• CHAPTER SIXTEEN •

WASHINGTON IN 1861

The journey from Springfield to Washington could be done in two or three days, but Lincoln’s trip was to last two weeks. The train was to stop at many places where he would see important people, hold conferences, and make speeches. His advisers hoped that a sight of him might quiet rising tension. His manner was so friendly that shaking his hand made a person feel his kindly nature and gave people confidence.

So it was the twenty-first of February when he arrived in Philadelphia. Mrs. Lincoln and the small boys had joined him, and they were conducted from train to hotel with a great parade.

The inauguration of Abraham Lincoln, March 4, 1861.

Few knew that while gay crowds thronged the streets three men were anxiously conferring in a small room. Two were friends of Lincoln who were making the trip with him. The third was the detective, Allan Pinkerton.

“There is a plot to murder Mr. Lincoln in Baltimore!” Pinkerton told them.

The men were not so surprised as Pinkerton had expected. They knew Lincoln’s life had been threatened; likely this was just another crackpot. Lincoln would laugh at their fears. But the detective was insistent. Vague threats could be brushed off. This was a definite plot. Lincoln must not go through Baltimore by daylight, as planned.

“Then you’ll have to tell him yourself!” the men said.

Pinkerton went to Lincoln that evening and was laughed at for his worry. Lincoln had planned to attend a flag-raising at Independence Hall, Philadelphia, the next day, to speak in Harrisburg, and to go through Baltimore; and he intended to carry out that plan. After much argument he was persuaded to protect himself by letting them slip him through Baltimore in the night. But he refused to miss that ceremony at Independence Hall and the speech at Harrisburg.

The next day the flag was raised, and Mr. Lincoln spoke words that showed his deep love for the famous document written in that hall.

“I am filled with deep emotion (he said) at finding myself standing … in this place … from which sprang the institutions under which we live… . All the political sentiments I entertain have been drawn … from sentiments which originated and were given to the world from this hall.” He said that he thought often of the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence and the army that achieved the freedom it declared. Liberty should not be just for separation from the mother country; it should be for all people in the world for all future time. If the country could be saved with freedom for all, he would be the happiest of men. If it could not be saved with freedom, “I would rather be assassinated on this spot than surrender it.” And he promised that there would be no blood shed except in self-defence.

After he had finished in Philadelphia and Harrisburg, he reluctantly allowed himself to be smuggled through Baltimore in the night. But when he arrived safely in Washington the next morning, he said it was a shabby way to approach the greatest office in the land.

Hours behind him, the special train with his family and party arrived in Washington, and they joined him at the Willard Hotel. At once the Lincoln suite took on the gay air of a continual party. Mrs. Lincoln had pretty sisters, nieces, and cousins with her and handsome Robert had come down from Harvard for his father’s inauguration. Mr. Lincoln’s two secretaries were attractive young men and had their hands full managing the many visitors.

Robert was a mannerly youth. His middle name Todd was aptly chosen, for he was a Kentucky gentleman—and always correct. Willie and Tad gleefully dodged through the rooms; they were by now badly pampered youngsters, but their devoted father seemed to find their energy diverting.

And so the important day drew near.

March 4th was windy and raw in spite of sunshine. Thousands who had come to see the inauguration could not find places to sleep. They washed at public fountains and milled around the city. A few buildings were gaily decorated. Others were tightly shuttered, reminding visitors that Washington, like Baltimore, was really a southern city. Pennsylvania Avenue had been freshly swept and looked its best, but the sight of Federal soldiers marching to stations along the way was disturbing. Sabers gleamed; feet tramped with military correctness. The crowds eyed the soldiers uncomfortably.

Many friends had come from Illinois for the day. Among these was Mentor Graham, the kindly schoolteacher of New Salem. He had drawn from his precious savings: bought a new suit, hat, and railroad ticket. This day, when the youth he had taught grammar and surveying would become the president of the United States, was a great day in Graham’s life.

