rain-soaked men, walking through a downpour, going
nowhere. Men without guns, without knapsacks; some men
covered with blankets. Some staggered. Some fell, lay on
the street. Women brought coffee. There were Michigan
men, New York men, Minnesota men—defeated, defeated at
Bull Run. The broken regiments struggled all along
Pennsylvania Avenue. Victims of panic—defeat. Not a drum
sounded. All took place in rain-washed silence. Men
without shoes, men leaning on one another.
I ordered the White House staff and military guard to
provide coffee, food, blankets, shelter.
Hundreds passed...all day long.
For a long while after this there were conferences, men
realizing that Washington could be attacked. A long time
before the city was protected.
Defeat, I am told, is a particular kind of crucifixion.
I know. I have thought—
October 24, ’64
I wish I could go bowling, swap yarns.
When I bowl I really never care whether I win. When I
make a good score it is luck. It is talk I enjoy. It
gives me an uplift. It’s an exchange, maybe, if I relate
one of my circuit stories.
I can not go bowling when men are dying. There is no
escape. I should not look for an escape. I want cessation
of conflict. Enduring peace. I wish to command a strong
nation, a great nation that can stand before the world as
an example of what men can achieve.
A sadness pervades our White House gardens, a more than
autumn sadness.
Mary and I tried to make a haven of our garden whenever
possible. Sunsets have been Potomac sunsets, wilderness
and prairie sunsets. Nevertheless, that great stillness
intrudes as we walk and talk about our family and
obligations. Flowers lie in Mary’s lap, as we sit on a
bench. She smiles.
Now four years have come and gone.
We measure those years, wanting to understand. We no
longer speculate about the future, our future. Life, for
the moment, is held in balance like an upraised oar.
Was it yesterday, after the rain, with a faint rainbow,
that the sentries paced along the far side of the
gardens, and a white duck waddled toward us?
The White House
November 3rd, 1864
“We have seen our courthouse in chains, two battalions
of dragoons, eight companies of artillery, twelve
companies of infantry, the whole constabulary force of
the city police, the entire disposable marine of the
United States, with its artillery loaded for action, all
marching in support of a Praetorian band, consisting of
120 friends and associates of the United States Marshall,
with loaded pistols and drawn swords, and in military
costume and array—for what purpose? To escort and conduct
a poor trembling slave from a Boston courthouse to the
fetters and lash of his master! This display of military
force the mayor of this city officially declared to be
necessary,” so wrote our Harvard University friend, old
Josiah Quincy. He also added, that summer in ’54,
“Slaveholders have multiplied their black cattle by the
million; and are every day increasing their numbers, and
extending their cattle field into the wilderness...”
I respond to those impressive words with mine, since
the slave issue dies hard.
The ant who has toiled and dragged a crumb to his nest
will furiously defend the fruit of his labor against
whatever robber assails him. So plain that the most dumb
and stupid slave that ever toiled for a master does
constantly know that he is wronged. So plain that no one,
high or low, ever does mistake it, except in a plainly
selfish way; for although volume after volume is written
to prove slavery a very good thing, we never hear of the
man who wishes to take the good of it by being a slave
himself.
Certainly, though a man may escape death and injury in
the front lines, changes brought about by the war may
alienate him at home, after he leaves the army, if he
still has a home. The black who has fought for the North
may find his Southern neighbors have become enemies. The
black who has found a measure of recognition while
serving will find a lack of recognition after the war.
We have made little or no provision for the wounded.
Our hospitals are inadequate. Southerners will return to
their farms with little more than the horse that saw
combat. Custom dictates that he reject the negro.
As a nation, we are in a maelstrom of change. It is my
hope that the church may help democratize. As I study the
Washington archive I learn essential facts, but these
facts are not disseminated. How are we to coordinate
these state laws? Missouri hardly comprehends the laws of
Massachusetts.
Justice—many strive for justice. Efforts must be
doubled. I hope it may be said that I was just.
There are nights when I can not sleep. I get up and
pace the floor of my bedroom or go into my office.
Many continue to threaten my life; so I do not walk the
streets of Washington. If I were home again I could walk
freely. In Springfield, it is pleasant to imagine, I
would shake off the war trauma. I think old skies would
reassure me. But days in Springfield will not return. I
have lost more than half my life here—but it was not the
ax that cut me down. What was it, in all truth? Craving
for glory? For power? I accept those weaknesses but above
them is my desire to help my country, to balance the
welfare of our people.
