by DL Fowler
The next evening I step off the train in Springfield, walk off the platform past the brick depot, and head down the gas lit street toward home, my breath visible in the late autumn chill. At home, I put down my old tattered carpet bag and peruse a stack of mail. Buried in the middle of the pile is a telegram.
Hon. A. Lincoln
Will you speak in Mr. Beecher’s church Brooklyn on or about the twenty ninth (29) November on any subject you please pay two hundred (200) dollars.
James A. Briggs
Beecher. Henry Ward Beecher. Brooklyn. New York. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I walk to the parlor and collapse into a chair. I read the telegram several times before Mother bustles into the room, the boys bounding in her wake. She stops at the window and plants her hands on her hips. “What is that racket?”
I snap my head around to see what’s gotten her into a huff. Bobby, Tad, and Willy are pressing their faces into the window pane, laughing and waving. A band is serenading us on the street outside our house.
I stand and join Mother and the boys.
Shouts and cheers mix with the music, growing louder until the band is nearly drowned out. Mother turns to me, a smile having replaced her drawn expression. “They’re calling your name, Father.”
I continue to stare out the window for a moment, then turn to her and say, “Reckon they are, Mother.”
Together, Mother, the boys, and I step out onto the front porch. Cheers fill the night.
“Go,” Mother says, still smiling. “Go be with them.”
I kiss her cheek, pat each of the boys on the head, and lumber down the steps into the sea of well-wishers.
Later, in my reply to the telegram from New York, I request more time for preparation. I want to bring them a speech such as I’ve never before delivered—free of political stumping and unadorned by prairie humor. It should be a serious lecture fitting the highest intellect the east has to offer. The organizers agree, and say they’ll anticipate my arrival in late February.
When I tell Billy Herndon about the lecture at Beecher’s church, he warns that New Yorkers have little interest in a president who hails from the west.
I can’t tell whether Billy’s blushing comes from anger, jealousy, or too much whiskey.
He says, “I smell a rat. Rumors are that Greeley doesn’t think Seward can beat Douglas. He’s hoping you can siphon off enough of Seward’s support to create an opening for Edward Bates at the convention. He thinks Bates is the one who can win next November.”
I cock my head, “If that is his intent, I’ll just have to be sure my speech convinces him I’m the best man to face Douglas.”
“You’ll need a new suit,” he says.
I shrug. “I’m not sure I see Greeley’s hand in this. He’s not about to get mixed up with any place that’s called ‘The Grand Central Station of the Underground Railroad.’”
Billy screws up his face. “Maybe you shouldn’t either.”
“Why not? What better place to tell abolitionists to tame their radicalism than in their own den?”
He shakes his head. “Suppose the worst you can do is anger a bunch of delegates who won’t vote for you anyway.”
There are a number of other invitations besides the Beecher one; so many it’s impossible to accept them all. The most curious one comes from Thurlow Weed, New York’s political boss and manager of Seward’s presidential campaign. His letter to Norman Judd, who’s organizing my supporters, says, “Send Abram Lincoln to Albany immediately.”
I tell Judd to say, “Abraham Lincoln isn’t available.”
Senator Simon Cameron of Pennsylvania is more direct. He asks me to run as his vice president. We decline.
One of the invitations I accept is to speak at Leavenworth in the Kansas Territory. I stand on the rostrum to address the crowd on December 3, the day after the abolitionist John Brown is hanged. Some folks expect me to take his defense, but my contempt for radicalism, regardless of the cause, has not changed since I addressed the Young Men’s Lyceum in Springfield more than two decades ago.
Our brothers in the south say if the Black Republicans elect a President, they won't stand for it. They will break up the Union. That will be their act, not ours. To justify it, they must show just cause. Can they do that? When they attempt to make justification, they will find that our nation’s policy toward them is exactly the policy of the men who made the Union. Nothing more or less.
If we shall constitutionally elect a President, it will be our duty to see that they submit. Old John Brown has just been executed for treason against the state of Virginia. We cannot object, even though he agreed with us in thinking slavery is wrong. That cannot excuse violence, bloodshed, and treason.
So, if our brothers in the south undertake to destroy the Union, it will be our duty to deal with them as old John Brown has been dealt with. We shall do our duty.
When I return home from the Kansas Territory, I ask Billy Herndon to handle my cases while I spend hours each day at the State Library. He shakes his head and asks, “How long will it take?”
I shrug. “A few days.”
At the library, I pore through stacks of books and congressional journals, searching for evidence that our Founders intended slavery should not exist where it had not yet taken root when the nation began.
Three weeks later I stop in the office, and Billy greets me with a big grin. “Am I glad to see you back. I’m swamped here,” he says. The trace of white that remains in his eyes sparkles; the edges are laced with red from overwork and too much whiskey.
“Sorry, I’m not finished yet. Besides, the challenge will do you good.” I don’t bother to remove my hat. “I stopped in to get your opinion on something.”
Billy scowls.
