advisers, secretaries, and friends boarded the Inaugural Express, a special train that would carry him on a roundabout, twelve-day journey from Springfield to Washington. In fact, he would not travel on one train but on several bearing that title in turn, for the varying rail gages along the route would oblige the party to change trains several times. The Inaugural Express, the first of its name, was an exquisitely wrought, modern marvel of gleaming brass and iron, with a powerful engine and a towering funnel stack puffing steam into the air. Directly behind it was the baggage car, and last of all came a yellow passenger carriage festively draped with bunting and flags, its wooden trim varnished until it gleamed. The Inaugural Express would stop at numerous cities along the way so that Abe could thank his supporters, receive their accolades, participate in various civic ceremonies, and make speeches promoting national unity.
Elizabeth was thrilled to be included in Mary’s entourage, along with her daughters, Julia and Lizzy; her sisters Frances, Margaret, and Martha; and their cousin Lizzie Grimsley. Owing to the inconvenient early hour, Mary, Willie, and Tad and her ladies would not depart on the train with Abe and his gentlemen—an entourage that included Robert, William, Levi, and several other friends and advisers—but would join them the next day at their first stop, in Indianapolis.
That was why, as the hour of Abe’s departure approached, Mary, Elizabeth, and Frances were not aboard the Inaugural Express but rather standing on the platform of the Great Western Depot. Well bundled up against the cold amid the bustle and excitement of the exultant crowd, the Todd sisters awaited Abe’s parting speech, which was sure to be a poignant moment even though they would see him again very soon.
The crowd quieted as their president-elect emerged onto the rear deck of the railcar. “My friends, no one not in my situation can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting,” Abe began, his voice carrying over the gathering. “To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when, or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington.”
As he continued to speak, Elizabeth stole a glance at Mary and felt a pang of sympathy at the sadness and uncertainty she saw clouding her sister’s expression. To be the wife of the president was all Mary had ever wanted, and yet almost daily, horrid, threatening letters and reports of assassination plots arrived at their door. Abe tried to shield her from the worst of it, and yet she knew.
Elizabeth reached out and took her sister’s hand, and when Mary gave a start and turned to her, Elizabeth offered an encouraging smile. Mary seemed to take heart, and when Abe finished his remarks, she smiled with genuine happiness and clapped her small, gloved hands as enthusiastically as the rest of the cheering crowd.
When Mary, her two younger sons, and her other companions joined the president-elect’s party in Indianapolis the next day, they boarded an even more opulent train. Like the first Inaugural Express, it was an impressive work of modern engineering, draped with flags and bunting. The engine’s smokestack was embossed with thirty-four white stars—one for each state in the Union, regardless of any declarations of secession—and lithographic portraits of Abe’s presidential predecessors lined its sides. Aboard this gleaming, powerful wonder, they traveled on to Cincinnati, where a marching band welcomed them to the city and a full day of speeches, appearances, and events awaited. After spending the night in Cincinnati, the president’s party continued on the next morning to Columbus, making frequent stops along the way so that Abe could address the cheering, flag-waving crowds eagerly awaiting him. That evening in Columbus, there were more speeches, a party at the home of Governor William Dennison, and a military ball, at which Mary danced and chatted and charmed everyone she met late into the night.
So it continued, day after long, wondrous day, from Columbus on to Pittsburgh and through Pennsylvania to Buffalo. Although Elizabeth was enchanted by the unfamiliar scenery and the joyful celebrations at small towns along the route—and took great delight in watching her daughters reveling in the experience—eventually she began to find the routine grueling. She knew Mary did too. At some stops, Mary would stand in a receiving line at a reception, smiling and shaking hands for hours; on other occasions, she complained of headache and remained in her train carriage to rest on the sofa with her eyes closed and the curtains drawn against the thin winter sunlight. In Ashtabula, Ohio, when she failed to appear on the railcar deck at her husband’s side, the crowd called for her until Abe smiled good-naturedly and held up his hands to quiet them. “I should hardly hope to induce her to appear,” he said, “as I have always found it very difficult to make her do what she did not want to.” The crowd roared with laughter, and even Elizabeth found herself smiling at the little joke made at her sister’s expense.