The White House
—cold, rainy—
Very often my commanding officers prove to be
inadequate and I have to substitute one for another. Most
officers, I find, shun advice or suggestions. Grant and
Sherman are the best listeners. Ours is a mutual respect.
Grant has the essential military skill to control the
entire armed force. He also has ample courage for his job
(it takes courage to fling men into battle; I also send
men to death).
Sleep continues to be difficult to come by...peace is
difficult to come by we know by now...hope is hard to
come by.
It is curious and amusing to look at life across time:
man knows his detours: it is incredible how he has
fumbled his way through the centuries. In spite of the
fumbling, I believe in mankind.
Executive Mansion
Christmas
CHRISTMAS—1864.
Mary and Robert and I have exchanged gifts.
We have given many presents to Tad.
Late in the afternoon, we placed a wreath on Willie’s
grave.
This evening I received this telegram from General
Sherman:
“I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift,
the City of Savannah.
– William T. Sherman”
Wintry
Rain beats on the White House, rain mixed with snow.
Old newspaper clippings remind me that six thousand
soldiers died in an hour at the battle of Cold Harbor.
Another clipping reminds me of Gettysburg.
Another...
I have been reading the fifth chapter of Isaiah. It
does not help. It seems there are days when nothing
helps.
If re-elected, how shall I live through a second term?
But I must; there is work to be done; I am the best to
carry out honesty for all. I want no recriminations.
Perhaps I can find peace, someday, in Europe. My son,
Robert, is ill-disposed toward me. There is Tad, poor
little wounded Tad.
Mary is ill, seriously ill.
Now, I shall open the Bible once more.
3
Late
S
ince many of our soldiers are fifteen or sixteen years
old, I am aware that discipline is wanting, both
discipline and stamina. Yet they fight furiously, build
bridges, lay rails. They fight with their muzzle-loaders,
cannon, mortar, bayonet. Most of them had never heard a
gun fired except while out hunting. In a grim sense we
are witnessing a youth crusade against injustice. For
$13.00 a month they are fighting a man’s war. And dying
is a man’s job. Poor children, crawling out of some
entrenchment, they fraternize during a lull—swap tobacco
for coffee. They soon learn that our hospitals are
dangerous places. Tents. Barns. Churches. Sheds.
We accepted this war for a worthy objective, and the
war will end when that goal has been attained. We must
succeed. This war has taken four years! It was begun or
accepted to restore national authority over the whole
national domain. Yes, we must succeed.
The White House
Office
The pigeonholes of my desk contain reports of disgraced
militiamen, unfortunate prisoners of war, civilian and
military spies, reports that demand that ultimate yes or
no. I study these reports, I weigh each one carefully;
some two thousand reach me every month. Across the
Potomac River, as I write, I hear gunfire, Virginia
gunfire. Perhaps this is Butcher Day—our men are facing a
Confederate firing squad.
I am reprimanded. Officers protest I weaken army morale
when I commute a death sentence. Yesterday I pardoned
William Scott, Vermonter, Company L, who fell asleep
while on sentinel duty at a Potomac bridge. Nineteen
years old, a farm boy, he was undoubtedly accustomed to
going to bed at dusk. I rode to the Potomac River Camp
and found Scott handcuffed in his tent.
“Boy,” I said, “I’m going to send you back to Company
L.”
Boys can do us more good above ground. If a man had
more than one life to live, I believe a little hanging
would not hurt him too much...but he has one life.
Nothing exhausts me more than death sentences, death
warrants, death. Young life is priceless. There are
thirty million people involved in this war. Youth must be
considered, if we are to survive.
I want to write something about my old friend, the
Virginian, Ward Hill Lamon, of Danville days. Hill is my
volunteer guardian, spy, Rabelaisian crony, scribe. Time
and again he bundles up and sleeps all night in the hall
outside my bedroom door, a derringer at hand. He is
constantly alarmed I may be assassinated. He upbraids me
when I ride alone in the White House carriage.
“That stupid coachman can’t look after you... I want a
dozen or half-dozen cavalrymen to attend you.”
Evenings, Hill may appear and size me up, and sing a
sad little song or a bobtail-nag melody, thrumming his
banjo. Husky, courageous, he befriends me every day.
