When our fourth boy is born on April 4, 1853, Mother insists we name him Thomas after my late father. On seeing him, though, I decide to call him Tad; his large head and wriggly little body remind me of a tadpole. I wonder if he’ll be the hardest of our boys to tame. Of course, we don’t make much of a fuss over their behavior, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
Mother takes a couple weeks to regain her strength, while I do the best job of housekeeping I can. Mostly, I wrestle with little Willy and Bobby on the parlor floor. When Mother’s on her feet again, and her cantankerousness becomes intolerable, I head out to join the other lawyers on the Circuit.
On August 24, Sheriff Robert Latham of Logan County appears in my office, joined by business associates Gillett and Hichox.
“What’s up?” I say, standing to greet them.
Latham pushes a handful of his brown, wavy hair back behind his ear. “We’ve come to ask your permission for something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Reckon it’s better to ask for permission than to come hat in hand begging forgiveness. What’s on your mind?”
He looks up at me. “It’s about that patch of land along the railroad extension near Postville.”
“You mean the new town site your voters approved for the new county seat?”
Hichox nods. “Yes, we’re mighty appreciative for the nice bill you wrote to get the legislature’s approval so we could put the question to a vote.”
I scratch my head. “You boys having any problems with those land sale contracts?”
Latham shakes his head. “No. That’s not it at all. We came to ask your permission to name the new town after you. We want to call it Lincoln.”
I laugh. “You have a good sense of humor.”
“We’re serious,” Latham says, his eyes trained on me.
“Well, you'd better not do that. I never knew anything named Lincoln that amounted to much.”
Latham smiles. “You’re not just our lawyer, you’re the best lawyer ever to set foot in Logan County. On top of that, folks think of you as their friend. You pushed the legislature to create our new county and you handle all its litigation. There’s no one more fitting for the honor than you.”
I hang my head. “If you can’t be persuaded otherwise, reckon I’ll have to grant my permission.”
“And one more thing,” says Latham.
I nod.
“You’re the guest of honor at the town’s christening three days from now.”
On August 27, I stand under an increasingly hot summer sun and witness the sale of more than ninety lots at prices ranging from forty to one-hundred-fifty dollars each. My clients collect more than six thousand dollars, several times beyond what they paid for the land. After the sales are complete, I christen the town with watermelon juice from melons bought off a nearby wagon.
A couple of months later, I’m sitting by the fireplace at Mt. Pulaski House, a tavern where I stay while attending Circuit Court sessions at Logan County’s soon-to-be-former county seat. I look up from staring into the fire and find my old friend Samuel Parks peering at me, his deep-set eyes perched above a long narrow nose.
“Lincoln,” he says. “You’ve been looking into that fire for a very long time.”
I turn to him. “Reckon so. Don’t remember night falling. What can I do for you?”
“Saw you here and just wanted to say hello.”
“Been sitting there long?”
“No, but I’ve passed by a few times wondering when you’d be back among the living.”
I tilt my head side to side, loosening my neck. “Bet you’re wondering what’s gotten such a grip on my thoughts.”
“Seen it happen too many times to bother asking.”
I laugh. “You’re right. Not even sure I can say precisely what it is. It’s as if something unseen, far out in the cosmos, grabs hold of my mind and carries me off.”
“What do you see out there?”
I shrug. “Darkness. Sometimes futility. Always an awareness of ultimacy.”
After both of us fall silent for a moment, I ask, “Remember when we first met?”
“How could I forget? Was back in about ’40 when I was studying law at Stuart’s office.” He chuckles. “Morose fellows such as you always draw attention. Never know what special gifts they might possess.”
I laugh. “If you walked through life trailing a melancholy fog behind you, you might not think it so attractive.”
“Ah, but to have your special insights ….”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “You know, even back then I hated slavery every bit as much as any abolitionist.”
He nods. “I remember. You hated oppression and wrong in all its forms. You said, ‘it’s unconstitutional.’”