The Todd sisters knew that the Inaugural Express had taken such a long, circuitous route through several cities and towns not only to allow Abe to greet as many supporters along the way as possible but also to thwart anyone who might wish to do him harm. When Mary learned that the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad had hired the Pinkerton National Detective Agency to investigate a plot to vandalize railroad property during their stop in Baltimore, Elizabeth concealed her own nervousness as she and the other ladies comforted Mary.
“Detective Allan Pinkerton knows about the threat,” the eminently rational Frances noted. “Every guard, police officer, and agent will be prepared and alert for any sign of danger.”
“I’ll still feel better once we pass through that city,” said Mary tremulously, wringing her hands, cheeks flushed with worry. “Maryland is still in the Union—for now—but it is a slave state, and Baltimore has been particularly hostile to my husband.”
“All will be well,” Elizabeth said soothingly, hoping she spoke truth. “What could go wrong, with so many gallant protectors surrounding us?”
On February 21, the president-elect’s party left New York City, aboard the most luxuriously appointed train yet, and made several stops in New Jersey before arriving in Philadelphia to a tremendous welcome of cheering crowds, brass bands, and artillery salvos. Later, Abe addressed a vast throng from the balcony of their hotel, then withdrew to a private room to enjoy a quiet dinner with the family before receiving well-wishers at a public reception in the hotel’s drawing room. After nightfall, the city celebrated Abe’s election with a glorious pyrotechnics display, the grand finale of which presented a red, white, and blue wall of fire surrounding the phrase, written in illuminated silver letters, “Welcome, Abraham Lincoln. The Whole Union.”
As soon as the bright spectacle faded, Mr. Judd drew Abe, Judge Davis, and a few other gentlemen aside into a private room. Mary managed to slip inside before the door closed, and Elizabeth, after waiting to see whether her sister would promptly reappear, peremptorily excluded from the meeting, retired to her suite, where her daughters were preparing for bed and reminiscing in awestruck tones about the day’s events.
More than an hour later, Elizabeth was settling down to sleep herself when she heard a rap on the door and opened it to find Mary in the corridor, face pale and eyes shining with tears. “Dreadful news, simply dreadful,” she choked out, twisting a handkerchief so tightly the fabric strained.
Quickly Elizabeth ushered her inside to the sitting room and softly closed the door to the hallway as well as to the adjoining chamber where her daughters slept. “What’s wrong?” she asked, seating herself on the sofa beside her distraught sister.
“You recall, of course, the scheme to damage the railroad as we pass through Baltimore.”
“Of course.”
“The Pinkerton agents have since discovered a more sinister plot.” Mary inhaled shakily and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “The station in Baltimore is strangely, most inconveniently configured. To transfer from inbound to outbound trains, passengers have to cross through a narrow pedestrian tunnel, the same tunnel our carriages will use to take us to our lodgings in the city. According to the detectives, after our train halts, Southern sympathizers intend to create a diversion further down the tracks to draw the police escort away. When we enter the tunnel”—Mary choked out a sob—“at least eight men will be waiting to stab or shoot my husband!”
“Goodness,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “How certain are the detectives that this is no idle rumor?”
“Certain enough that the military has urged—no, demanded—that Abe leave us and travel through Baltimore under the cover of night, in disguise and accompanied by Pinkertons.” Mary shook her head, mouth pursed. “I am entirely against it. I refuse to be separated from my husband, and I am certain that this timorous, clandestine entrance into Washington will make him appear weak before the public and all those dreadful secessionists.”
“Perhaps, but his safety must be the primary concern,” said Elizabeth. “What does Abe think?”
