those mules cost us two hundred dollars apiece."
Captain Knight, who was in charge of the guard at the War Department,
said, "Mr. Lincoln's favorite time for visiting the War Department was
between eleven and twelve o'clock at night. His tall, ungainly form
wrapped in an old gray shawl, wearing usually a shockingly bad hat,
and carrying a worse umbrella, came up the steps into the building.
Secretary Stanton, who knew Mr. Lincoln's midnight habits, gave a
standing order that, although Mr. Lincoln might come from the White
House alone (and he seldom came in any other way), he should never be
permitted to return alone, but should be escorted by a file of four
soldiers and a non-commissioned officer.
"On the way to the White House, Mr. Lincoln would converse with us on
various topics. I remember one night, when it was raining very hard, as
he saw us at the door, ready to escort him, he addressed us in these
words: 'Don't come out in this storm with me to-night, boys; I have my
umbrella, and can get home safely without you.'
"'But,' I replied, 'Mr. President, we have positive orders from Mr.
Stanton not to allow you to return alone, and you know we dare not
disobey his orders.'
"'No,' replied Mr. Lincoln, 'I suppose not; for if Mr. Stanton
should learn that you had let me return alone, he would have you
court-martialed and shot inside of twenty-four hours.'
"I was detailed upon one occasion to escort the President to the
Soldiers' Home," continued Captain Knight. "As we approached the front
gate, I noticed what seemed to be a young man groping his way, as
if he were blind, across the road. Hearing the carriage and horses
approaching, he became frightened, and walked in the direction of the
approaching danger. Mr. Lincoln quickly observed this, and shouted to
the coachman to rein in his horses, which he did as they were about
to run over the unfortunate youth. He had been shot through the left
side of the upper part of the face, and the ball, passing from one side
to the other, had put out both his eyes. He could not have been over
sixteen or seventeen years of age, and, aside from his blindness, he
had a very beautiful face. Mr. Lincoln extended his hand to him, and
while he held it he asked him, with a voice trembling with emotion, his
name, his regiment, and where he lived. The young man answered these
questions and stated that he lived in Michigan; and then Mr. Lincoln
made himself known to the blind soldier, and with a look that was a
benediction in itself, spoke to him a few words of sympathy and bade him
good-by. The following day after his interview with the President he
received a commission as a first lieutenant in the regular army of the
United States, accompanied by an order of retirement upon full pay; and,
if he is living to-day, he is doubtless drawing the salary of a first
lieutenant in the United States army on the retired list."
The most important battle of the war was fought at the polls in
the Northern States in November, 1864, and from the hour that the
result was announced the Southern Confederacy was doomed. It lost the
confidence and respect of the people within its own jurisdiction and
of the nations of Europe. Several attempts were made by the Southern
leaders to open negotiations for peace, but President Lincoln gave
them plainly to understand that he could not recognize the Confederacy
as anything but a rebellion against the government. Then General Lee
undertook "to meet General Grant with the hope that ... it may be found
practicable to submit the subjects of controversy ... to a convention,"
etc. Grant immediately wired Lee's letter to Mr. Stanton, who received
it at the Capitol on the last night of the session of Congress, where
the President, attended by his Cabinet, had gone, as usual, to sign
bills. Having read the telegram, Mr. Stanton handed it to the President
without comment. By this time Lincoln felt himself completely master of
the situation. He knew the people were behind him and would approve
whatever he thought best for the welfare of the country. He had full
confidence in the commanders of his armies and knew that they were
crowding the Confederates into the last ditch. Therefore, for the first
time since the beginning of the war, he could act promptly upon his
individual judgment. Without consulting any one, he wrote the following
despatch, which, without a word, he passed over the table for Stanton to
sign and send:
"The President directs me to say that he wishes you to have no
conference with General Lee, unless it be for capitulation of General
Lee's army or on some minor or purely military matter. He instructs me
to say that you are not to decide, discuss, or confer upon any political
questions. Such questions the President holds in his own hand and will
submit them to no military conferences or conventions. Meanwhile you are
to press to the utmost your military advantages."