“Reckon I can’t take much credit for that. Somehow hatred for injustice made its way into my blood. It’s not something I can help.”
Late in the evening of June 1 the following year, I return home from the spring Circuit sooner than planned. I unsaddle and groom my horse before going inside through the back door. The boys are in the kitchen being tended to by a nanny.
The young woman looks up at me and says, “Mrs. Lincoln neglected to tell me she was expecting you.”
I glance toward the parlor. “She wasn’t.”
“Shall I get supper for you?” she asks.
“No, thanks. I’ll just sit and read the news.” I kiss the boys and go into the parlor to take a seat by the fireplace. The news article that summoned me home absorbs my attention.
A few minutes later, Bobby peers around the paper. “Mamma’s gone dancing,” he says.
I laugh. “Grown people must play, too.”
The nanny takes Bobby’s hand. “Off to bed, now.”
“Go on home when you’re finished. I’ll take care of them from here.”
Their footsteps fade away as I stare into the fire. The room grows gradually darker until ….
I look up and blink. Mother is standing in front of me, scowling, her hands on her hips.
She shakes her head. “I knew you must be home. When I came in and saw the fire had died out, I figured you sent the help home and neglected to tend it.”
“How was the dance?”
“Gay, as always.” She kneels on the floor next to me and gazes at me, smiling. “They were all making bets on how long it would take you to make tracks for home once you saw the news.”
I look down at the newspaper. “So who won?”
“No one. Everybody chose tonight.”
I cock my head. “How long were you standing there?”
“I’ve been home more than an hour. I knew it would be useless trying to disturb you.”
I smooth out the paper across my lap. “Mother, we have to stop this thing. Before we know it, the whole nation will become slave territory.”
She nods. “Do you recall telling me about the woman in New Orleans who abused and mutilated her slaves?”
“Madame LaLaurie?”
“Yes.”
“What about her?”
“When I was a young girl in Lexington, I was mortified at reading the accounts in the local papers.”
My throat tightens. “You never told me.”
Her eyes narrow. “From that moment to this, I’ve been resolved that everything which can be done to end the treachery of slavery must be done.”
“You always complain you wish we lived in a slave state so you can live a pampered life.”
She laughs. “Being pampered? Yes, but I couldn’t abide owning slaves any more than you could.”
We search each other’s eyes for a moment then she asks, “What do you plan to do, Mr. Lincoln?”
I lean back. “I’ve decided to aim for Shields’ U. S. Senate seat when the legislature votes this December.”
“Don’t expect him to run off with his tail between his legs like the time you almost dueled him on my account.”
I take her hand. “You think it’ll take more than lopping off a branch hanging above his head?”
After we share a good laugh, she says, “I can’t wait to be sitting in the gallery watching you and Mr. Douglas dueling with words on the Senate floor.”
I tap my finger on the newspaper headline President Pierce Signs Kansas-Nebraska Act. “It’s not a game, Mother. Douglas means to use his new-fangled Popular Sovereignty idea to spread slavery into every corner of the continent. Hell, he won’t stop until it’s gotten all the way to the tip of South America. This Nebraska Act is just the beginning; mark my words.”
After saying goodnight, I traipse over to the office. There’s no use trying to sleep with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I must come up with a strategy for winning Shields’ Senate seat. It won’t be easy with the reapportionment of seats in the legislature tilting toward the Democrats’ advantage. I pull out a map of the districts and begin a list of men in each part of the state who share my sentiments.
When Billy Herndon arrives in the morning, he stares and says, “You look like hell.”
“So my countenance has improved.”
“We all figured the Nebraska Act would get you riled. What are your plans?”
“I’m going after Shields’ Senate seat. If we don’t hit this slavery business in the head, and hit it hard, it’ll swallow up the whole country. It’ll be the end of free labor; every man will become a bondsman, unable to make a wage good enough to improve his condition.”
“That should make for quite a show—you debating Douglas in front of the whole country.”
