JOURNEY FROM SPRINGFIELD TO WASHINGTON.
On the 11th of February, 1861, the arrangements for Mr. Lincoln's
departure from Springfield were completed. It was intended to occupy the
time remaining between that date and the 4th of March with a grand tour
from State to State and city to city. Mr. Wood, "recommended by Senator
Seward," was the chief manager. He provided special trains, to be
preceded by pilot engines all the way through.
It was a gloomy day: heavy clouds floated overhead, and a cold rain was
falling. Long before eight o'clock, a great mass of people had collected
at the station of the Great Western Railway to witness the event of the
day. At precisely five minutes before eight, Mr. Lincoln, preceded by
Mr. Wood, emerged from a private room in the station, and passed slowly
to the car, the people falling back respectfully on either side, and as
many as possible shaking his hand. Having reached the train he ascended
the rear platform, and, facing the throng which had closed around him,
drew himself up to his full height, removed his hat, and stood for
several seconds in profound silence. His eye roved sadly over that sea
of upturned faces; and he thought he read in them again the sympathy
and friendship which he had often tried, and which he never needed more
than he did then. There was an unusual quiver on his lip, and a still
more unusual tear on his furrowed cheek. His solemn manner, his long
silence, were as full of melancholy eloquence as any words he could have
uttered. Of what was he thinking? Of the mighty changes which had lifted
him from the lowest to the highest estate in the nation; of the weary
road which had brought him to this lofty summit; of his poverty-stricken
boyhood; of his poor mother lying beneath the tangled underbrush in a
distant forest? Whatever the particular character of his thoughts, it is
evident that they were retrospective and painful. To those who were
anxiously waiting to catch words upon which the fate of the nation might
hang, it seemed long until he had mastered his feelings sufficiently to
speak. At length he began in a husky tone of voice, and slowly and
impressively delivered his farewell to his neighbors. Imitating his
example, every man in the crowd stood with his head uncovered in the
fast-falling rain.
"Friends, no one who has never been placed in a like position can
understand my feelings at this hour, nor the oppressive sadness I
feel at this parting. For more than a quarter of a century I have
lived among you, and during all that time I have received nothing
but kindness at your hands. Here I have lived from my youth, until
now I am an old man. Here the most sacred ties of earth were
assumed; here all my children were born; and here one of them lies
buried. To you, dear friends, I owe all that I have, all that I am.
'_All the strange, checkered past seems to crowd now upon my
mind._' To-day I leave you. I go to assume a task more difficult
than that which devolved upon Washington. Unless the great God, who
assisted him, shall be with me and aid me, I must fail; but if the
same omniscient mind and almighty arm that directed and protected
him shall guide and support me, I shall not fail,--I shall succeed.
Let us all pray that the God of our fathers may not forsake us now.
To Him I commend you all. Permit me to ask that, with equal
security and faith, you will invoke His wisdom and guidance for me.
With these few words I must leave you,--for how long I know not.
Friends, one and all, I must now bid you an affectionate farewell."
Few more impressive utterances were ever made by any one than found
expression in this simple speech. This farewell meant more to him than
to his hearers. To them it meant, "Good-by for the present,"--a
commendation of his dearest friends to the watchful care of God until
his return. To him it foreboded eternity ere their reunion,--his last
solemn benediction until the resurrection. He never believed he would
return to the hallowed scenes of his adopted State, to his friends and
his home. He had felt for many years that he would suffer a violent
death, and at different times expressed his apprehensions before and
after his election as President.
The first night after our departure from Springfield was spent in
Indianapolis. Governor Yates, the Hon. O. H. Browning, Jesse K. Dubois,
O. M. Hatch, Josiah Allen, of Indiana, and others, after taking leave of
Mr. Lincoln to return to their respective homes, took me into a room,
locked the door, and proceeded in the most solemn and impressive manner
to instruct me as to my duties as the special guardian of Mr. Lincoln's
person during the rest of his journey to Washington. The lesson was
concluded by Uncle Jesse, as Mr. Dubois was commonly called, who said:
"Now, Lamon, we have regarded you as the Tom Hyer of Illinois, with
Morrissey attachment. We intrust the sacred life of Mr. Lincoln to your
keeping; and if you don't protect it, never return to Illinois, for we
will murder you on sight."
With this amiable threat, delivered in a jocular tone, but with a
feeling of deep, ill-disguised alarm for the safety of the
President-elect, in which they all shared, the door was unlocked and
they took their leave. If I had been remiss in my duty toward Mr.