Mary frowned. “He said that unless there are other reasons besides incurring ridicule that make the plan unwise, he is inclined to approve it.”
If Abe thought that was best, Elizabeth would trust his judgment. The next morning, when she confided in Frances, Margaret, and Martha, they too agreed with Abe that the military likely knew best. The sisters’ words were brave and their voices determined, but their eyes revealed their worry.
Over Mary’s objections, Abe did continue ahead without them. Conveyed by less ostentatious vehicles, he slipped through Baltimore clad in a Scotch cap and a tartan cloak, stooping to conceal his remarkable height, a disguise he abandoned well before he reached Washington. Mary and the rest of the party departed later, continuing on the Inaugural Express and pulling into the depot at New Jersey Avenue and C Street at about four o’clock in the afternoon, ten hours after Abe had entered the city.
“See who has come to meet us,” Mary murmured to Elizabeth as the train came to a halt. She nodded through the window to the platform below. “Do you recognize the gentleman on the left, Congressman Elihu Washburne? It’s good to see an old friend from Illinois here. The slight man standing beside him, the one with silver hair and a cane, is Senator William Seward. Abe has chosen him for secretary of state—over my strong objections. He has no principles, and he aspires to be the power behind the throne, but he’ll soon discover that my husband is no callow boy to be molded.”
Despite her disparaging tone, when Mary and her entourage descended from the train and Mr. Washburne and Mr. Seward came forward to welcome them to the capital, she accepted their compliments graciously and chatted amiably as the two gentlemen escorted them to the carriages that would take them to their hotel. Elizabeth rode with Mary, the boys, and the two gentlemen, while Frances, William, Levi, and the other ladies followed in a second carriage and the rest of Abe’s companions in a third.
Elizabeth’s first incredulous, appalled impression of Washington City was that it was a squalid rural village where cows, pigs, and geese roamed freely through the streets, which Mary had warned her were cloudy with dust on dry days and ran thick with mud when it rained. Pennsylvania Avenue and a few adjacent blocks of Seventh Street were paved, but the cobblestones were broken and uneven, and mud oozed up between the cracks. The 156-foot stub of the Washington Monument stood forlornly in the midst of an open field where cattle grazed, its construction halted by political squabbling, financial uncertainty, and vandalism. The Capitol, too, was unfinished, but there at least construction continued; the incomplete, truncated dome loomed above the landscape, hemmed in by derricks and scaffolding, flanked by bare, unadorned marble wings, and surrounded by workers’ sheds, tools, piles of bricks, and blocks of marble scattered on all sides.
“It is not as dreadful as it looks,” said Mary in an undertone. “When Abe was in Congress, I discovered that Washington City offers a peculiar mix of grandeur and squalor side by side. I’ve always chosen to focus on the city’s more pleasant attributes—the elaborate mansions and lovely gardens, the grand estates in the surrounding countryside, the opulent marble edifices that house the various federal departments, and let’s not forget the splendid, extravagant levees, dinners, and balls. It does take a bit of care to navigate the city without ruining one’s skirts and shoes in the mud, but that’s what carriages are for.”
When Mary smiled brightly, Elizabeth smiled back, but she found herself suddenly relieved that she was only visiting. Only Abe’s offer to Ninian of a cabinet position could extend her stay indefinitely, but that was an increasingly unlikely prospect.
The carriages took them up Pennsylvania Avenue, lined with trees that lifted bare branches to the overcast sky, past the State Department, the more massive Treasury Building, and, at a distance so they only caught a glimpse of it, the Executive Mansion. Mary had been invited to call there on March 1 so that Miss Harriet Lane, President Buchanan’s niece and hostess, could offer her a guided tour of the White House. Elizabeth longed to accompany her sister, but Mary herself would welcome the Todd ladies to her new home soon thereafter.