My chest tightens. “Don’t care about a show. The cause of liberty is at stake this very hour, and not just for the Negro. The whole nation will suffer for this evil.”
He picks up the map of legislative districts. “How does Mrs. Lincoln feel about getting back into politics?”
I shake my head. “Her exact words were, ‘I haven’t given up on my hope of being Mrs. President someday.’”
“It’s a long step from state legislator to president. You plan on using the Senate as a stepping stone?”
“Even with my long legs, that’s quite a jump. Anyway, I can do a lot more good in the Senate than I could do as president.”
He lays down the map and rubs his temples. “You know, if you’re in the legislature when they vote on the Senate seat, you’ll be in a good spot to influence the outcome.”
I finger my watch fob. “I’ve been thinking the very same thing. On top of that, if I stump for anti-Nebraska men across the state, I’ll be able to put some of them in debt to me.”
Days later, I announce my run for the state legislature and learn that Douglas has the same notion. He sets out campaigning on behalf of Democratic candidates for the state legislature, at least those who take a pledge to support his Popular Sovereignty. I follow behind him bolstering the opposition candidates.
Early in September, before riding to Bloomington to address a German anti-Nebraska meeting, I take Billy to The Sangamo Journal office. Editor Simeon Francis has agreed to help us work up a new speech in response to Douglas’ latest stump.
I tell them, “People say Douglas makes sense. They ask, ‘Why shouldn’t men be free to do whatever they have a mind to do with their own property?’ If we can’t wake them up, he’s going to beat us.”
Francis peers up at me. “You have to make Douglas’ position on Nebraska sound ridiculous.”
“What about, ‘Judge Douglas says the principle of the Kansas-Nebraska Act originated when God made man and allowed him to choose between good and evil, making each man accountable only to the Almighty for his choices.’”
“That’s not pointed enough,” says Billy.
I rub the back of my neck. “His notion is similar to the old idea that a king can do whatever he chooses with his white subjects, being responsible to God alone for his actions.”
Billy smirks. “Everyone knows we threw off that idea decades ago.”
“That’s my point exactly. Now Douglas wants to resurrect it by saying the white man can be left to do whatever he chooses with his black slaves, being responsible to God alone. We fought a bloody revolution in ’76 to get rid of that principle, why should we bring it back now?”
Francis picks up a bodkin and toys with it. “All right. Hit that last part hard.”
“What’s next?” Billy asks.
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Something on the order of ‘Slavery is founded on the selfishness of man’s nature as opposed to his love of justice. The oldest laws concerning slavery are about regulating it where it already exists. There are no laws anywhere that permit it to be introduced as a new thing.’”
Francis asks, “What did our Founders intend?”
I wring my hands. “Slavery should not be extended beyond the original colonies.”
Billy adds, “They were hostile to slavery in principle, but tolerated it only out of necessity. They conceded to demands by legislatures in the southern colonies because they knew a revolution fought by only half the colonies would have failed.”
Francis nods. “Nearly eighty years ago we began by declaring all men are created equal; but from that beginning men like Douglas have run us down another path declaring that some men have a sacred right of self-government to enslave others.”
I throw up my hands. “Some men now live in dread of absolute suffocation if they cannot exercise their ‘sacred right’ of taking slaves to Nebraska. That supposed right is something Jefferson never thought of.”
Francis clenches his fists. “Slavery deprives our republican example of its just influence in the world. Our enemies taunt us as hypocrites, and our friends doubt our sincerity. We are the last civilized nation to tolerate it.”
I pace the floor.
After a few moments I say, “There’s something foul about this Nebraska Act. It breaks every compromise our government has made over the slavery business. It’s as if two starving men divide their only loaf, then one hastily swallows his half and grabs the other half just as his companion is about to take a bite. How will we be able to trust them on any compromise, ever again?”
Billy bounces to his feet. “Each party is becoming increasingly bitter and more resolved against the other.”