“I read that General Washington said of slavery, ‘There is not a man who wishes more sincerely than I do to see a plan adopted for the abolition of it.’”
He sits down hard behind his desk. “And?”
“And in the Virginia legislature, Patrick Henry said, ‘Slavery is detested. We feel its fatal effects. We deplore it with all the pity of humanity. Let all these considerations press with full force upon the minds of Congress. They will search this Constitution and see they have the power of manumission. There is no ambiguous implication, no logical deduction. The paper speaks to the point; they have the power in clear and unequivocal terms.’”
Billy buries his purple-veined nose in a stack of papers.
“Well?” I say.
He glares up at me. “Well, what?”
“Where do you suppose I should place those quotations in my speech?”
Through clenched teeth he says, “Near the front.”
A few weeks later when it’s time to go on the Circuit, I stop in the office again.
Billy slams both hands down on his desk. “Is it too much to hope that you’re here to help me carry this heavy case load?”
“I’m sure you’re doing just fine.” I take the notes for my speech from under my hat. “Did you know that Virginia, New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut each ceded territories to the general government prior to the Constitution, and those cession agreements carried stipulations limiting, but not doing away with the general government’s power to regulate slavery within the ceded territories?”
He shakes his head.
I continue. “Not only that, but when the Ordinance of 1787 was passed by the Congress of the Confederation, it prohibited the extension of slavery into the northwestern territories won from Great Britain during the revolution. Four members of that Congress later became signers of the Constitution.”
Billy shuffles some papers on his desk. “I imagine your audience in New York will be grateful when you inform them of those facts.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m sure they already know. I just want to demonstrate I’m equal to them.”
He looks up at me. “Have you stopped to consider that some of our clients wil
l be equally grateful if you could give them some attention?”
“Yes. I suppose. Though, no one has expressed any grievances, at least not to me.”
“So, how much longer?”
“That reminds me, Billy. I’ve been meaning to ask—can you take the first couple of stops on the Circuit when it begins?”
He slams his fist on the desk. “How much longer is this going to go on?”
I glare at him. “As long as it takes. This is the biggest speech of my life, and I am determined it will be the best.”
He puts his head down on his desk.
On the way over to the library, I scoop up little Holly, one of the neighborhood girls, and carry her on my shoulders. I tell her, “It seems that Mr. Herndon is getting a taste of how it feels to carry the heaviest part of the load … and all for a very important cause.”
“Am I heavy?” she asks.
I smile. “Not in the least … say, would you like to hear me read a piece from my speech?”
She drums her fingers on the top of my hat. “What’s a speech?”
I remove my hat and pull out my notes.
“Here’s the ending part. I shall read it.”
It is more than presumptuous to claim Congress deliberately framed and carried out two things at the same time which are absolutely inconsistent with each other. The bill enforcing the Ordinance of 1787 was passed at the same time, and by the same Congress which approved the first ten amendments to the Constitution. It cannot be argued that they intended to simultaneously confirm and deny the federal government’s authority to regulate slavery in the territories.
Nonetheless, Senator Douglas relies on the Tenth Amendment to justify Popular Sovereignty, claiming the people have a sacred right to carry slaves wherever they choose. Moreover, the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case planted themselves on the Fifth Amendment, declaring Congress has no power to make slaves free even when they are outside the jurisdiction of any of the slave states.
These notions were not even spoken of ten years ago. Now they are being thrust on us as if they are cornerstones of our nation. The truth is that twenty-one of the Constitution’s thirty-nine signers confirmed by their votes as members of Congress that the federal government has the authority to regulate, even prohibit, the extension of slavery beyond where it was in place when the country was founded. The remaining signers never voted on any bill related to slavery, though many of them were firm in their belief in the wrongness of it.
When I arrive at the steps to the library, I set little Holly on the ground and say, “Well what did you think?”
She looks up at me and points to my shoulder. “I think that’s a long way up. Are you really a giraffe?”
I laugh and pat her on the head.
Chapter Thirty Two
On Saturday morning February 25, I disembark the ferry at the Courtland Street terminal in New York City and lug my trunk several blocks past bleak shanties. These piece-meal shelters make desolate prairie towns seem almost idyllic. When I immerse myself in a scurrying throng on Broadway, the city turns out to be busier, louder, and different from two years ago when Mother and I were here on vacation. Much of what used to be has been torn down and replaced with new, taller structures. A new crop of towering edifices have sprung up out of nothing. Befuddled, I stop a couple of times to ask blue clad constables for directions to the grand six-story hotel called Astor House.
On the ferry two men had boasted about the city’s growth. It’s now home to more than eight-hundred thousand people. My ciphering tells me that’s two-and-a-half percent of the entire nation’s population. I wanted to tell them that across the southern region of our land there are at least seven slaves for every inhabitant of their city. More are being bred each day to spread slavery’s scourge across the continent.