Lincoln during that memorable journey, I have no doubt those sturdy men
would have made good some part of their threat.
The journey from Springfield to Philadelphia was not characterized by
any scene unusual or more eventful than what was ordinary on such
occasions, notwithstanding that so much has been written about thrilling
dangers, all of which were imagined but not encountered. Mr. Lincoln's
speeches were the all-absorbing events of the hour. The people
everywhere were eager to hear a forecast of his policy, and he was as
determined to keep silence on that subject until it was made manifest in
his Inaugural Address. After having been _en route_ a day or two, he
told me that he had done much hard work in his life, but to make
speeches day after day, with the object of speaking and saying nothing,
was the hardest work he ever had done. "I wish," said he, "that this
thing were through with, and I could find peace and quiet somewhere."
On arriving at Albany, N. Y., Mr. Thurlow Weed asked me where Mr.
Lincoln was going to be domiciled in Washington until he was
inaugurated. I told him Messrs. Trumbull and Washburne had provided
quarters for him; that they had rented a house on Thirteenth or
Fourteenth Street, N. W., for his reception, and that Mr. Lincoln had
submitted the matter to me, asking me to confer with Capt. John Pope,
one of our party who was an old friend of his, and to make just such
arrangements as I thought best for his quarters in Washington. Mr. Weed
said, "It will never do to allow him to go to a private house to be
under the influence of State control. He is now public property, and
ought to be where he can be reached by the people until he is
inaugurated." We then agreed that Willard's Hotel would be the best
place, and the following letter was written to Mr. Willard to arrange
for the reception of the Presidential party:--
ALBANY, Feb. 19, 1861.
DEAR WILLARD,--Mr. Lincoln will be your guest.
In arranging his apartments, please reserve nearest him apartments
for two of his friends, Judge Davis and Mr. Lamon.
Truly yours,
(Signed) THURLOW WEED.
Mrs. Lincoln and one son accompany him.
[Illustration: Hand written letter above]
This arrangement was reported to Mr. Lincoln, who said: "I fear it will
give mortal offense to our friends, but I think the arrangement a good
one. I can readily see that many other well meant plans will 'gang
aglee,' but I am sorry. The truth is, I suppose I am now public
property; and a public inn is the place where people can have access to
me."
Mr. Lincoln had prepared his Inaugural Address with great care, and up
to the time of his arrival in Washington he had not shown it to any one.
No one had been consulted as to what he should say on that occasion.
During the journey the Address was made an object of special care, and
was guarded with more than ordinary vigilance. It was carefully stored
away in a satchel, which for the most of the time received his personal
supervision. At Harrisburg, however, the precious bag was lost sight of.
This was a matter which for prudential reasons could not be much talked
about, and concerning which no great amount of anxiety could be shown.
Mr. Lincoln had about concluded that his Address was lost. It at length
dawned upon him that on arriving at Harrisburg he had intrusted the
satchel to his son Bob, then a boy in his teens. He at once hunted up
the boy and asked him what he had done with the bag. Robert confessed
that in the excitement of the reception he thought that he had given it
to a waiter of the hotel or to some one, he couldn't tell whom. Lincoln
was in despair. Only ten days remained until the inauguration, and no
Address; not even a trace of the notes was preserved from which it had
been prepared.
I had never seen Mr. Lincoln so much annoyed, so much perplexed, and for
the time so angry. He seldom manifested a spirit of anger toward his
children,--this was the nearest approach to it I had ever witnessed. He
and I started in search of the satchel. We went first to the hotel
office, where we were informed that if an employe of the hotel had taken
charge of it, it would be found in the baggage-room. On going there, we
found a great pile of all kinds of baggage in promiscuous confusion. Mr.
Lincoln's keen eye soon discovered a satchel which he thought his own;
taking it in his hand eagerly he tried his key; it fitted the lock,--the
bag opened, and to our astonishment it contained nothing but a soiled
shirt, several paper collars, a pack of cards, and a bottle of whiskey
nearly full. In spite of his perplexity, the ludicrous mistake overcame
Mr. Lincoln's gravity, and we both laughed heartily, much to the
amusement of the bystanders. Shortly afterward we found among the mass
the bag containing the precious document.