They arrived at the Willard Hotel, a rambling, six-story edifice that was not only the city’s finest and largest hotel but also a nexus of Washington society and politics. As Mr. Washburne helped them down from the carriage, he remarked that it would not be wrong to call the Willard more the center of the federal government than the Capitol, the White House, or the State Department, as so many policies were debated and compromises worked out in its storied parlors and corridors. Recently the Willard brothers had gamely endeavored to maintain peace between contentious factions by assigning Southern guests to rooms on a single floor and urging them to use the ladies’ Fourteenth Street entrance, while Northerners were encouraged to use the main doors on the Pennsylvania Avenue side. Even so, rivals were bound to encounter each other in the hotel’s public rooms, which were illuminated by gaslight, opulently furnished in rosewood, damask, lace, and velvet, and redolent of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey. One quick look and Elizabeth resolved not to let her daughters spend any time there unaccompanied. Her heart sank when she observed Levi hanging back and ducking inside when he thought no one was watching.
As soon as they were shown to their rooms, Mary’s first desire was to reunite with her husband. Then, and in the days that followed, while Abe organized his government, Mary embarked on her own campaign—helping her entourage settle in, welcoming family and friends, and accepting calls from diplomats, statesmen, and their ladies. Elizabeth and Frances observed a troubling absence of the most prominent ladies of Washington society, most of whom were Southerners, but they said nothing to Mary, hoping that she would be too busy to notice and would not consider it a snub.
Southern ladies tended to show up in greater numbers at events where Abe would appear too, drawn by curiosity, Elizabeth supposed. At one reception, where Abe and Mary received callers for more than two hours in a crowded, humid parlor on the second floor of the Willard, a waiter spilled coffee on Mary’s dress, a favorite lavender silk she had intended to wear to a party after the inauguration the following week. “What shall I do?” Mary fretted as Elizabeth and Martha swept her into an adjacent lounge where no one could gawk as they frantically blotted her dress with their handkerchiefs. It was all to no avail, for the stain had set. “I have nothing else suitable to wear.”
Elizabeth heard the frantic note in her voice and realized that Mary must have detected the snub from the Washington ladies after all. They had all read the snide remarks in the papers, the speculation that the Lincolns were uncultured hayseeds and bumpkins who would bring down the quality of the social scene with their unrefined Western ways. Mary absolutely must appear elegant and stylish whenever she appeared in public or she would never win them over.
“You’ll need an entirely new gown,” said Mrs. McLean, the wife of Colonel Eugene McLean of Maryland, who had followed them unnoticed into the lounge. “I know just the dressmaker—Mrs. Elizabeth Keckly. She’s the most acclaimed modiste in Washington City. She creates all of my fine dresses, and those of other fashionable ladies—Mrs. Douglas, for one.”
“Stephen Douglas’s wife? She’s quite lovely, and always beautifully attired.” Mary considered. “Your dressmaker’s name sounds familiar.”
“She came to Washington from St. Louis,” said Mrs. McLean. “Perhaps she sewed for your acquaintances there. If you wish, I’ll invite her to call on you so that you may interview her.”
This plan was quickly agreed to, and Mary returned to the reception in the ruined gown, a fan artfully held open to conceal the stain.
Mary’s tour of the White House on the first of March went well, or so she told her sisters afterward. Miss Lane promised to arrange for a meal to be prepared for the Lincolns and their guests at the White House following the inauguration, when the Executive Mansion would pass to their custody. The staff had provided Mary with a detailed list of protocol regarding management of the White House, which she was sure would be very useful. Yet a tightness around Mary’s eyes suggested that, however courteously Miss Lane’s household had welcomed her, they had conveyed no warmth or genuine friendliness. “A certain coolness is to be expected, I suppose, since she is a Democrat and I am a Republican,” Mary confided to Elizabeth and Frances. “I am, after all, replacing her as the first lady of Washington.”
Perhaps that was not the only reason for Mary’s chilly reception. The next morning Frances came early to Elizabeth’s room to show her the most recent Harper’s Weekly, which included an article describing “Mrs. Lincoln’s sisters” as “the toast of Southerners.”