The same men bantered about the importance of southern trade to the city’s economy. They also praised the voters for electing a pro-slavery Democrat as mayor. One of the men, a banker, just returned home from a business trip to the South, claimed that northern banks have pumped more than two-hundred million dollars in loans into the southern economy. He should be made to understand that several generations of slaves have contributed a great deal more to both regions’ wealth with their unrewarded labor.
After arriving at Astor House and laying down two dollars for my first night’s lodging, I pick up a copy of the New York Tribune and read an announcement on page four about my speech. It says I’ll speak at the Cooper Institute in New York City instead of Beecher’s Plymouth Church across the river in Brooklyn. The Young Men’s Republican Union has taken over sponsorship from the church lyceum committee. I fret the speech I have prepared to deliver in two days at Rev. Beecher’s church might not be appropriate for a miscellaneous political audience. After depositing my trunk I set out to find someone who can shed light on the change in plans.
From Astor House, I walk south on Broadway, then east on Ann Street to the offices of the New York Independent. Figuring they won’t be open to the public on a Saturday afternoon, I knock loudly. When a voice responds, “Come in,” I open the door and walk inside.
Seated at a desk, with his head down, is a finely dressed gentleman—too well dressed to be a common newspaper editor. He must be the moneyed silk trader who owns the paper. If that’s so, he’s also a friend and benefactor of Rev. Beecher.
I ask, “Is this Mr. Henry C. Bowen?”
“Yes,” he answers. He remains seated at a desk with his back to me, focused on his work.
“I am Abraham Lincoln.”
Bowen spins around and stares up at me.
“Mr. Bowen, I am just in from Springfield, Illinois, and I’m very tired. If you don’t mind, I will just lie here on your couch.”
He nods, and I make myself as comfortable as conditions allow, hanging my legs over one end and propping my head at the other.
Bowen walks over and studies me. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Bowen, I’m reminded of a story. You see, there was once two brothers, each marrying sisters on the same evening. During the ceremony, some of their friends sneak upstairs and exchange the beds which have been deliberately prepared for the two couples by the boys’ mother. When the celebrations are finished, and the bulk of the guests have drifted back to their homes, attendants escort the brides to their respective beds, which they at once identify by their familiar furnishings. Upon hearing the attendants’ word that the girls are ready to receive their husbands, the mother directs her sons upstairs according to her earlier arrangement, one to the bed on the right and the other to the left.
“As the family lounges downstairs, their ears peeled for the sounds of marital consummation, they are accosted by a frantic commotion. Racing upstairs, they find the two boys flailing in a pile on the floor as their brides sit wailing in their beds, covers drawn up to their chins. When the confusion is unraveled and the crying abates, the family stands in shame over the egregious error.”
Bowen throws back his head and laughs.
“You see, Mr. Bowen, having discovered that my lecture scheduled for Monday night has been moved from Beecher’s church to the Cooper Institute, I feel just like those two young men.”
He collects himself and explains the switch was made to accommodate a larger crowd. “You must be disappointed you won’t be speaking at Plymouth Church. So if you’ll join me for Sunday service, I’ll be glad to introduce you to Reverend Beecher.”
“I very much appreciate the invitation,” I say, getting up from the couch. “Mrs. Lincoln will be delighted; before I left Springfield, she insisted that I must go to his church.”
“Then it’s fixed,” he says.
“Yes, but for now, I reckon I better get back to Astor House to rewrite my speech in the main. I don’t think what I have prepared for the church folks will do for the audience that may now show up.”
The following morning, I walk down to the Fulton Street pier and pay t
wo cents for the ferry crossing to Brooklyn. Once on the other side, Plymouth Church is another two mile hike. On my arrival, I’m ushered to Mr. Bowen’s pew.
The perfunctory standing, sitting and hymns are familiar, thanks to Mother’s insistence that I join her in church on occasion. That familiarity does not give them meaning, however. By contrast, Rev. Beecher’s preaching is a delight; it is passionate without abandoning logic. At the end of the service, I congratulate him. I also tell him I had hoped to meet his famous sister. He laughs and says he will speak with her about sending me a copy of her famous book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The next evening, fifteen hundred people, each having paid twenty-five cents for admission, jam into the Great Hall at the Cooper Institute. Precisely at eight o’clock, I follow the white-bearded, seventy-seven year old poet and newspaper editor William Cullen Bryant onto the stage.
When I take my seat on a tiny chair, I look into the crowd and see the New York Tribune editor, Horace Greeley, who supported Douglas in the recent Senate contest. Tonight he’s one of the meeting’s sponsors. The bespectacled king-maker, whose mane flows to his shoulders like a lion’s, must regard me as a timid schoolboy, dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting black suit, with my gangly legs wrapped around the rungs of my chair.
As Bryant rises to introduce me, I recall the closing lines from his Thanatopsis which I memorized over a decade ago during our stay at the Todd mansion in Lexington.
So live, that when thy summons comes
To join the innumerable caravan
Which moves to that mysterious realm,
Where each shall take his chamber
In the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon,