The dangers attendant on Mr. Lincoln’s journey to Washington, as well as on his inauguration, had been recognized in Congress by the appointment of another committee of two, on which Congressman Washburne again represented the House, while Mr. Seward was the member for the Senate. As in the case of the committee on which Washburne served with Senator Grimes, there was close co-operation with General Scott. On February 21, Colonel Stone received a report from detectives he had placed in Baltimore that there was serious danger that Mr. Lincoln might be assassinated in passing through the city. Scott sent Stone posthaste to Seward, who agreed with the General’s opinion that Mr. Lincoln should change his announced traveling schedule. To persuade him to do so, Seward dispatched his son, Frederick, to Philadelphia with a warning letter, enclosing Stone’s report.
The Republicans of Washington were, in view of the ominous rumors, a stouthearted lot. They were erecting a large edifice in back of the City Hall for the inauguration ball. With eager anticipation, they were looking forward to receiving Mr. Lincoln at the depot on the afternoon of February 23, and they had prepared a quantity of banners with which to deck their wigwam. Meantime, the city was agog over the prospect of a military parade on Washington’s Birthday. Early in the morning, the Avenue was cluttered with the wagons and drays of the country folk who had driven in to see the spectacle. By the market house, the City Hall and other vantage points, vendors set out tables of pigs’ feet and gingerbread. Boys, with lettered placards on their breasts, offered patriotic songs for sale, and there were many flags with patriotic legends. Mr. Seward, since the New Year, had been agitating for a display of the national colors in the capital, and his efforts were rewarded on Washington’s Birthday by an unusual show of red, white and blue. In the morning, the National Intelligencer carried the War Department’s confirmation of the news for which everyone had been hoping, that the regulars would march, as well as the District militia.
At breakfast, however, General Scott had received an order countermanding the participation of the United States troops. The Virginian, John Tyler, was averse to this provocative exhibition of military force, and his protests had overwhelmed Mr. Buchanan. The militia proudly paced the Avenue, but there were no blue-clad regulars, no flying artillery nor plunging horses. Disappointment clouded the people’s holiday spirits, as the rumor spread that the soldiers would not, after all, appear. The prevailing indignation was shared by Representative Daniel E. Sickles of New York, a close friend of the President. Two years earlier, Sickles had won great notoriety by shooting Mr. Philip Barton Key for trifling with his pretty wife. Key, the son of the author of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” had been the District Attorney, and a popular figure in Washington society. His murder and the ensuing trial had made a tremendous sensation. Mr. Edwin M. Stanton, who conducted Dan Sickles’s defence, had pleaded the unwritten law, and the verdict of acquittal had been cheered in the courtroom and received with delight by the President.
This impulsive congressman was enthusiastic for celebrating Washington’s Birthday, and he rushed hotfoot to the War Office, where Secretary Holt was in conference with the President. Sickles’s remonstrances induced Mr. Buchanan to change his mind, and Holt hurried off to General Scott’s headquarters. The General felt a natural irritation. It was by this time midday. The officers had doffed their dress uniforms, and the soldiers had been dismissed. While a diminished force was hastily rounded up, Mr. Buchanan penned a note to ex-President Tyler, excusing himself for permitting Federal soldiers to be in evidence in the capital. In the afternoon, the people were appeased by a second parade. The artillery drill proved to be the high point of the exhibition. All were startled and amazed by the rapidity with which the guns were manned and prepared for action; and verisimilitude was lent to the martial scene by the dust of the Avenue, which floated about men and guns like the smoke of battle.
At six o’clock next morning, when the train from Philadelphia pulled into the Washington depot, the conductor might have been surprised at the sudden recovery of a sick gentleman, who on the preceding night had been quietly hustled into a berth at the end of the last car. The gentleman, in a soft, slouched hat, a muffler and a short, bobtailed overcoat, descended spryly to the platform. His tall and lanky figure would have made him an oddity in any gathering, and he had a plain, dark-skinned, melancholy face, with a stiff new crop of chin whiskers. He was closely attended by two companions, one of whom was big and heavily built, with bulges under his coat in every place where a man might carry arms; while the other was a short, bearded fellow, with a wary, peasant face. As they passed along the platform in the stream of sleepy-eyed travelers, they attracted attention from only one person in the depot, a man who had planted himself behind a pillar, and was peering out with a sharp, worried expression. As the lanky stranger passed, this man seized hold of his hand. “Abe,” he cried in a loud voice, “you can’t play that on me!” “Don’t strike him,” the stranger hastily told his escorts. “It is Washburne.” The President-elect had arrived in the capital of the United States.