I shall never forget Mr. Lincoln's expression and what he said when he
first informed me of his supposed loss, and enlisted my services in
search of it. He held his head down for a moment, and then whispered:
"Lamon, I guess I have lost my certificate of moral character, written
by myself. Bob has lost my gripsack containing my Inaugural Address. I
want you to help me to find it. I feel a good deal as the old member of
the Methodist Church did when he lost his wife at the camp-meeting, and
went up to an old elder of the church and asked him if he could tell him
whereabouts in hell his wife was. In fact, I am in a worse fix than my
Methodist friend; for if it were nothing but a wife that was missing,
mine would be sure to pop up serenely somewhere. That Address may be a
loss to more than one husband in this country, but I shall be the
greatest sufferer."
On our dark journey from Harrisburg to Philadelphia the lamps of the car
were not lighted, because of the secret journey we were making. The loss
of the Address and the search for it was the subject of a great deal of
amusement. Mr. Lincoln said many funny things in connection with the
incident. One of them was that he knew a fellow once who had saved up
fifteen hundred dollars, and had placed it in a private banking
establishment. The bank soon failed, and he afterward received ten per
cent of his investment. He then took his one hundred and fifty dollars
and deposited it in a savings bank, where he was sure it would be safe.
In a short time this bank also failed, and he received at the final
settlement ten per cent on the amount deposited. When the fifteen
dollars was paid over to him, he held it in his hand and looked at it
thoughtfully; then he said, "Now, darn you, I have got you reduced to a
portable shape, so I'll put you in my pocket." Suiting the action to the
word, Mr. Lincoln took his Address from the bag and carefully placed it
in the inside pocket of his vest, but held on to the satchel with as
much interest as if it still contained his "certificate of moral
character."
While Mr. Lincoln, in the midst of his suite of attendants, was being
borne in triumph through the streets of Philadelphia, and a countless
multitude of people were shouting themselves hoarse, and jostling and
crushing each other round his carriage, Mr. Felton, the president of the
Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railway, was engaged with a
private detective discussing the details of an alleged conspiracy to
murder him at Baltimore. At various places along the route Mr. Judd, who
was supposed to exercise unbounded influence over the new President, had
received vague hints of the impending danger.
Mr. Lincoln reached Philadelphia on the afternoon of the 21st. The
detective had arrived in the morning, and improved the interval to
impress and enlist Mr. Felton. In the evening he got Mr. Judd and Mr.
Felton into his room at the St. Louis Hotel, and told them all he had
learned. Mr. Judd was very much startled, and was sure that it would be
extremely imprudent for Mr. Lincoln to pass through Baltimore in open
daylight, according to the published programme. But he thought the
detective ought to see the President himself; and, as it was wearing
toward nine o'clock, there was no time to lose. It was agreed that the
part taken by the detective and Mr. Felton should be kept secret from
every one but the President. Mr. Sanford, president of the American
Telegraph Company, had also been co-operating in the business, and the
same stipulation was made with regard to him.
Mr. Judd went to his own room at the Continental, and the detective
followed. The crowd in the hotel was very dense, and it took some time
to get a message to Mr. Lincoln. But it finally reached him, and he
responded in person. Mr. Judd introduced the detective; and the latter
told his story again. Mr. Judd and the detective wanted Mr. Lincoln to
leave for Washington that night. This he flatly refused to do. He had
engagements with the people, he said, to raise a flag over Independence
Hall in the morning, and to exhibit himself at Harrisburg in the
afternoon,--and these engagements he would not break in any event. But
he would raise the flag, go to Harrisburg, get away quietly in the
evening, and permit himself to be carried to Washington in the way they
thought best. Even this, however, he conceded with great reluctance. He
condescended to cross-examine the detective on some parts of his
narrative; but at no time did he seem in the least degree alarmed. He
was earnestly requested not to communicate the change of plan to any
member of his party except Mr. Judd, nor permit even a suspicion of it
to cross the mind of another.
In the mean time, Mr. Seward had also discovered the conspiracy, and
despatched his son to Philadelphia to warn the President-elect of the
terrible snare into whose meshes he was about to run. Mr. Lincoln turned
him over to Judd, and Judd told him they already knew about it. He went
away with just enough information to enable his father to anticipate the
exact moment of Mr. Lincoln's surreptitious arrival in Washington.
Early on the morning of the 22d, Mr. Lincoln raised the flag over
Independence Hall, and departed for Harrisburg. On the way, Mr. Judd
gave him a full and precise detail of the arrangements that had been
made the previous night. After the conference with the detective, Mr.