This little despatch crushed the last hope of the Confederate
authorities; but, before the end could come, Lee resolved to make
one more desperate attempt to escape from the toils in which he was
involved. His assault was made with great spirit on March 25, and
from that day until April 7 there was fighting all along the line. In
the mean time Lincoln went down to City Point, where Grant had his
head-quarters, on the James River a few miles below Richmond, and there
had a conference with the three great heroes of the war, Sherman having
come from North Carolina and Sheridan from the other side of Richmond.
It was a remarkable meeting,--the first and last time these four men
were ever together.
After the conference, at which Lincoln expressed his sympathy with
the desperate situation in which the Confederates were placed, Grant
sent a note through the lines to Lee, saying, "The results of the
last week must have convinced you of the hopelessness of further
resistance," and added that he regarded it a duty "to shift from myself
the responsibility of any further effusion of blood" by asking Lee's
surrender. Lee replied that he reciprocated the desire to avoid further
bloodshed, and asked for terms. Grant answered that there was only one
condition, that the officers and men surrendered should be disqualified
from taking up arms again. Lee replied the next day that he did not
think the emergency had arisen for the surrender of his army, but
offered to meet Grant at ten o'clock the next morning on the old stage
line to Richmond between the pickets of the two armies. Grant answered
that "the terms upon which peace can be had are well understood. By the
South laying down their arms they will hasten that most desirable event,
save thousands of human lives and hundreds of millions of property."
Lee had hoped to arrest the movement of the Union troops by entering
into negotiations, but found that Grant understood his purpose and was
drawing more closely around him, so he accepted the inevitable and asked
an interview for the surrender of his army.
The meeting at the McLean mansion at Appomattox has been too often
described to require reference in these pages, except to call attention
to the fact that General Grant's letter accepting the surrender of Lee's
army was in direct violation of the amnesty proclamation of December 8,
1863, and President Lincoln's order sent from the Capital on the night
of March 3. No one knows whether Lincoln ever called his attention to
that fact. There is no record of a reprimand or even a comment from
the President, and it is probable that his joy and gratitude were so
overwhelming that he did not even question the terms. General Grant,
however, in his "Memoirs," says that he was overcome by feelings of
sympathy for his heroic antagonist, and that the closing sentence of his
letter, which practically pardoned the entire army, was written without
a thought of its far-reaching significance.
President Lincoln was the same man in triumph that he had been in
distress. Neither joy nor grief could disconcert him, but no one
witnessed the enthusiasm of the public over the news from Appomattox
with greater gratification. The story of his visit to Richmond is told
in Chapter VI. Upon his return to Washington he took up at once the
important work of restoring order in the South with as much zeal and
energy as he had shown in the prosecution of the war.
On April 11, from one of the windows of the White House, in response to
a serenade, he delivered his last speech, in which he departed from the
habit of reticence he had practised throughout the war and expressed
more of his views and purposes than he had ever previously done on a
similar occasion.
April 14, the anniversary of the evacuation of Fort Sumter, was
celebrated by restoring the identical flag to the staff from which it
had been lowered four years before. General Robert Anderson performed
that thankful duty; the Rev. Matthias Harris, the former chaplain of
Fort Sumter, offered prayer; General E. D. Townsend read the original
despatch announcing the evacuation; and Henry Ward Beecher delivered a
brilliant oration, which concluded with these words:
"We offer to the President of these United States our solemn
congratulations that God has sustained his life and health under the
unparalleled burdens and sufferings of four bloody years, and permitted
him to behold this auspicious confirmation of that national unity for
which he has waited with so much patience and fortitude, and for which
he has labored with such disinterested wisdom."