Breakfasting together, he has a kernel of advice for me,
I’m sure.
I have borrowed his hat, borrowed his cloak, but not
his boots.
“As President, it is incumbent on you to look after
your own boots and your own umbrellas,” he says.
As warden he has problems with both North and South; it
aggravates him when he has to confer with me; he wants to
be the little eagle. On our frequent visits to the
hospitals he is always sympathetic. “Somebody’s Wallace,”
he says, remembering one of my stories. Playing his banjo
he will sing “Picayune Butler,” his southern accent warm
and beautiful, delighting the sick and wounded.
Often, late at night, we talk of Danville, circuit
friends, horses; he is adept at driving off my
melancholia.
“The war is going to end soon,” he prophesizes. “It has
to end soon...it’s hard to get hold of new banjo
strings.”
The White House
January 5, 1865
So, another year has come into being.
“Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, waiting
for the war to cease...”
For days I have been remembering that song. Yesterday,
as I rode in the barouche, the melody kept time to the
trotting of the horses.
Wind and sun helped, as we rode.
Alone, I was able to commune with nature, able to
consider the Potomac, the trees along its banks, the
finished dome of the capitol, the monument to George
Washington. For a while I was able to survey the
property, measure it, plan a city layout.
The barouche horses are bays, a young pair, well-
trained, handsomely harnessed. My driver is a stalwart
from Rhode Island; he says he used to work in a cotton
mill; now, he looks forward to a job in a warmer climate.
We talk about the chestnuts and the oaks; for a mill
worker he is well-informed about trees; suddenly, our
drive is over.
Late
Nightmares occur.
I sit up in bed and recall in vivid detail scenes I
have never witnessed, men dying under artillery and rifle
fire, tent amputations, men struggling across a muddy,
swollen river, a firing squad where men are shot down as
I sit in a rocking chair.
I say nothing to anyone about these dreams but they are
a weight to my world.
Lately, it is difficult to eat; I forget or refuse my
lunch on its tray; coffee helps. I long to get away for a
week or ten days.
Sunday
—windy and cool—
A heavy hog to hold, this war.
Sometimes people in Kentucky are loyal to the Union;
sometimes not; it depends on whether General Lee has lost
or won a battle.
Men find me lacking as the nation’s attorney. Some
demand that I plot the future. I remember that the pilots
on our western rivers steer from point to point—as they
call it—setting the course of the boat no farther than
they can see. That is how I propose to handle some of the
problems set before me.
I seldom forget that it is a momentous thing to be the
instrument for the liberation of a race.
I look out of the window, at the statue of Thomas
Jefferson on the lawn; it puts me in mind of that lonely
bronze figure atop the White House dome, a woman, symbol
of liberty, visible for miles—cast by slave labor.
Was Jefferson’s statue cast by slaves?
Monday
—windy and cool—
There are something like a thousand deserters every
month, Northern men and Southern men. I see them being
marched through the city, all kinds, bareheaded, with
caps, hats, with bandaged heads, with bandanas, handsome
fellows, sickly fellows, wounded men, dirty, most of them
in worn-out uniforms—miles of men mixed with leather,
steel, horses, guns, wagons, riders, guards.
450,000 widows and mothers have lost their men.
White House
January 10, 1865
How well some officers understand one another, with a
hem and a haw, with a nod or lifted hand. They are
masters of military deception, just as politicians are
masters of ambiguity. The colonels have their lingo; the
majors have theirs.
I confront them with a plan of action. They bow over a
map. Immediately, I sense that their secret codes are in
operation. They guess that I am suspicious; I see that
when a lieutenant touches the general’s knee. I decline
the general’s offer of a cigar; he has forgotten I do not
smoke. The men light up. Smoke hovers over the map. Brady
appears. He wants to take some photographs. Some men sit,
some stand. All the time the subtle deceptions continue.
It is my job, as Commander-in-Chief, to ferret out
honesty and promote it.
Troops are marching by.
Drums.
There is no room for humor.
The White House
January 12, 1865
Behind a hospital, the other day, I saw a wheelbarrow
filled with amputated hands, arms, and legs.
I walked up close to the barrow, uncertain what I saw
there. A hand reached out for my hand.