As Abraham Lincoln stepped onto the platform, he was carefully dressed. His suit was well made, his tall hat shone, his shirt bosom was white, his boots new, and he carried a shiny ebony cane topped with gold. But where should he put the thing? The small stand before him would barely hold the manuscript of his address.

Senator Douglas, sitting near, reached out, took both hat and cane, and held them through the ceremony. Mr. Lincoln gazed at the assembled people; many a time he and Douglas had faced as big a crowd on a prairie. How strange to be together here; one holding a hat, one taking a high office.

Senator Baker of Oregon made the introduction. “Fellow citizens, I introduce to you Abraham Lincoln, the President-elect of the United States.”

Hardly a ripple of applause broke the tense silence as Mr. Lincoln stepped to the speaker’s stand, took his address from his pocket, and began to speak.

“Fellow citizens of the United States: In compliance with a custom as old as the government itself, I appear before you to address you briefly, and to take in your presence, the oath prescribed by the Constitution of the United States, to be taken by the President ‘before he enters on the execution of his office.’ ”

Then in clear statements he assured Southern states that he would not interfere with slavery where it was legal and that fugitive slaves from such states would be returned. He reminded the South that forts belonged to the Federal government, but that he would try to avoid irritation in carrying out government work. These matters attended to, he began what to him was the most important part of his address: he begged the people to keep an unbroken union.

“Physically … we cannot separate,” he said. “We cannot remove our respective sections one from each other, nor build an impassable wall between… . Suppose you go to war, you cannot fight always; and when, after much loss on both sides and no gain on either you cease fighting, the identical old questions … are again upon you… . Nothing valuable can be lost by taking time … Intelligence, patriotism, Christianity, and a firm reliance on Him who has never yet forsaken this favored land, are still competent to adjust in the best way all our present difficulty… .

A copy of the Emancipation Proclamation.

“I am loathe to close. We are not enemies but friends. 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.”

The high, clear voice stopped. Chief Justice Taney opened the Bible. Lincoln raised his right hand and repeated after the justice the solemn oath, “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

Guns boomed. The crowd stirred. In this crucial moment of the country’s existence, Abraham Lincoln was now the President of the United States.

That evening the Lincolns attended the “Union Ball,” and the next morning Mr. Lincoln began his enormous task as chief executive. He held cabinet meetings at which he tried to get his new “team” working. He saw hundreds of office seekers. They flocked to the White House, entered unquestioned, and stood in line on the stairs leading to his office. The Lincolns had no privacy at all!

Washington ladies gossiped about Mrs. Lincoln, her high-handed ways of starting housekeeping, and her gowns; Robert Lincoln went back to college; and Willie and Tad got sick. This time it was the measles.

Mrs. Lincoln was eager to take her proper place as “First Lady” and also to show that her native Kentucky was not the backwoods that many called it; so when the boys were well she began official entertaining. This, considering her husband’s casual ideas, presented difficulties.

There was even the matter of dress, especially gloves. By the third reception she had got him into a pair of white gloves—quite an achievement as his hands were large and muscular from grasping an ax most of his growing years. But all went well—until the President spied an old friend from Sangamon County coming down the line. He reached out and grasped the neighbor’s hand and—pop! That glove burst like an inflated paper bag.

Elegant guests stared. Mr. Lincoln inspected the shattered glove and remarked, “Well, my friend, that was quite a bustification.” And the party went on.

As it turned out, fate did not allow time for the calm thinking that Mr. Lincoln had begged for in his speech. On March 5th, the day after he was inaugurated, Lincoln was shown a letter from Major Anderson, the commander of Fort Sumter, in the harbor at Charleston, South Carolina. The major wrote that his provisions would soon be gone and that twenty thousand men were needed to hold that fort. He had less than a hundred and asked if he should withdraw. The new cabinet disagreed about what to do.