I scratch my head. “They must be made to see reason. They claim equal justice requires the extension of slavery—that inasmuch as they don’t object to me taking my hog to Nebraska, I should not object to them taking their slave to Nebraska. That’s perfectly logical if there is no difference between hogs and Negroes.”
Billy laughs. “You’re grasping for straws.”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t you see? In 1820 the South agreed it was wrong to buy slaves in Africa and sell them on our shores. They even agreed that such offense should be punished by hanging. Never did they say that a man should be hung for transporting a hog from Africa and selling it here. So they have already said that hogs and Negroes are not the same.”
Francis grins. “You’ve got a point.”
I stroke my chin. “On top of that, there are 433,643 free Blacks in the United States and Territories. At five-hundred dollars each, they are worth $200,000,000. Why does this vast amount of property run about without owners when we do not see horses or cattle or hogs running at large? Not even in the South do they believe that hogs and Negroes are the same. How is it they ask us to deny the humanity of slaves when they have never been willing to do so?”
Billy clasps Francis’ shoulder. “You’ve got it. Tell them, ‘If the Negro is a man, it is a total destruction of self-government to say that he shall not be allowed to govern himself. No man is good enough to govern another without his consent. That is the leading principle of American republicanism.’”
I follow Douglas to Springfield and Peoria, arriving shortly after he leaves each place, and deliver my new speech, making the points that Billy and Francis suggested. Then I conclude by saying,
I have no prejudice against the Southern people. They are just what we would be in their situation. If slavery did not now exist amongst them, they would not introduce it. If it did now exist amongst us, we would not instantly give it up.
The question of the hour is whether slavery shall go into Nebraska or other new territories, and it is not a question of exclusive concern to the people who may go there. The whole nation is interested that the best use shall be made of these territories. New Free States are the places for poor people to go to and better their condition.
The slavery question often bothered me as far back as 1836-40. I was troubled and grieved over it; but after the annexation of Texas I gave it up, believing as I now do, that God will settle it, and settle it right, and that he will, in some inscrutable way, restrict the spread of so great an evil; but for the present it is our duty to wait.
I am not contending for the establishment of political and social equality between the whites and blacks. Neither am I combating the argument of NECESSITY, arising from the fact that the blacks are already amongst us; but I am combating what is set up as a MORAL argument for allowing them to be taken where they have never yet been. I am arguing against the EXTENSION of a bad thing.
After winning my seat in the state legislature, the Secretary of State tells me I must resign in order to be a candidate for the U.S. Senate. My arms fall heavy to my sides. Under the new state constitution, senators continue to be elected by the legislature, but sitting legislators are prohibited from running for federal offices. I’m left to fight for the Senate seat as an outsider.
For the next several weeks, I sleep sparingly. Even as I attend to client business my mind wanders until it locks onto the list of incoming state legislators. I reshuffle their names between the columns for Shields, Lincoln, and “Undecided.” With the “Undecided” legislators being too numerous to allow for a clear winner, I consider others who might also want to unseat Shields. Certainly, Douglas chafes at the prospect of an anti-Nebraska man from his own state challenging him in Washington. If Shields falters, he’ll push for an ally who’ll be an ardent defender of Popular Sovereignty.
Rumors persist that our Democratic Governor Joel Matteson, a balding, roman-nosed man, is buying votes to bolster his surreptitious candidacy, but he’s staying out of the fray until the legislature is deadlocked. Another candidate is Lyman Trumbull, a slump-shoulder former school teacher turned lawyer. He’s a Georgia-born Democrat, but he bolted from his party in protest over the Kansas-Nebraska Act. As a result, Douglas views Trumbull as a traitor to his party.
By custom, the State Senate and House convene together on the second day of the legislative session to elect the U.S. Senator. The voting usually occurs in early December, but a series of delays—orchestrated by the Democrats hoping to block me—has postponed the decision until February 8. I face another six weeks of restless nights and Mother’s heightened irritability.
