The Darkest Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  For her part, Mary Todd Lincoln was more than ready to be cheerful. Indeed, much like her husband—though for vastly different reasons—the first lady was experiencing the happiest moments of her past four years. Because of compulsive extravagance and waste while at the White House, unbeknownst to the president Mary had accrued horrific debts. Some estimates of her arrears were as high as $70,000.12 In one month Mary had purchased eighty-four pairs of kid gloves; already this spring she had bought over $3,000 worth of jewelry. Had her husband been rich, it might not have mattered. On a $25,000 salary, however, there was no way the president’s income could keep pace with the frenetic spending spree.13 Living in mortal dread that her husband would not be reelected to a second term and that her staggering debt would be revealed, Mary was overcome with joy to learn that she had four more years to hide her secret.

  Coupled with anxiety arising from spending woes was Mary’s concern for her husband’s safety. Already involved in séances and the occult, the fretful woman was understandably worried about the possibility of assassination.14 Thus, when the president shared with his wife a recent dream, the woman was horrified. Revealed Lincoln:

  There seemed to be a deathlike 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. . . . I arrived in the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards and there was a throng of people, some gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully.

  “Who is dead in the White House?” I demanded of one of the soldiers.

  “The President,” was his answer. “He was killed by an assassin!”15

  “That is horrid!” gasped Mary. “I wish you had not told it. I am glad I don’t believe in dreams, or I would be in terror from this time forth.”16

  But Mary Lincoln did believe in dreams, and the woman was in terror for her husband’s life, though her fear of assassination had begun long before he told of his dream. The day he was nominated for the presidency in 1860, the death threats began. Upon reaching Washington, the letters arrived with as much regularity as the tides on the Potomac. Some were crude drawings of Lincoln being hanged; others were notes with daggers and red ink spattered about.17

  “The first one or two made me a little uncomfortable,” Lincoln confessed, “but I came at length to look for a regular instalment of this kind of correspondence in every week’s mail.”18

  “God damn your god damned old Hellfire god damned soul to hell,” foamed one semi-literate citizen. “[G]od damn you and your god damned family’s god damned hellfired god damned soul to hell.”19

  “[H]is mail was infested with brutal and vulgar menace,” revealed presidential secretary John Hay, “mostly anonymous, the proper expression of vile and cowardly minds. . . . [and] the vaporings of village bullies.”20 Not every threat was cowardly and anonymous. Risking imprisonment and mobs, a handful of intrepid Democratic politicians and editors dared criticize Lincoln and his Republican “tyranny.”

  At the 1864 Democratic Convention in Chicago, S. S. Cox took the podium. “For less offences than Mr. Lincoln had been guilty of,” yelled the delegate to the crowd, “the English people had chopped off the head of the first Charles.”21 The editor of the Lacrosse Daily Democrat in Wisconsin went further and openly hoped that some assassin would stab the president in the heart, “for the public good.”22

  “The people will soon rise,” assured one orator, “and if they cannot put Lincoln out of power by the ballot, they will by bullet. [Loud cheers.]”23

  With such bloodthirsty diatribes as these, Mary’s concern for her husband’s safety seemed justified. Although Lincoln, too, was at times understandably despondent and felt he would indeed fall by the hand of an assassin, his approach generally tended toward the fatalistic.

  I have received a great many threatening letters but I have no fear of them. . . . I determined when I first came here I should not be dying all the while. . . . [I can] die only once; to go continually in fear would be to die over and over. . . . If anyone is willing to give his life for mine, there is nothing that can prevent it. . . . If I wore a shirt of mail, and kept myself surrounded by a body-guard, it would be all the same. There are a thousand ways of getting at a man if it is desired that he should be killed.24

  In sum, concluded the president, “I do not believe it is my fate to die in this way.”25

  And indeed, with each hour that passed, it appeared as if Lincoln’s beliefs were accurate and Mary’s fears unfounded. With the conflict all but over and with peace sweeping the continent, the likelihood of harm now coming to the president seemed increasingly remote. The couple had survived the war, and now plans for a peaceful future could finally crowd out thoughts of violence and death.

  “Mary,” said Lincoln as the carriage cut into the raw wind and steered toward the White House, “we have had a hard time of it since we came to Washington; but the war is over, and with God’s blessing we may hope for four years of peace and happiness, and then we will go back to Illinois, and pass the rest of our lives in quiet.”26

  As the couple rode through the streets, bundled against the chill, they passed motley piles of debris from the celebration of the night preceding—crumpled bunting, smoldering bonfires, whiskey bottles. Another, though smaller, victory demonstration was planned for that evening. But the president and first lady would not be among the revelers. They would instead go to Ford’s Theater, as planned, and begin living that quiet life Lincoln spoke so fondly of.

  Meanwhile, those with a genuine interest in the survival of the nation could only give thanks to the Almighty above that the chief executive had been spared to lead the country for another four years. A cold shudder must have swept over anyone who looked down the line of succession to see which two men would follow Lincoln in the event of his death. Even a glance would quickly reveal that neither man, politically or physically, was capable of assuming the post.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CLOWN AND

  THE SPHINX

  Prior to the 4th of March last, he stood high in the esteem of the people of the United States. He was borne into the Vice Presidential chair by the votes of more than two millions of freemen; and up to the day on which he took the oath of office, not a word of reproach had ever been uttered against his character. But on the occasion of his inauguration. . . . [w]e all felt mortified and ashamed.1

  SO WROTE A REPORTER FOR THE Chicago Tribune. As the journalist indicated, Andrew Johnson should have been one of the happiest men in Washington. Instead, the former tailor was perhaps the most forlorn and neglected person in America. Johnson’s accession to the second seat of power in the nation also proved his downfall. As Lincoln’s running mate in the 1864 election, the former senator and governor of Tennessee was summoned to attend the inauguration on March 4 and take the oath of office. Despite illness, Johnson acquiesced.2

  That morning, as he and outgoing vice president Hannibal Hamlin stood about in the Capitol waiting for the ceremonies to commence, the son of illiterate tavern servants was overcome by anxiety. Adding to Johnson’s nervousness was a bad hangover from the night before.3 According to one account:

  Johnson asked Mr. Hamlin if he had any liquor in the room, stating that he was sick and nervous. . . . Brandy being indicated, a bottle was brought by one of the pages. It was opened, a tumbler provided, and Mr. Johnson poured it about two-thirds full. . . . When near 12 . . . Mr. Hamlin rose, moved to the door near which the Sergeant-at-Arms stood, and suggested to Mr. Johnson to come also. The latter got up and . . . said, “Excuse me a moment,” and walked hastily back to where the bottle was deposited. Mr. Hamlin saw him . . . pour as large a quantity as before into the glass and drink it down like water. They then went into the Senate Chamber.4

  “All eyes were turned to the main entrance, where, precisely
on the stroke of twelve, appeared Andrew Johnson . . . arm in arm with Hannibal Hamlin,” newsman Noah Brooks recorded. “They took seats together on the dais of the presiding officer, and Hamlin made a brief and sensible speech, and Andrew Johnson, whose face was extraordinarily red, was presented to take the oath.”5

  In addition to a joint session of Congress and the black-robed Supreme Court, numerous foreign ministers “in full court costume” were also on hand to witness the high American event. In the gallery above, Mary Lincoln and other gaily dressed wives looked down with approval.6 That soon changed. Instead of taking the oath then and there, Johnson plunged straightaway into his acceptance speech.7

  “I’m a-going’ for to tell you—here today; yes, I’m a-going’ for to tell you all, that I’m a plebian!” Johnson announced proudly. “I glory in it; I am a plebian! The people—yes, the people of the United States have made me what I am; and I am a-going’ to tell you here today—yes, today, in this place—that the people are everything.”8

  Mumbling one moment, shouting the next, the unsteady speaker paused from time to time as if waiting for the “amens” and “huzzas” that typically accompanied a backwoods stump speech. Although allotted only seven minutes to speak, the wobbling, hiccupping vice president soon became oblivious to time. With a ludicrous mix of maudlin sentimentality and drunken defiance, Johnson’s nearly incoherent harangue only occasionally touched upon something sensible, such as his “fel’ cissons” and the “conshusun.”9 At one point, Johnson turned and began addressing the cabinet members by name. When he reached Gideon Welles, the vice president paused. “What is the name of the Secretary of the Navy?” he asked someone seated nearby. When told, Johnson continued as if nothing had happened.10

  As the silence deepened and the drunken display continued, Republican senators and congressmen, noted a New York reporter, “began to hang their heads.”11

  “The study of the faces below was interesting,” wrote Noah Brooks:

  Seward was as bland and serene as a summer day; Stanton appeared to be petrified; Welles’s face was usually void of any expression; Speed sat with his eyes closed; Dennison was red and white by turns. Among the Union Senators, Henry Wilson’s face was flushed; Sumner wore a saturnine and sarcastic smile; and most of the others turned and twisted in their Senatorial chairs as if in long-drawn agony. Of the Supreme Bench, Judge Nelson only was apparently moved, his lower jaw being dropped clean down in blank horror.12

  Meanwhile, as Republicans reddened with anger and turned sideways in their seats to avoid the spectacle, Democrats openly laughed.13

  I’ze born in Tenssee an I’m a tailor an a plebean (hic). We’re all plebeans, an I propose to sustain (hic) the constitution, an I propose to support the constitution (hic) fer all plebeans.14

  Soon, a smattering of shocked voices from the gallery became a disgusted roar: “He is drunk.” “He is crazy—this is disgraceful.” “What a shame!” “Tell him to stop and save the country further disgrace.” Finally, wrote one relieved senator, Johnson was “suppressed.”15 Following some tugging and no little verbal persuasion, the reeling vice president ceased his rambling and was given the oath.

  “When Johnson had repeated inaudibly the oath of office, his hand on the Book,” revealed Noah Brooks, “he turned and took the Bible in his hand, and, facing the audience, said, with a loud, theatrical voice and gesture, ‘I kiss this Book in the face of my nation of the United States.’”16

  No sooner had the Tennessean acted out this ridiculous scene than he tried to launch into another rodomontade.17 As if the disgrace were not already great enough, one final insult awaited. Because he was the incoming vice president, it was Johnson’s duty to swear in newly elected senators. As the eight men approached the bar, in a melodramatic manner the drunk extended the Bible that each might touch it and bow their heads in reverence. Before the bewildered men could be administered the oath, Johnson simply waved them away. At length, the clerk of the Senate recalled the senators, and all were duly sworn in.18

  Humiliated more than any person present—with the possible exception of his wife—Abraham Lincoln “bowed his head with a look of unutterable despondency.”19 Although deeply shamed by the incident, Lincoln later defended his political partner against charges of chronic drunkenness. The howl from other quarters, though, was swift and unforgiving.20

  “[N]ot even in the presence of the United States Senate, in the presence of the American people, in the presence of the world, with millions regarding his action and awaiting his utterance, could [he] summon enough of energy and self-denial to remain sober until the brief ordeal was over,” raged the New York Daily News. Johnson’s vulgar display and his “beastly state of intoxication,” concluded the editor, “would shame a rowdy at the threshold of a tavern.”21

  Certainly, sobriety was never a test for membership in the United States Senate. Shameless scenes of drunkenness had occurred with regularity.22 But never before had the eyes of the world been so riveted on the American Capitol, and never before had such a “drunken clown” been but a heart beat from the Presidency. “[T]o know that this debauched demagogue is only withheld by the thread of a single life from the presidential chair, is appalling to every American,” reflected one of the many horrified citizens.23

  Because of the threat an intemperate rustic posed should he ever reach the White House, one former Lincoln opponent now openly admitted that the president’s life had become “precious” to all Americans, friend or foe. Millions felt similarly.24

  Now, holed up in his hotel room at the Kirkwood House, the nation’s great victory celebration had all but passed Andrew Johnson by. Had the vice president contracted some virulent disease, he could not have been more of a pariah. After a meteoric rise to the top from the lowest beginnings imaginable—lower even than Lincoln—Andrew Johnson saw all his decades of hard work and struggle erased in one embarrassing moment. A grimace on his lips even in the best of times, the former tailor now had a scowl on his face as solid as stone.

  William Henry Seward was one of the most powerful men in the federal government, second only to Lincoln and perhaps Edwin Stanton. His three-story town home across from the White House on Lafayette Park was symbolic of his important station. Seward reportedly once boasted that if he rang a bell on his right hand, a man from Illinois would be arrested; a ring on his left, and a man in New York would be dead.25 Whether he said such words or not didn’t matter; people believed he said them, and, more important, many people believed he had used such dread power.

  And yet, the small, slight secretary of state could be at once both courteous and gracious. He was even wont to bow politely to everyone he met, including strangers.26 Seward was also in the habit of hiding his true emotions. One need not look to the secretary’s face for a display of happiness or joy, of sorrow or sadness, or, as was the case during the Johnson incident, of shock or anger. Although he no doubt was churning inside during the ordeal, observers noted that Seward remained as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

  “Cool, thoughtful, sagacious, conciliatory and by no means ultra,” as one reporter characterized the New Yorker, Seward was as instrumental in the Union war effort and was as much responsible for its successful conclusion as any man in America. And yet, as with Johnson, it was the secretary’s fate to be denied his supreme moment of triumph.27

  On the afternoon of April 5, while the rest of Washington was in a state of euphoria following the fall of Richmond, Seward, his son Frederick, and his teenage daughter, Fanny, along with a friend of the girl’s, climbed into a carriage for a jaunt around the jubilant city. Somewhere along the way, a door refused to close properly, and the coachman was ordered to stop and fix it. As the man stepped to the ground, the horses took fright and bolted down the street. In an attempt to grab the trailing reins, Frederick leaped to the street. His effort unsuccessful, the father also tried. Unfortunately, Seward’s heel caught on the carriage, and he fell hard to the ground. Although the runaway team was finally
halted by a daring soldier and the terrified young ladies were rescued, the secretary of state was borne away unconscious with a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, lacerations on his face, and his jaw broken on both sides.28

  Rushing from her New York home when she heard the awful news, Frances Seward reached her husband’s side two days after the accident. “I found him a great sufferer,” said the woman, “so bruised and swollen was his face that it was difficult to trace any resemblance to his features as they were.”29

  Delirious much of the time, by April 14, Seward was finally able to sit up, take solid food, and receive a few well-wishers.30 One who visited his bedside was the grim secretary of war. Like the patient, Edwin Stanton was not known for displays of sympathy or kindness during his years in Washington. Hence, his sudden appearance touched Seward deeply.

  “God bless you, Stanton,” whispered the injured man through his pain. “You have made me cry for the first time in my life, I believe.”31

  Like Andrew Johnson, though for vastly different reasons, William Henry Seward was now confined to his room. Unlike Johnson, Seward was in the thoughts of many throughout the nation as they prayed for his speedy recovery and return to office. “I have trembled with apprehension lest he & Mr. Lincoln might both be taken from us,” wrote one anxious man who realized that, after Johnson, Seward was next in line for the presidency.32

  On the morning of this day, April 14, Seward had endured a shave like never before. Not only was he forced to lie flat on his back, but the barber had to steer carefully around the steel brace used to hold his jaw in place.33

  CHAPTER NINE

  ONE BOLD MAN

  LIKE THE MAN ON A MISSION, impervious to his surroundings, John Wilkes Booth moved swiftly through the crowded streets of Washington. As the afternoon deepened, every minute now mattered. The life or death of his beloved Southern Confederacy rested on his shoulders and his alone. Stopping here on the Avenue to whisper with an intimate, hurrying there to an apartment where last-minute details were sorted with those privy to the plot, the handsome, worried actor was an economy of grace and motion.1 Few who knew and saw Booth on this chilling afternoon of April 14 paid much mind to his frenzied actions.