One week before Election Day, I receive a message from Thurlow Weed in New York pleading for more funds to press the campaign there. Weed says, “Douglas’ man Sanders claims they are gaining so rapidly the result is now impossible to foretell.”
I groan. “How … how did this happen?”
Nicolay looks up at me. “Apparently, the Democrats across New York have set aside their feuds and are rallying behind Douglas. He’s tempered his Popular Sovereignty message and has been whipping up Unionist sentiment, starting to sound almost like you.” He hands me a copy of Harper’s magazine. “His North Carolina speech is all over the New York papers.”
I read aloud a few lines of the Harper’s account of the speech. “Douglas claims to be in favor of ‘executing in good faith every clause and provision of the Constitution and protecting every right under it—and then hanging every man who takes up arms against it.’” I shake my head. “He has been cultivating Northern minds for years and steering them off track. Without directly saying it, he accuses Republicans of forcing the Southern people to take up arms against the government in order to protect their Constitutional rights.”
I throw the magazine onto the desk. “We don’t propose to take away any rights. We only want to stop the extension of slavery into the Territories. The only right to hold slaves that ever existed was the protection of it in the places slavery was found when the Union was formed. His Popular Sovereignty is just a contrivance to force something on us that was never intended.”
Nicolay takes his seat behind the desk. “New York is vulnerable because its economy is knit together with that of the South.”
I rake my fingers through my hair. “If Douglas wins New York, we lose. Without those thirty-five Electoral votes, the thing will get thrown to the House, and we don’t control enough state delegations there to win. Neither does Douglas. It’ll be between Breckinridge and Bell.”
Nicolay picks up a pen and shakes his head. “Two pro-slavery men.”
I look out into the hallway. “If that happens, there’ll be no returning to our Founders’ vision.”
“How shall I reply?” he asks.
“Tell him the money’s on its way.”
While Nicolay is at the telegraph office sending the dispatch to Thurlow Weed, I poke my head into Newt Bateman’s office and say, “You, Big Schoolmaster, just come here, won’t you?”
When he joins me in my office, I push the desk aside far enough to close the door and show him a book containing a canvass of the City of Springfield. “This book shows how each citizen of the city plans to vote in the coming election. Let’s take a look. I want to see in particular how the ministers have declared themselves.”
Newt’s eyes widen. “How did you come by this?”
“Friends.”
As I turn the pages, I ask him to confirm for me the names of ministers or elders or members of various churches. I make careful notes on a sheet of how they intend to vote.
When I add up the tally and give it to Newt, his expression turns grim. “Why,” he says, “twenty-three of the city’s ministers are against you, and only three are with you.”
“A vast majority of their members oppose me, too.”
Newt shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Newt, I know I am not a Christian, but I have read the Bible carefully.” I pull a New Testament from my pocket. “These men know full well that I am for freedom in the Territories, freedom everywhere, as free as the Constitution and the laws will permit. They also know my opponents are for slavery.” I shake the Testament in Newt’s face. “Yet with this book in their hands—in the light of which human bondage cannot exist for even a moment—they are going to vote against me. I do not understand it at all.”
Newt replies, “I cannot explain it either, except to observe that some men are not ruled by reason, or by God, but by their own self indulgence.”
I pace the room, tamping down my anger with each stride. After a while I stop and lay my hand on Newt’s shoulder. “I know there is a God and that He hates injustice and slavery. I see the storm coming, and His hand is in it. If He has a place and work for me, and I think He does, I believe I am ready. I am nothing, but Truth is everything. I know I am right because I know Liberty is right. Christ teaches us so. I have told them that a house divided against itself cannot stand, and they will find it to be the truth.”
Newt looks up at me. “A great many of us believe that God has placed you among us for the great purpose of bringing the slave system to its knees.”
I pick up the canvass book and wave it at him. “Douglas don’t care whether slavery is voted up or down, but God cares. So does humanity. So do I. With God’s help we shall not fail. I may not see the end of slavery, but it will come, and I shall be vindicated.”
I put the canvass book back on the shelf. “As for these men, they will find out that they have not read their Bible right. A revelation could not make it plainer to me that either slavery or the Government must be destroyed. It seems as if God has borne with the evil of slavery until every teacher of religion has come to defend it from the Bible and claim for it a divine sanction. Now, the cup of iniquity is full, and vials of wrath will be poured out.”
I collapse into a chair and bury my head on the desk. Darkness and silence overwhelm me. When I peek up, Nicolay is gazing calmly at me from the open doorway. I look around for Newt, but he is no longer in the room.