Sanford, Colonel Scott, Mr. Felton, and the railroad and telegraph
officials had been sent for, and came to Mr. Judd's room. They occupied
nearly the whole of the night in perfecting the plan. It was finally
agreed that about six o'clock the next evening Mr. Lincoln should slip
away from the Jones Hotel at Harrisburg, in company with a single member
of his party. A special car and engine was to be provided for him on the
track outside the depot; all other trains on the road were to be
"side-tracked" until this one had passed. Mr. Sanford was to forward
skilled "telegraph-climbers," and see that all the wires leading out of
Harrisburg were cut at six o'clock, and kept down until it was known
that Mr. Lincoln had reached Washington in safety. The detective was to
meet Mr. Lincoln at the West Philadelphia Station with a carriage, and
conduct him by a circuitous route to the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and
Baltimore Station. Berths for four were to be pre-engaged in the
sleeping-car attached to the regular midnight train for Baltimore. This
train Mr. Felton was to cause to be detained until the conductor should
receive a package, containing important "government despatches,"
addressed to "E. J. Allen, Willard's Hotel, Washington." This package
was to be made up of old newspapers, carefully wrapped and sealed, and
delivered to the detective to be used as soon as Mr. Lincoln was lodged
in the car.
Mr. Lincoln acquiesced in this plan. Then Mr. Judd, forgetting the
secrecy which the spy had so impressively enjoined, told Mr. Lincoln
that the step he was about to take was one of such transcendent
importance that he thought "it should be communicated to the other
gentlemen of the party." Therefore, when they had arrived at Harrisburg,
and the public ceremonies and speech-making were over, Mr. Lincoln
retired to a private parlor in the Jones House; and Mr. Judd summoned to
meet him there Judge Davis, Colonel Sumner, Major Hunter, Captain Pope,
and myself. Judd began the conference by stating the alleged fact of the
Baltimore conspiracy, how it was detected, and how it was proposed to
thwart it by a midnight expedition to Washington by way of Philadelphia.
It was a great surprise to all of us.
Colonel Sumner was the first to break the silence. "That proceeding,"
said he, "will be a damned piece of cowardice."
Mr. Judd considered this a "pointed hit," but replied that "that view of
the case had already been presented to Mr. Lincoln." Then there was a
general interchange of opinions, which Sumner interrupted by saying,--
"I'll get a squad of cavalry, sir, and _cut_ our way to Washington,
sir!"
"Probably before that day comes," said Mr. Judd, "the inauguration day
will have passed. It is important that Mr. Lincoln should be in
Washington on that day."
Thus far Judge Davis had expressed no opinion, but had put various
questions to test the truthfulness of the story. He now turned to Mr.
Lincoln, and said, "You personally heard the detective's story. You have
heard this discussion. What is your judgment in the matter?"
"I have thought over this matter considerably since I went over the
ground with the detective last night. The appearance of Mr. Frederick
Seward with warning from another source confirms my belief in the
detective's statement. Unless there are some other reasons besides fear
of ridicule, I am disposed to carry out Judd's plan."
There was no longer any dissent as to the plan itself; but one question
still remained to be disposed of. Who should accompany the President on
his perilous ride? Mr. Judd again took the lead, declaring that he and
Mr. Lincoln had previously determined that but one man ought to go, and
that I had been selected as the proper person. To this Sumner violently
demurred. "_I_ have undertaken," he exclaimed, "to see Mr. Lincoln to
Washington!"
Mr. Lincoln was dining when a close carriage was brought to the side
door of the hotel. He was called, hurried to his room, changed his coat
and hat, and passed rapidly through the hall and out of the door. As he
was stepping into the carriage, it became manifest that Sumner was
determined to get in also. "Hurry with him!" whispered Judd to me; and
at the same time, placing his hand on Sumner's shoulder, he said aloud,
"One moment, Colonel!" Sumner turned round, and in that moment the
carriage drove rapidly away. "A madder man," says Mr. Judd, "you never
saw."
We got on board the car without discovery or mishap. Besides ourselves,
there was no one in or about the car except Mr. Lewis, general
superintendent of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad, and Mr. Franciscus,
superintendent of the division over which we were about to pass. The
arrangements for the special train were made ostensibly to take these
two gentlemen to Philadelphia.
At ten o'clock we reached West Philadelphia, and were met by the
detective and one Mr. Kenney, an under-official of the Philadelphia,
Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad, from whose hands the "important
parcel" was to be delivered to the conductor of the 10.50 P.M. train.
Mr. Lincoln, the detective, and myself seated ourselves in a carriage
which stood in waiting; and Mr. Kenney sat upon the box with the driver.
It was nearly an hour before the Baltimore train was to start; and Mr.