When the legislators finally assemble, Mother is in the balcony, anxious over a long-awaited step toward achieving a girlhood dream. Years ago, she spurned Stephen Douglas to marry me, and she told him her choice was because she wanted to marry a man who would become president.
I look up at her after the first ballot. The tally shows me 44, Shields has 41, Trumbull 5. She’s beaming. I smile broadly.
Her countenance falls and my throat grows increasingly dry as ensuing ballots result in little change. After the seventh ballot, when Democrats begin switching from Shields to Matteson, her eyes narrow. On the ninth round of voting, I receive only 15 votes. Many of my supporters are going over to Trumbull’s side. Sweat collects along my collar, in spite of a damp chill in the chamber. The contest is now between Trumbull and Governor Matteson.
During a recess, I overhear some of Trumbull’s supporters speculating that Matteson might be a secret anti-Nebraska man. They say they could be swayed to vote for him, and it would be quite a coup to send a Democrat to Washington to stand up to Douglas. My throat tightens. Even if the gossip is true, rumors of Matteson buying votes are a bitter pill for me to swallow. I could not abide seeing him win this contest unfairly.
At the conclusion of the recess, I enter the House chamber and ask to be recognized by the Chairman. A hush falls over the assembly. My heart races.
“Mr. Chairman … there are yet a handful of men in this hall who are full of faithful determination to see me join the United States Senate. I sincerely thank them for their steadfastness.”
A cacophony of cheers and hisses fill the room. My ears are beset by ringing.
I swallow. “I release my supporters and urge them to vote for a man who will carry a strong anti-Nebraska message to Washington City. In my humble opinion, that man is Judge Lyman Trumbull.”
On the tenth ballot, Trumbull wins. My body goes slack, weak. We succeed in sending an anti-Nebraska man to the Senate who will challenge Douglas at every turn. But once again, I fall short of my aim.
A wave of new energy washes over me, sparked by a fresh idea. I smooth the wrinkles from my suit, straighten my tie, and pull back my shoulders before walking over to Trumbull’s office. I ask him and his supporters straight out whether they will support my effort to unseat Senator Douglas when he stands for re-election in 1858. They receive me warmly and assure me I’ll have their votes in four years.
Later I find Mother seated in our carriage at the base of the Capitol steps with a blanket covering her legs. Her face is as stern as granite.
I climb aboard and sit next to her. “Mother,” I say, taking her hand, “we’ll make another go of it when Douglas’ seat is up, and we will win.”
She pulls her hand away. With her eyes still straight ahead she says, “I shall never speak another word to that Trumbull woman as long as I live.”
In late August, I write a letter to Speed just before going on the Circuit. First, circumstances separated us; next, marriage widened the breach. Now, as the agitation over slavery threatens to rip our country apart, we face the death of our long, intimate friendship. He is dependent on slaves, while I bleed tears over the abuse of one human by another.
Dear Speed;
You know I dislike slavery; and you admit the abstract wrong of it. So far there is no cause of difference. But you say that sooner than yield your right to the slave—especially at the bidding of those who are not themselves interested—you would see the Union dissolved. I am not bidding you to yield that right. I leave that matter entirely to yourself.
I acknowledge your rights and my obligations under the Constitution in regard to your slaves. I confess I hate to see the poor creatures hunted down and caught and carried back to their stripes and unrewarded toils; but I bite my lip and keep quiet.
In 1841 you and I made a tedious low-water trip by steamboat from Louisville to St. Louis. You may remember that from Louisville to the mouth of the Ohio there were on board a dozen slaves, shackled together with irons. That sight was a continual torment to me; and I see something like it every time I touch the Ohio, or any other slave-border.
It is hardly fair of you to assume that I have no interest in a thing which continually exercises the power of making me miserable. You ought rather to appreciate how much the great body of the Northern people crucify their feelings in order to maintain their loyalty to the Constitution and the Union.