Before any action was decided on, three agents of the new Confederate government arrived in Washington to ask for recognition of their independence, and to settle the matter of forts and property in the South.

Secretary Seward wangled delay and tried to conciliate everyone. The agents thought Sumter was going to be evacuated, so they stayed on in Washington. While Seward bustled about, Lincoln decided that now was the time to show the authority of the Union. Against the advice of members of his cabinet, he ordered help sent to the fort. He thought that delay would allow the Confederacy to grow stronger, perhaps so strong that it could not be overthrown. And as for the North, delay might cool union sentiment so that the country could never be brought together.

The Southern agents went home and on April 12, Confederate guns fired on Fort Sumter.

Three days later President Lincoln called for 75,000 volunteers and three weeks later for 42,000 more. By the first of July he had 310,000 under arms. The ships of the Navy were called home and Southern ports were blockaded.

The South, too, acted quickly. Jefferson Davis called for 100,000 volunteers; and four more states, Arkansas, Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee joined the Confederacy. Maryland, Kentucky, and Missouri hesitated.

And so began a civil war, the most dreadful of all wars because it sets family against family. Lincoln’s own people were divided as were many others; he had relatives who chose to fight for the South; three of Mrs. Lincoln’s brothers enlisted in the Confederate Army. Many hardly knew which side to support; Robert E. Lee and George H. Thomas were both West Point graduates and citizens of Virginia and were torn between conflicting loyalties. Lee decided he could not fight against his home and family; Thomas decided to fight for the Union and served with distinction under General Grant.

On the surface the war was to settle two questions: Should slavery be extended? Did states that had entered the Union have the right to withdraw from it? But Mr. Lincoln and other thoughtful men knew that deep down under those questions lay another, even more important: Could a government founded on the principles of the Declaration of Independence survive?

Soon the line of office seekers was replaced by a longer line of men who wanted commissions in the army or the chance to tell the President how to run the country. Everyone thought he knew just what should be done. Few, even in his own cabinet, had faith in Lincoln’s ability. Seward thought of Lincoln as a mere puppet and of himself as the real leader of the government. The cabinet debated the merits of various generals; the shocking defeat at the Battle of Bull Run in July showed they needed competent men, but who were they?

Mr. Lincoln had little time for rest or recreation except stolen moments with his family. Willie and Tad got up a show in the attic, had a menagerie back of the house, and gave circus performances with goats, birds, ponies, and other creatures given to them. Wide-eyed youngsters peered through the fence and were invited in for the fun. The Lincoln boys (Willie was eleven and Tad eight) were used to picking friends as they pleased; they cared nothing whether a lad was a son of wealth or poverty; if he wanted to come, he was invited in. When work piled up, the President liked to leave his desk and see what his boys were doing. A laugh at their antics refreshed him.

Mrs. Lincoln was a devoted mother and was never too busy to make sure her boys were well and happy. She had reluctantly consented that Willie be allowed to ride his pony. This pretty animal was Willie’s most prized gift, and he rode daily.

One cold winter afternoon he came in wet and chilled. His mother put him to bed, but he did not sleep off the illness as she had hoped; so a doctor was called.

The next evening there was to be a formal reception at the White House; but Dr. Stone thought Willie would be all right, so the party was not cancelled. Both the President and Mrs. Lincoln came upstairs often that evening to make sure the sick child was sleeping. Alas! Willie got steadily worse, and he died a few days later.

Mr. Lincoln was crushed with grief. “My poor boy! God has called him home,” he cried. Mrs. Lincoln was so overcome that Mr. Lincoln feared for her health. Little Tad was lost without his brother. He often ran into his father’s office and threw his arms about the man, hugging tight. Then he ran back to lonely play or stayed by his father to nap. Visitors saw the President leave his office and carry a sleeping little boy to bed. The White House seemed different after Willie died.