I held that hand. The stiff fingers were those of a
farmer—a man from Tennessee or Illinois, a corn-husker’s
hand.
I saw a boy’s hand next to the farmer’s.
I wanted to put those amputated pieces back in their
proper world. All those pieces, the hands, legs, feet,
wanted to return to the woods, the prairie, the barns,
the canoes, the plantations.
As I write down these words my hands are not steady.
The White House
January 20, 1865
A month or so ago, I wrote General Grant on behalf of
Robert. Now that Robert has graduated from Harvard, he
insists on joining the army. I agree. Grant has replied
and has given him a captain’s commission, and he is to
become a member of Grant’s personal staff. Robert has not
written me; perhaps he had learned of his mother’s
parental concern and has included me as an obstruc-
tionist. Now he is less likely to be bayoneted or blown
to shreds while on the General’s staff.
Another of Mary’s brothers has been killed in action.
Her fears for Robert are understandable.
I must impress her that fewer White House levees are in
order. I realize it was proper to honor Prince Napoleon
but there are few such obligations. I shun ostentation.
We have no right to ostentation these war times. That
money that goes into ostentation can go into blankets for
the soldiers.
A calm evening
Late
“Devoutly to be wished”...to have a woman, enjoy her
physically; yet preserve essential private values.
A helpmeet, yes, but it has been my misfortune to never
encounter such a woman who was also a woman.
Early in life, at East Salem, I learned about the
unhappiness of others.
Misguided lives are powerful guideposts.
In the wilderness I found something mystic, something
out of self for self. It taught me to be legally self.
In Springfield, I studied its citizens, its girls and
women; I found that being an outsider was wise.
My wisdom is indeed my misfortune.
The White House
2/15/65
Yesterday a woman came to me, crying, sobbing, pleading
for the release of one of her sons from service, since
her husband and three sons were in the army.
I wrote a discharge for one of her sons and gave her
instructions where to go and what to say, to get her lad
released.
She found the military camp, regiment, company; she
found her son wounded, dying in a nearby hospital. After
his death she begged:
“Mr. President, will you give me the next one of my
boys?” Again she produced official papers.
“I have just lost a son... I have another,” I managed
to say. As she stood beside my chair I wrote a release;
as I wrote she placed her hand on my head and smoothed my
hair with a mother’s touch.
When I gave her the document she ran sobbing, crying
her thanks.
The White House
2/18/65
Again I admit that dreams have perplexed me. I also
think them significant if we can interpret them properly.
Last week I had a dream that has haunted me ever since.
After it occurred I opened the Bible. Strange as it may
seem, it was at the 28th chapter of Genesis, which
relates the wonderful dream of Jacob. I turned to other
passages... I seemed to encounter a vision wherever I
looked.
I should not have related the dream to Mary but the
thing got possession of me, and, like Banquo’s ghost, it
would not down.
As I told her I felt something grabbing at my throat.
About ten days ago I went to bed late. I had been
waiting for important dispatches from the front. I was
very weary and fell asleep as soon as I lay down. Then I
began to dream.
There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me;
then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were
weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs.
There the silence was broken by the same sobbing, but any
mourners were invisible. I walked from room to room;
every object was familiar. I was puzzled, alarmed. I kept
on until I arrived at the East Room. There I met a
sickening surprise.
Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse,
in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers
acting as guards. Beyond the soldiers was a crowd.
“Who is dead in the White House?” I asked one of the
soldiers.
“The President,” he replied. “He was killed by an
assassin.”
An outburst of grief came from the crowd.
I woke...
Mary was very disturbed by my dream; I gained nothing
by telling her; in tears she threw herself on her bed.
“Don’t repeat your dream to anyone,” she said.
2/21/65
How blustery, more like December or January; it will be
raining soon.
This morning, when it was more pleasant, I visited the
Potomac Book Shop where Willie and I used to buy books.
Here and there were a few soldiers. I was pleased,
especially when one of them asked me if I would recommend
a book of poetry.
On my last visit I bought Pope’s Essay on Man. I
noticed a British copy bound in morocco. At the Potomac I
have acquired some Emerson, Wordsworth, Longfellow. I
picked up a copy of Leaves of Grass, but it did not
appeal to me. The shop reminds me of one in Boston; I
told the owner; he laughed: “The shop you mention belongs
to my brother... I furnished this one with Boston
pieces.”