Several days afterward a visitor from New England chides me for remaining silent on the day’s great issues over the months since my nomination. He complains that many people are alarmed at the prospect I might be elected and the nation will be torn asunder. He urges me to reassure folks that I am not a danger to the Republic.
I throw up my hands. “This is the same old trick by which the South breaks down every Northern victory.” I glare over at Nicolay. “If I were willing to barter away the moral principle involved in this contest and assure my own victory by making some new submission to the South, I would go to Washington without the favor of the men who were my friends before the election. I would be as powerless as a block of buckeye wood.”
In measured tones I tell my visitor, “Those who will not read, or heed, what I have already publicly said, would not read or heed a repetition of it. What is it I could say which would quiet their alarm? Is it that no interference by the government with slaves or slavery within the states is intended? I have said this so often that a repetition of it is but mockery. All it would do is foster an appearance of weakness and cowardice.”
When Election Day arrives, I rise at my usual time and join Mother, Willy, and Tad at the breakfast table to eat an egg and toast. The boys make their usual fuss.
Mother stirs her coffee and muses, “I don’t think I shall know how to behave tomorrow if I wake and find that I am to be Mrs. President.”
“I’m sure that you’ll find yourself acting just as you always do.” I chase the last morsel of toast with a gulp of coffee and get up from the table.
“What will you be doing today?” she asks.
I put on my coat and hat. “Just as I always do … go to the office and greet visitors. Although, I think I shouldn’t vote today. It’s unseemly for a man to vote for himself.”
“Don’t forget your shawl,” she says. “It’s a mite chilly out.”
I throw the shawl over my shoulders and head out the door. My breath forms a tiny cloud as I descend the steps and turn onto the walkway. Dead leaves turned brittle by an overnight frost crackle underfoot.
At my office in the State House, Nicolay is already at his desk. He peers up at me. I wave my hand at the myriad gifts piled everywhere. “Reckon if we win, this place will be stacked to the gills tomorrow. We might not even be able to get in.”
He laughs—an uncommon thing for him to do.
We are visited during the day by a number of well-wishers. Billy Herndon is one of them. When he asks if I’ve voted, I look out the window at the crowd lined up outside the courthouse, waiting to cast their votes. Poll workers for each of the candidates are hawking their party’s printed ballots, pitching their man’s laurels and insulting opposing candidates.
I shake my head. “It’s a long standing custom that a candidate ought not to vote for himself.”
Billy winks. “At least vote for the other Republicans who are on the ballot.”
I sit at my desk. “With all Republican names on a single ballot, everyone will think I’ve voted for myself.”
“Before you drop your ballot in the box, simply cut off the top portion that has your name.”
I sit back in my chair. “An excellent idea.”
About three o’clock in the afternoon, I peer out the window and see the line is now short, so I head over to the courthouse to vote according to Billy’s plan.
On my arrival, a crowd swarms me, cheering and shouting “Old Abe! Uncle Abe! Honest Abe!” Even the Democratic poll workers cheer me despite the shouts of “Giant Killer” coming from my supporters. I look around for Hill, someone big enough to hide behind, but am blocked by Republican agents exchanging blows over who will hand me their printed ballot. Several stout fellows struggle at lifting me off my feet to carry me up two flights of stairs to the courthouse polling room. I clutch onto my hat.
The commotion arouses several of my friends including, Billy, Nicolay, Hill, Secretary of State Hatch, and a young five-foot-six law student named Elmer Ellsworth. They shove folks aside to open a path for me to proceed. Amidst an ongoing din of cheers, my friends usher me upstairs to the “Republican” window in the jammed polling room.
After announcing my name to the election clerk, I hold my ballot over a glass bowl, and Billy hands me scissors. I snip off the top portion of the ballot and watch the bottom fall into the bowl. A roar goes up from the crowd. I greet their cheers with a broad grin.
That evening I hunker down in the cramped, second-story telegraph office to wait for results; supper is the last thing on my mind. The young handle-bar mustached operator, John Wilson, hands me the first news from Thurlow Weed in New York. “All is safe in this state.” I’m unsure of his meaning. Maybe he means there have been no riots. Next Simon Cameron reports from Philadelphia that we have won the vote there.
Within minutes of Cameron’s news, a dispatch from Alton, Illinois declares, “Republicans have checkmated Democrats’ scheme of fraud.” On hearing the latter news, I take a stroll down to Watson’s Oyster Saloon for a bite to eat.