Perhaps because war began at once, the President and Mrs. Lincoln who had made few intimate friends in Washington. Now their greatest help came from Mrs. Elizabeth Keckley, a kindly dressmaker to Mrs. Lincoln who had become a friend. In these sad days the President came to depend on her. He loved all his boys, but Willie was “the Lincoln,” the one most like his father. Mrs. Lincoln grieved for many months when her husband needed her gaiety and her faith in him.

The war was going badly in that year 1862. The President began to wonder if the Union could possibly be saved while slaves were still in bondage. Years before he had proposed that the government purchase and free slaves but the suggestion was talked down as “too expensive.” (Years later historians figured that the Civil War cost more than twice as much as buying and freeing the slaves.) At the time he made the suggestion he could not enforce it. Now with war powers given to the President he could free slaves in rebellious states. How should it be done? For months he studied this problem.

In the summer of 1862, when General McClellan was building a fine army but not winning battles, the President went to the telegraph office and sat at a desk to write. Here, in the midst of tapping instruments, he was free from seekers and complainers. Presently he wrote a few words, locked the paper in a drawer, and went away. But he came again, and again. Sometimes he wrote half a page; sometimes he only changed what he had written before. Men watched him and said nothing. They saw he was trying to put deep thoughts into words.

In July, Lincoln talked with Seward and Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, about the emancipation of the slaves. They were astonished at the change in his thinking and begged for time to consider before giving an opinion.

Early in August the President called a cabinet meeting and laid the matter before them. Many objections were made but as he had foreseen most of these, Lincoln had an answer ready for each one. Seward alone had an idea that Lincoln had not considered. He suggested that the matter wait until a Union victory put the country in a mood favorable for change. To this Lincoln agreed.

Meanwhile Abolitionists prodded the President to take a decisive stand and free the slaves. Delegations came to the White House to plead; many wrote vigorous letters. On the 19th of August, Horace Greeley of the New York Tribune published an open letter to Lincoln in which he reproved the President for delay and demanded that he confiscate and free the slaves at once. Greeley claimed that he expressed the views of twenty million people.

Lincoln’s answer to Greeley’s criticism of his policy was prompt and clear. “… I would save the Union the shortest way under the Constitution… . If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time save slavery, I do not agree with them. If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time destroy slavery, I do not agree with them. My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union… .

“I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty; and I intend no modification of my oft expressed personal wish that all men everywhere could be free.”

And he continued to wait for the right moment.

But after the Union victory at Antietam, Lincoln could wait no longer. That inward force that often guided him made him sure that the time had come to speak. He called a cabinet meeting on the 22nd of September.

“I made a promise to myself,” he told the assembled secretaries, “and to my Maker. I am going to fulfill that promise now.” And he read to them the fateful words he had written in the proclamation to free the slaves.

The message warned the states and parts of states that were “in rebellion against the United States” and said that “unless they ceased war against the government … persons held as slaves within … such states … are henceforth and forever free … and the government of the United States … will recognize and maintain the freedom of said persons.”

He asked “freed persons” to refrain from violence and to work for fair wages, and he promised them work in forts and on ships. This, he read, was an act of justice and was legal, and he begged the considerate judgment of men and the favor of God. If signed, the proclamation was to be effective January 1, 1863.

Many times Lincoln’s cabinet had disagreed with him. That day they approved the proclamation and it was promptly signed.

This famous document declared free only the slaves in states which had withdrawn from the Union, so it actually had relatively little effect upon the total number of slaves. But its moral value was enormous. Northerners saw in it a sign that Lincoln truly did hope to free the slaves. While Abolitionists thought it far too mild, they admitted it was a good first step toward the right goal.

In Europe, and especially in England, sentiment for the South had been growing; now, when they saw Lincoln’s stand, plans for intervention were laid aside and liberals turned to Lincoln’s support.

Many regarded Emancipation, limited as it was, as the most important step in man’s march for freedom since the Declaration of Independence in 1776.

But its effect on the war was to intensify feeling. The North now had a moral crusade; the South, a fight for life.