I hope I can get Tad to take an interest in learning to
read. Willie’s enthusiasm did not rub off on him.
Returning to the White House, one of our horses threw a
shoe.
February 27, ’65
Hill tells me we have imprisoned a Confederate citizen
who was delivering a £40,000 draft to the Southern
forces. He also jailed a M. Louis de Bedian, who had
letters of credit ($39,000), for the Confederate army. He
has apprehended Charles Kopperl, Washington resident, who
boasts that he killed Union soldiers. Obviously,
Washington has strange, determined men.
Some countrymen objected to Hill’s political
imprisonments, and I am criticized, in turn. Again
nepotism ghosts.
Billy Herndon has walked into my office. Our get-
together seemed as though we were in Springfield, in the
old office. I threw out questions about friends; he had
the answers. The weather favored us as we rambled around
Washington, in the presidential coach. Together we
explored the White House—Billy’s highpoint. We had
dinner, with Tad at our table.
Billy gave Tad a hand-carved pony express rider, in
walnut. My books interested Billy. He thought my walnut
bed a world’s wonder. “Is it really nine feet long!” The
carvings on the headboard amused him, and the wooden nest
with its walnut eggs, under my side table. We parted
reluctantly.
I wish I had ten men of his caliber to work with here.
He went away quite shaken by the cost of the war. “How
could it be...$2,000,000 every single day... Can our
country recover such an outlay?”
March 9th
The Library
We can not escape history. We, of this administration,
will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal
significance or insignificance can spare one or another
of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light
us down, in honor or dishonor, to the last generation.
The great books in this room confirm this. The sun in
the windows has promise.
Spring is with us along the Potomac. Through my open
windows I hear it.
I wish I could place a sprig of lilacs on my mother’s
grave.
Tomorrow we will visit Willie’s grave, but we will
leave Tad with friends. His new pony is coming in a day
or two; that will make him happy. I bought a Shetland,
brown and white.
Mallards mix with small craft. There’s not a breath of
air moving; life is making a turn.
Wednesday
After reviewing troops on Monday I had that dream. I
was staring at myself in a mirror, a full length mirror.
I was seeing myself double—double vision. This time I
seemed to perceive myself as traitor. Traitor to what?
Reviewing troops is an experience that shatters satis-
faction. How can a man, a thoughtful man, watch men on
parade and minimize the fact that some or all of those
men will soon be dead or wounded? Or will maim or kill
other men?
Last Monday the troops slogged past in heavy rain.
White House
Monday morning
The signs look better. Peace does not appear so distant
as it did. I hope it will come soon, and come to stay;
and so come as to be worth keeping in all future time. It
will then have been proved that among free men there can
be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet,
and that they who take such appeal are sure to lose their
case to pay the cost.
And then there will be some black men who can remember
that with silent tongue, and clenched teeth, and steady
eye, and well-poised bayonet, they have helped mankind on
to this great consummation, while I fear there will be
some white ones unable to forget that with malignant
heart and deceitful speech they strove to hinder it.
The White House
Saturday
Again I have visited the Patent Office, this time in
the evening, after a tedious meeting. I was accompanied
by my escort, cavalrymen with rattling sabers, spirited
horses. At the Office I was struck by a vivid
recollection of how it used to be, before the war, the
rows of cabinets and cases, each containing models of
inventions.
Now cases and cabinets have been pushed aside or
removed. Flush along the walls are row after row of
wounded, as many as four rows deep, the wounded and their
beds and cots reflected in dull glass doors.
Lamps and candles gleamed and smoked among the
soldiers. I shook hands, passing from row to row. I
talked, sat down. Here were signs of resignation, flashes
of courage and hope.
Patent Office, I thought, you have a patent on
suffering and death. As I stood, talking with doctors and
nurses, they carried a man away.
“There’s such a shortage of medical supplies,” a
beautiful nurse exclaimed. “Isn’t there something you can
do to help? Did you know there are 12,000 wounded in and
around the city?”
Note—
Check telegrams at T. Office. See
Seward and Blain.
The White House
March 20, ’65
With malice toward none; with charity for all; with
firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right,
let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up
the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne
the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan...to do all
which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace,
among ourselves, and with all nations.
That is my prayer.
Something resembling peace came as I wrote.
7 a.m.
Office