“To Washington’s social elite, who are predominantly of Southern extraction, we Todd sisters are uncouth Westerners,” said Frances, frowning. “To Yankees we are Southern belles clamoring for secession.”
“I don’t believe this piece goes quite that far,” said Elizabeth, skimming the article. “But don’t show it to Mary.”
“This piece isn’t the first to cast doubt on Mary’s loyalties, nor will it be the last,” said Frances. “I fear that until this rebellion is put down, she’ll find herself caught in the middle, claimed by neither side, mistrusted by both.”
“I do hope you’re wrong,” said Elizabeth, but her heart was troubled.
On the morning of the inauguration two days later, Elizabeth rose early, a thrill of pride and expectation chasing away sleep as surely as the first pale rays of dawn peeking through her window. She washed and dressed with care, then woke Julia and Lizzy and set them to the same task, lingering in the doorway until she was convinced they would not crawl back into their beds. She ordered breakfast sent up to the room, and after they had eaten, they finished their toilettes, helped one another into their fine new dresses, took turns arranging one another’s hair, put on jewelry, reconsidered, traded around earbobs and necklaces, and considered their reflections in the mirror. When they were finally satisfied, they heaped praise upon one another with great enthusiasm and sincerity, confident that they would be equal in appearance to the most disdainful snobs of the Washington elite.
They left their suite and joined the other Todd ladies in Salon Number 6 to help Mary prepare for the momentous day. She looked resplendent in an ashes-of-rose sateen gown, with an elaborate headdress of flowers and ribbon upon her shining chestnut hair and diamonds sparkling from her earlobes. They were such a merry group, all in good spirits, pleased with how lovely they looked together, and dressed becomingly for the events at the Capitol that were soon to begin.
Then a knock sounded on the door. “Enter!” Mary called out cheerfully.
A lovely colored woman entered, her dress stylish and beautifully made, perfectly fit to her elegant figure. She carried herself with almost regal dignity, and when Mary rose to greet her, she inclined her head in a graceful acknowledgment of Mary’s status as the first lady of the land.
“You are Elizabeth Keckly, I believe,” said Mary. “The dressmaker that Mrs. McLean recommended?”
Mrs. Keckly bowed her assent. “Yes, madam.”
“Very well.” Mary returned to her dressing table and examined her face in the mirror, touching the delicate skin beneath her eyes, frowning at what might have been newly discovered or newly imagined lines. “I have no time to talk to you now, but at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, I would like you to call at the White House.” Turning in her seat, she held Mrs. Keckly’s gaze and added portentously, “Which is where I shall then be.”
“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Keckly bowed again and saw herself out.
“Who was that enchanting woman?” asked Martha, who had been standing at the window on the other side of the salon and had missed the brief conversation. “Such noble bearing! Is she a foreign princess?”
“Mrs. Keckly is the dressmaker Mrs. McLean recommended last week. I was told she might call today. I wish I could have interviewed her now, but we haven’t the time. I do hope I wasn’t too abrupt.” Studying her reflection in the mirror, Mary gave her coiffure one last gentle pat, rose from her chair, and gazed around the room, smiling affectionately at each of them in turn. “My dearest ones, I cannot fully express how overjoyed I am that you came so far to share this glorious day with me. Now, shall we go see Mr. Lincoln become Mr. President?”
Elizabeth and the other ladies all agreed that this was a very fine idea.
The morning had dawned chilly, damp, and overcast, but by the time Mary, her sons, and her ladies arrived at the Capitol, a gusty, intermittent wind had blown away the clouds. Thousands of spectators lined the parade route President and Mrs. Lincoln would take to the White House after the ceremony. Elizabeth had not yet seen her brother-in-law that day; Mary had explained that Mr. Buchanan was picking up Abe in his gleaming black barouche and escorting him to the Capitol.