General Grant, who arrived in Washington on the morning of the 14th,
expressed anxiety concerning the situation of General Sherman, because
he had heard nothing from him for several days. The President assured
him that he need have no concern, because the night before he had
dreamed that he was on board a curious vessel sailing rapidly towards a
dark and indefinite shore, and awoke before landing. He said he had had
exactly the same dream before the battles of Antietam, Murfreesborough,
Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and other great victories. Although the members
of the Cabinet were accustomed to similar revelations of that mysticism
which was one of Lincoln's characteristics, they were greatly impressed;
but Grant dismissed it with the comment that there was no victory at
Murfreesborough, and that the battle there had no important results.
The President did not seem to notice this matter-of-fact remark, and
continued to describe his dream and the sensations which followed it,
insisting that Sherman would soon report an important victory, because
he could think of no other possible event to which his dream might
refer. Twelve days later, April 26, came the news of the surrender of
Johnston's army to Sherman and the end of the war.
In the presence of General Grant, the Cabinet discussed the subject
of reconstruction. As there was a difference of opinion and lack of
information concerning the proposed regulations for governing trade
between the States, the President appointed Mr. Stanton, Mr. Welles, and
Mr. McCulloch a committee to submit recommendations.
At the previous Cabinet meeting Secretary Stanton had submitted a plan
for the re-establishment of civil government, which was discussed at
length. It was providential, the President said, that Congress would
not sit again for at least seven months, which would allow him time to
restore order and civil authority without interference. He expressed
sympathy with the people of the South and a desire to avoid further
bloodshed and exhibitions of resentment or vindictiveness. He believed
that they needed charity more than censure. He said that he would not
permit the severe punishment of the Southern leaders, notwithstanding
the clamor from the North. No one need expect to take any part in
hanging or killing these men, even the worst of them.
"Frighten them out of the country!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms
around as if he were driving sheep; "let down the bars; scare them off!
Enough lives have been sacrificed; we must extinguish our resentment if
we expect harmony and union!"
Secretary Welles records in his diary this extraordinary scene at the
last meeting of the Lincoln Cabinet, and adds that, as the President
dismissed his advisers, he urged them to give the most earnest
consideration to the problem that had been presented by the restoration
of peace.
The President spent the rest of the day with his son Robert and other
personal friends, violating his rule and refusing to admit any one on
official business. During the afternoon he went with Mrs. Lincoln for
a long drive, and seemed to be in an unusually happy and contented
mood. She said that he talked of going back to Springfield to practise
law. His heart was overflowing with gratitude to the Heavenly Father,
he said, for all His goodness, and particularly for the close of the
war and the triumph of the Union arms, for there would be no further
bloodshed or distress. The members of his family and his secretaries
agree that they never had known him to be in such a satisfied and
contented state of mind. The clouds that had hung over him for four
years had cleared away; the war was over, peace was restored, and the
only duty left to him was extremely grateful to his nature,--the task of
restoring happiness and prosperity.
[Illustration: JOHN WILKES BOOTH
From a photograph by Brady]
After dinner that evening Mr. Colfax and Mr. Ashmun, of the House of
Representatives, who were about to leave Washington for the summer,
came to inquire if the President intended to call an extra session of
Congress. He assured them that he did not; and, as they were leaving
the White House, Ward Lamon, the United States Marshal of the District
of Columbia, and one of his oldest friends, called to ask a pardon for
an old soldier who had been convicted of violating the army regulations.
According to the recollection of Mr. Pendel, one of the President's
messengers, Lincoln told his last story at that time. As he was about to
sign the pardon, he turned to Lamon, saying,--
"Lamon, do you know how the Patagonians eat oysters?"
"No, I do not, Mr. Lincoln," was the reply.
"It is their habit to open them as fast as they can and throw the shells
out of the window, and when the pile of shells grows to be higher than
the house, why, they pick up stakes and move. Now, Lamon, I felt like
beginning a new pile of pardons, and I guess this is a good one to begin
on."