At Watson’s, Republican wives have laid out a lavish table of confections. Mother, who helped the other wives, is seated back in one corner, holding a place for me. Every other chair in the dining room is occupied, though they empty as everyone rushes up to greet me and offer tentative congratulations. Mother’s lips draw a tight line as various women beg permission to give me kisses on the cheek. Her eyes turn cold when I give in to their affections, saying, “Reckon that’s a form of coercion not prohibited by the Constitution or Congress.”
As telegrams arrive throughout the evening, they are read aloud. Each reader stands on a chair to deliver the incoming news. After midnight, the telegraph operator rushes into Watson’s and hands me a dispatch. I gaze around the room at all the expectant faces, restraining a smile, though I imagine everyone can hear my heart pounding. Mother’s face is more anxious than all the others.
Having no need for additional elevation, I stand in front of my seat and read aloud. “From Philadelphia. The city and state for Lincoln by a decisive majority.” Before anyone can let out a cheer, I point my forefinger in the air and say, “I think that settles Pennsylvania. Let’s hope the news from New York continues to be good.”
Shouts and huzzahs ring out from around the room. Women and men burst into tears, then laughter. A crush of friends presses around me, offering heartfelt congratulations. Crying and laughing continue all around the room. Men fall into each other’s arms dancing and singing. I choke back tears of joy as the wild scene grows into even greater bedlam.
A few minutes later, I slip past the sea of well-wishers and make my way back to the telegraph office to wait for more results. At the door I whisper to Norman Judd, “As good as the news is, I’m not fully certain that we have won. I’ll feel better when New York gives us a final tally.” My mouth is as parched as prairie grass in a summer drought.
Along the short walk back to the telegraph office, Springfield’s sleepy residents can be seen peeking outside through just lit windows. They’ve been aroused by church bells pealing throughout the city. Word of the likely Republican victory spreads rapidly.
Minutes after I enter the telegraph office, a dispatch arrives from New York. “We tender you our congratulations upon this magnificent victory.” I read it aloud and sink into a chair, absorbing the gravity of the moment. My spirit is lifted, but my shoulders are laden down under a yoke of enormous responsibility.
As the dispatch is passed around, the tiny room erupts once again in wild celebration which soon spills out into the streets, spreading over to the courthouse and across the entire town. A cannon is fired in the distance to declare the victory is official.
I sit silently for a few moments then stand, somber. Lyman Trumbull, who six years ago won the U.S. Senate seat I coveted, embraces me and shouts, “Uncle Abe, you’re the next President.”
My mouth curls into a smile. “Well, the agony is mostly over, and soon we’ll all be able to go to bed.” I amble downstairs and pause on the street under a gaslight. I fill my lungs with cool air before walking home.
If I had plans to retire for the night, my friends have other things on their minds. Despite the chilly night, they gather outside my window blowing whistles and horns, singing and dancing in the street until we invite them inside for refreshments.
All we have to offer them is water to drink, but they don’t seem to mind. Mother, who would ordinarily be mortified over the poverty of our cupboards, is nonetheless cheerful, having realized her dream of being Mrs. President. When the last reveler leaves, I climb the narrow stairs to my bed and lie awake deciding whom I will invite to serve on my Cabinet.
Shortly after daybreak, I go to the law office and tell Billy Herndon of my planned appointments. He says, “They will eat you up.”
I shake my head. “No. They will eat each other up.”
Billy sits back in his chair. “Your Cabinet may be the least of your problems.”
My head begins aching. “That’s not hard to see.”
“If disunion comes, we must keep foreign capitals out of the fray.”
I grimace. “Unless they come to our aid.”
Billy leans forward. “We’ll need our own diplomats. The ones we’ll inherit owe their offices to the party that has fought hard to uphold slavery. Their loyalty belongs to those who are eager to celebrate your failure.”
“Reckon, then, we have some big work to do.”
A few days after the election, Nicolay hands me Thurlow Weed’s Albany Evening Journal. He warns me, “Weed’s pushing for compromise with the southern states.”
“What kind of compromise?”
“He’s for everything from compensation for fugitive slaves to the repeal of personal liberty laws and extending the Missouri Compromise line to the western coast.”
I toss the paper on the desk. “How can any Republican in this hour of victory, even if in the face of danger, think of abandoning what we have just won?”
Weed is not the only one suffering twinges of contrition. Wall Street is up wildly one day, then down the next. Newspapers on both sides of the ocean report anxiety over secession, asking what will become of cheap cotton.