Inside the Senate chamber, a guard escorted them to their seats in the diplomatic gallery, from whence they observed the last oratory of the Thirty-Sixth Congress. An expectant hush fell over the chamber as outgoing vice president Breckenridge—another Todd cousin from Kentucky—rose and offered a pleasant farewell address to the Senate, after which he summoned Mr. Hannibal Hamlin to the Senate floor and administered his oath of office. Applause and cheers filled the chamber as the new vice president took the chair and called the Thirty-Seventh Congress to order.
One by one, the newly elected and reelected senators took their solemn oaths of office. When the last of the senators had been sworn in, the entire assembly proceeded outside to the eastern portico, where a platform had been erected for the conclusion of the ceremony. Elizabeth linked arms with her daughters in the crush, grateful for the military guard who kept a path clear for Mary and her companions.
Shortly before one o’clock, the central door was opened for them and Mary emerged onto the portico accompanied by her sons, the Todd ladies, and several gentlemen. The sky had cleared, and the sun shone brightly down upon the crowd of roughly thirty thousand people who had packed the muddy Capitol grounds below to witness the historic occasion. As they were led to their seats, Elizabeth spotted other dignitaries seated in places of honor closer to the front, shaded beneath a wooden canopy near a small table where Abe would soon stand and address the crowd.
After the Todd entourage seated themselves, the portly clerk of the Supreme Court appeared, carrying a Bible in one hand and leading the elderly, frail Supreme Court chief justice, Roger Taney, with the other. When Abe appeared upon the platform, Mr. Buchanan looking pale, sad, and nervous at his side, deafening cheers greeted him and continued until nearly the entire Senate and all other dignitaries had taken their places. Then Senator Edward D. Baker of Oregon stepped forward and announced, “Fellow citizens, Abraham Lincoln, president of the United States, will now proceed to deliver his inaugural address.”
Abe rose, serene and calm, putting on his spectacles as he approached the canopy. He removed his hat, and then suddenly halted, looking around with a self-deprecating smile as if he had only then realized that he had no place to put his hat while he took his oath. His former rival, Senator Douglas, promptly came forward, took it, and held it on his lap while Abe addressed the crowd.
And what an address it was. Elizabeth had heard her brother-in-law speak many times before, but this time she found herself profoundly moved by the simple eloquence of his words, the clarity and compassion of his thought.
He began by attending to the fears of the Southern people, emphasizing that he had no intention of interfering with slavery where it existed, for although the Fugitive Slave Law deeply offended a great many Americans, he felt bound by the Constitution to enforce it. Then, using simple, articulate, and evocative phrases to lead the audience logically from one truth to another, he asserted that despite claims to the contrary, according to the Constitution, the Union was not and could not be broken. “I shall take care, as the Constitution itself expressly enjoins upon me, that the laws of the Union be faithfully executed in all the States,” he vowed. “Doing this I deem to be only a simple duty on my part, and I shall perform it so far as practicable, unless my rightful masters, the American people, shall withhold the requisite means, or, in some authoritative manner, direct the contrary. I trust this will not be regarded as a menace, but only as the declared purpose of the Union that it will constitutionally defend and maintain itself.”
The North and South could not physically separate, he reminded them, and must not spiritually. “We are not enemies, but friends,” he said, with lyrical power that enthralled his listeners. “We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
While all around her, and throughout the grounds of the Capitol, men raised their hats, women waved their handkerchiefs, and everyone roared their approval, Elizabeth sat motionless and transfixed, riveted by the unexpected power of Abe’s words. When Julia nudged her, she promptly rose, tears gathering in her eyes as the chief justice made his slow and unsteady way to the table where Abe stood. There the elderly jurist conducted the official rite, and Abe placed his hand on the Bible, recited the oath of office, bowed, and kissed the holy book.
It was done. A fanfare of brass and a thundering of cannons announced that Abraham Lincoln had become the sixteenth president of the United States.