The President, Mrs. Lincoln, and General and Mrs. Grant had accepted a
box at Ford's Theatre that evening, and, the fact having been announced
in the newspapers, there was a large attendance. Providentially General
Grant changed his mind at the last moment and took a train for New
York instead. Mrs. Lincoln invited Miss Harris and Major Rathbone, the
daughter and step-son of Senator Ira Harris, of New York, to take the
vacant places, and the party arrived at the theatre shortly after the
curtain rose. About ten o'clock John Wilkes Booth, a dissipated young
actor and fanatical sympathizer of the South, pushed his way through the
crowd to the President's box, showed a card to the usher who had been
placed at the door to keep out inquisitive people, and was allowed to
enter. The eyes of the President and his companions were fixed upon the
stage, so that his entrance was unnoticed. Carrying a knife in his left
hand, Booth approached within arm's length of the President and fired a
pistol; dropping that weapon, he took the knife in his right hand and
struck savagely at Major Rathbone, who caught the blow upon his left
arm, receiving a deep wound. Booth then vaulted over the railing of the
box upon the stage, but his spur caught in the folds of the drapery and
he fell, breaking his leg. Staggering to the footlights, he brandished
his dripping knife, shouted in a tragic manner "_Sic semper tyrannis_,"
the State motto of Virginia, and disappeared between the flies.
Major Rathbone shouted "Stop him!" The actors upon the stage were
stupefied by fright and surprise, and it was several seconds before the
audience realized what had happened. They were brought to their senses
by some one who shouted, "He has shot the President!" Several men jumped
upon the stage in pursuit of the assassin, while three army surgeons
who happened to be present forced their way through the crowd to the
President's box. As soon as a passage could be cleared, the President
was carried across the street and laid upon a bed in a small house,
where Mrs. Lincoln followed him almost overcome by the shock from which
she never recovered. Major Rathbone, exhausted by the loss of blood, was
carried home. Messengers were sent for the Cabinet, for the President's
family physician, and for the Surgeon-General of the army. Robert
Lincoln and John Hay learned the news from the shouts of a frantic crowd
which soon poured through the gates of the White House, and hurried at
once to the little house on Tenth Street. On their way they were told
that most of the Cabinet had been murdered.
The physicians who surrounded the President's bed pronounced the wound
fatal. The assassin's bullet entered the back of his head on the left
side, passed through the brain, and lodged behind the left ear. But
for his powerful physique and his abundant vitality, it would have
brought instant death. He never recovered consciousness, but lingered
through the night and died at twenty-two minutes past seven in the
morning. Dr. Gurley, pastor of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church,
which the President attended, was kneeling in prayer by his bedside;
Surgeon-General Barnes, of the army, had his finger upon the President's
pulse; Robert Lincoln, Senator Sumner, and one of the assistant
secretaries leaned upon the foot of the bed. Colonel Hay describes the
scene as follows:
"As the dawn came and the lamplight grew pale in the fresher beams, his
pulse began to fail; but his face even then was scarcely more haggard
than those of the sorrowing group of statesmen and generals around him.
His automatic moaning, which had continued through the night, ceased;
a look of unspeakable peace came upon his worn features. At twenty-two
minutes after seven he died. Stanton broke the silence by saying, 'Now
he belongs to the ages.' Dr. Gurley kneeled by the bedside and prayed
fervently. The widow came in from the adjoining room, supported by her
son, and cast herself with loud outcry on the dead body."
VIII
THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES
Abraham Lincoln's hatred of slavery was inborn, but its development
began when he saw human beings sold at auction on the levee at New
Orleans and chained and beaten upon the decks of Mississippi River
steamboats on their way to market. These horrors were first witnessed by
him when he made his voyage on the flat-boat from Gentryville, and the
impression was deepened upon his second journey four years later from
New Salem. Even to the day of his death the recollection was vivid. He
alluded to it frequently while the slave problem was perplexing him and
his advisers during the war, and the picture was before his eyes when
he wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. As one of his companions said,
"Slavery ran the iron into him then and there."