Kenney found it necessary to consume the time by driving northward in
search of some imaginary person.
As the moment for the departure of the Baltimore train drew near, the
carriage paused in the dark shadows of the depot building. It was not
considered prudent to approach the entrance.
We were directed to the sleeping-car. Mr. Kenney ran forward and
delivered the "important package," and in three minutes the train was in
motion. The tickets for the whole party had been procured by George R.
Dunn, an express agent, who had selected berths in the rear of the car,
and had insisted that the rear door of the car should be opened on the
plea that one of the party was an invalid, who would arrive late, and
did not desire to be carried through the narrow passage-way of the
crowded car. Mr. Lincoln got into his berth immediately, the curtains
were carefully closed, and the rest of the party waited until the
conductor came round, when the detective handed him the "sick man's"
ticket. During the night Mr. Lincoln indulged in a joke or two, in an
undertone; but with that exception the two sections occupied by us were
perfectly silent. The detective said he had men stationed at various
places along the road to let him know if all was right; and he rose and
went to the platform occasionally to observe their signals, returning
each time with a favorable report.
At thirty minutes past three the train reached Baltimore. One of the
spy's assistants came on board and informed him in a whisper that "all
was right." Mr. Lincoln lay still in his berth; and in a few moments the
car was being slowly drawn through the quiet streets of the city toward
what was called the Washington depot. There again was another pause, but
no sound more alarming than the noise of shifting cars and engines. The
passengers, tucked away on their narrow shelves, dozed on as peacefully
as if Mr. Lincoln had never been born, until they were awakened by the
loud strokes of a huge club against a night-watchman's box, which stood
within the depot and close to the track. It was an Irishman, trying to
arouse a sleepy ticket-agent comfortably ensconced within. For twenty
minutes the Irishman pounded the box with ever-increasing vigor, and at
each blow shouted at the top of his voice, "Captain! it's four o'clock!
it's four o'clock!" The Irishman seemed to think that time had ceased to
run at four o'clock, and making no allowance for the period consumed by
his futile exercises, repeated to the last his original statement that
it was four o'clock. The passengers were intensely amused; and their
jokes and laughter at the Irishman's expense were not lost upon the
occupants of the two sections in the rear.
In due time the train sped out of the suburbs of Baltimore, and the
apprehensions of the President and his friends diminished with each
welcome revolution of the wheels. At six o'clock the dome of the Capitol
came in sight, and a moment later we rolled into that long, unsightly
building, the Washington depot. We passed out of the car unobserved, and
pushed along with the living stream of men and women toward the outer
door. One man alone in the great crowd seemed to watch Mr. Lincoln with
special attention. Standing a little to one side, he looked very sharply
at him, and, as he passed, seized hold of his hand, and said in a loud
tone of voice, "Abe, you can't play that on me!" We were instantly
alarmed, and would have struck the stranger had not Mr. Lincoln hastily
said, "Don't strike him! It is Washburne. Don't you know him?" Mr.
Seward had given to Mr. Washburne a hint of the information received
through his son; and Mr. Washburne knew its value as well as another.
The detective admonished Washburne to keep quiet for the present, and we
passed on together. Taking a hack, we drove toward Willard's Hotel. Mr.
Lincoln, Mr. Washburne, and the detective got out in the street, and
approached the ladies' entrance, while I drove on to the main entrance,
and sent the proprietor to meet his distinguished guest at the side
door. A few minutes later Mr. Seward arrived, and was introduced to the
company by Mr. Washburne. He spoke in very strong terms of the great
danger which Mr. Lincoln had so narrowly escaped, and most heartily
applauded the wisdom of the "secret passage."
It now soon became apparent that Mr. Lincoln wished to be left alone. He
said he was "rather tired;" and, upon this intimation, the party
separated. The detective went to the telegraph-office and loaded the
wires with despatches in cipher, containing the pleasing intelligence
that "Plums" had brought "Nuts" through in safety.
Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride to which he had
yielded under protest. He was convinced that he had committed a grave
mistake in listening to the solicitations of a professional spy and of
friends too easily alarmed, and frequently upbraided me for having aided
him to degrade himself at the very moment in all his life when his
behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure. Neither
he nor the country generally then understood the true facts concerning
the dangers to his life. It is now an acknowledged fact that there never
was a moment from the day he crossed the Maryland line, up to the time
of his assassination, that he was not in danger of death by violence,
and that his life was spared until the night of the 14th of April, 1865,
only through the ceaseless and watchful care of the guards thrown around
him.