I do oppose the extension of slavery, because my judgment and feelings so prompt me; and I am under no obligation to the contrary.
Your friend always,
A. Lincoln
Speed’s private assurances that he prefers Kansas’ admission as a free state bring me no consolation. I know he would vote for no man who publicly supports stopping the advance of slavery. The slave-breeders and slave-traders are as fully his masters as he is master to his own Negroes. My heart is as wounded now as it was a dozen years ago when he returned to Kentucky.
When the Circuit arrives in Bloomington in late September, I handle the case of a man named Jones who is being sued for damages by Phil Miller. Miller claims that Jones inflicted serious injury on him in a kind of running fight over a ten acre field. On cross examining Mr. Miller, I press him for minute details of the alleged assault and his injuries. On summation, I tell the jury, “I submit to you, that for a fight which spread all over a ten-acre field, this is about the smallest crop of a ten-acre fight you gentlemen ever saw.” Jones is acquitted, but my tolerance for nonsense is reaching its limit.
The following week I leave the Circuit for a case in Cincinnati. A lawyer from Washington City named Peter Watson has hired me to serve as local counsel for a patent suit that was supposed to be tried in Chicago, but got moved on account of the defendant’s illness. The suit against John Manny, our client who is a manufacturer of reapers, is being brought by Cyrus McCormick, whose reputation as an aggressive businessman is well known from one end of the country to the next.
Mr. Manny became the target of McCormick’s wrath after the Manny Reaper bested the McCormick machinery at the Paris Exposition of 1855. In researching the case, I discover that McCormick lost an earlier patent challenge, so our chances of success are good. However, if Mr. Manny loses, he will have to cease production and pay McCormick four-hundred thousand dollars.
On arriving in Cincinnati, I stop in at the hotel where the distinguished cast of lawyers who are defending Manny are lodging. I stride up to Watson in the lobby, and he introduces me to George Harding from Philadelphia, a bookish, wispy-haired fellow, only twenty-eight but already reputed as one of the best patent lawyers in the country. After Harding greets me, Watson gestures to a pudgy, impeccably dressed lawyer named Edwin Stanton of Pittsburg. Stanton glares at me, his full lips puckered as if he’s aiming for a spittoon, and refuses my handshake.
Turning to his partner, Stanton says, “Why did you bring that damned long-armed ape here? He does not know anything and can do no good … If that giraffe appears in the case I will throw up my brief and leave.”
I jerk back and stare at him. After a pause, I calm myself and choose to ignore his insult. I offer him the papers I’ve prepared on the case and insist I’m quite ready to make oral arguments.
Stanton refuses to take the papers.
I look at Harding and offer my papers to him. He takes them and nods.
Without looking at Stanton again, I turn to leave, rage rippling down my spine. When I’m a few steps away, Stanton tells the others in an unrestrained voice, “I can’t imagine how they let that long, lank creature from Illinois enter a courtroom with his dirty linen duster for a coat. Did you see the back of it? It’s splotched with perspiration stains that spread from one armpit to the next. The stain looks like a dirty map of the continent.”
I slow my gait and consider turning back to abuse his ego with ridicule and insults. I decide otherwise and stride away at a quickened pace, imagining someday I’ll show him who’s the better man.
When court convenes, I’m not allowed at the counsel’s table, but I attend sessions anyway, sitting in the back row taking notes. In the end, the judge finds for our client. Later, after my return home, Watson sends me two-thousand dollars in payment for my services on the case. He confesses they did not use my case notes. I return the fee with an explanation that my services did not warrant payment. He sends the money again, expressing his deep regret for the manner in which Stanton treated me. I give one half of it to Billy Herndon, according to our partnership arrangement, and use the remainder to pay off debts.
On the Circuit, still brooding over the Manny affair, I tell Judge Davis, “These eastern lawyers have got as far as Cincinnati now, and they’ll be in Illinois soon. When they come, I will be ready for them.”