However, the mind of the boy had been prepared for this impression
by the teachings of his mother. In 1804 a crusade against slavery in
Kentucky was started by the itinerant preachers of the Baptist Church,
and the Rev. Jesse Head, the minister who married Thomas Lincoln and
Nancy Hanks, was a bold abolitionist and boldly proclaimed the doctrine
of human liberty wherever he went. Lincoln's father and mother were
among his most devoted disciples, and when he was a mere child Abraham
Lincoln inherited their hatred of human servitude. "If slavery is not
wrong, nothing is wrong," he once said in a speech. "I cannot remember
when I did not think so and feel so."
Down in a corner of Indiana where the Lincolns lived there were slaves
for years after the admission of the State to the Union, in spite of the
ordinance of 1787 and the statutes which Lincoln read in his youth. Nor
was the fact a secret. The census of 1820 showed one hundred and ninety
slaves, but during the next year the State Supreme Court declared them
free.
In the following year (1822) occurred a great moral revolution on the
frontier. Then commenced the struggle between the friends and opponents
of slavery which lasted until the Emancipation Proclamation was signed.
Abraham Lincoln, with the preparation I have described, was from the
beginning an active participant, and gradually became a leader in one of
the greatest controversies that has ever engaged the intellectual and
moral forces of the world.
In 1822, eight years before the Lincoln family left Indiana, an attempt
was made to introduce slavery into Illinois, and was defeated by Edward
Coles, of Virginia, the Governor, who gave his entire salary for four
years to pay the expense of the contest. The antislavery members of the
Legislature contributed a thousand dollars to the fund, which was spent
in the distribution of literature on the subject. For a time the storm
subsided, but the deep hatred of the iniquity was spreading through
the North, and abolition societies were being organized in every city
and village where the friends of human freedom existed in sufficient
numbers to sustain themselves against the powerful proslavery sentiment.
Occasionally there was a public discussion, but the controversy raged
most fiercely at the corner groceries, at the county court-house, and
at other places where thinking men were in the habit of assembling, and
Lincoln was always ready and eager to enter the debates. His convictions
were formed and grew firmer as he studied the question, and his moral
courage developed with them. It was a good deal of an ordeal for an
ambitious young man just beginning his career to attack a popular
institution, in the midst of a community many of whom had been born and
educated in slave States and considered what he believed a curse to be
a divine institution. Nevertheless, the sense of justice and humanity
stimulated Abraham Lincoln to take his place upon the side of freedom,
and he never lost an opportunity to denounce slavery as founded on
injustice and wrong.
His first opportunity to make a public avowal of his views occurred
in 1838, when the Illinois Legislature passed a series of resolutions
declaring that the right of property in slaves is sacred to the
slave-holding States by the Federal Constitution, and "that we highly
disapprove of the formation of abolition societies and of the doctrines
promulgated by them." Lincoln and five other members of the Legislature
voted against these resolutions; and in order to make his position more
fully understood by his constituents and the members of the Whig party
throughout the State, he prepared a protest, which he persuaded Dan
Stone, one of his colleagues from Sangamon County, to sign with him,
and, at their request, it was spread upon the journal of the House, as
follows:
"Resolutions upon the subject of domestic slavery having passed both
branches of the General Assembly at its present session, the undersigned
hereby protest against the passage of the same.
"They believe that the institution of slavery is founded on both
injustice and bad policy, but that the promulgation of abolition
doctrines tends rather to increase than abate its evils.
"They believe that the Congress of the United States has no power under
the Constitution to interfere with the institution of slavery in the
different States.
"They believe that the Congress of the United States has the power,
under the Constitution, to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia,
but that the power ought not to be exercised, unless at the request of
the people of the District.
"The difference between these opinions and those contained in the said
resolutions is their reasons for entering this protest."
This, I am confident, is the first formal declaration against the system
of slavery that was made in any legislative body in the United States,
at least west of the Hudson River.