The warning which Frederick Seward had carried to Philadelphia had already been sounded in a report from Detective Pinkerton of an assassination plot in Baltimore. Doubly disquieted by a second alarm, Lincoln’s friends had prevailed on him to alter his published program. After his trip to Harrisburg, he had slipped secretly on the night train, accompanied only by Ward Hill Lamon and a Mr. E. J. Allen, otherwise known as Pinkerton. Frederick Seward had returned with the message that Mr. Lincoln might be early expected in Washington, and Congressman Washburne had hurried to the depot in the winter dawn. The three travelers climbed into Washburne’s carriage, and drove off to Willard’s.
The original plan, that Mr. Lincoln should occupy a rented house during the pre-inauguration period, had been changed on the advice of Thurlow Weed, the political manager of New York State. In a hotel, the incoming President would be accessible to the people, and Mr. Weed himself had written to Willard’s to make the reservation. The best rooms in the house were, however, occupied when Mr. Lincoln made his unexpectedly early appearance, and a New York capitalist had to be hastily dislodged from the suite connected with Parlor Number 6, a large corner apartment on the second floor, overlooking the Avenue and the grounds of the Executive Mansion.
Mr. Seward was waiting at Willard’s to receive the President-elect and congratulate him on his safe arrival. He was somewhat chagrined, Washburne thought, that he had not been up in time to go to the depot. At eight o’clock, however, the senator and the congressman sat down in high elation to breakfast, loading their plates with the first run of Potomac shad. Mr. Lincoln had retired to his rooms to rest. He did not share the exultation of his friends. He had yielded to the advice to change his plans, but he had not taken stock in the story that he risked assassination in Baltimore. Since his nomination, he had constantly received letters threatening his life. He believed that he was destined to suffer a violent death, had expressed the feeling that he would not return alive to Springfield; but Mr. Lincoln’s apprehensions, though they may have been quickened by the menaces of his enemies or the nervous solicitude of his friends, were the shadowy alarms of premonition and anxiety, and the prospect of actual danger left him unmoved. For the rest of his life, he would regret the secret journey to Washington. It exposed him to bitter criticism from friends and enemies alike; and it seemed to many to cast reproach on a Government already sufficiently dishonored. Mr. Seward would laughingly agree with the detractors, and say that he had not believed in the Baltimore assassins, though General Scott had done so.
Mr. Lincoln breakfasted alone at nine in his parlor, and did not appear until eleven, when he left the hotel under the escort of Mr. Seward. Those solitary morning hours were the quietest he was ever to know in Washington. He would live thereafter at the mercy of the people, advancing eternally toward him in a jerking procession of faces.
The first duty of the President-elect was to pay his respects at the Executive Mansion. A special m
eeting of the Cabinet was in session, when the doorkeeper handed Mr. Buchanan a startling card. “Uncle Abe is downstairs!” the President cried, and hurriedly descended to the Red Room. He soon returned with the two Republicans. Mr. Lincoln was presented to the Cabinet, and paused for a few minutes’ conversation before leaving to call on General Scott. One of the members, Attorney General Stanton, had a sneering contempt for Mr. Lincoln. Some years earlier, they had been associated as counsel for the defense in a famous case, a suit brought for infringement of patent rights by Cyrus McCormick, the inventor of the reaping machine. Stanton had snubbed and humiliated the backwoods lawyer, and Lincoln had not forgotten his mortification; but he had also retained a vivid impression of Edwin M. Stanton’s abilities.
Mr. Lincoln was familiarly acquainted with Washington, where he had served a term as congressman from Illinois, but the capital could not return the compliment. In spite of his extraordinary figure, no one glanced a second time at the ungainly Westerner, as he walked with Mr. Seward through the streets. Rumors that he was in town caused unprecedented sales of the Evening Star, which was out in the early afternoon with a description of his arrival at Willard’s. Many people still remained skeptical. Republicans declared that the story was a dodge to keep them from the cars; and, mounting on top of a big furniture wagon laden with their banners, they proceeded to decorate their wigwam to impress Mr. Lincoln on his way from the depot. Later, “squads of the incredulous” surged through the rain to meet the special train, and the Fourteenth Street entrance to Willard’s was surrounded. The crowds were rewarded by the sight of the weary Presidential party, oppressed by the gloom of the Maryland threats and Lincoln’s sudden departure. Mrs. Lincoln had become hysterical over the separation from her husband. Colonel Edwin Sumner was a very angry old soldier, thwarted in the performance of his duty; and Colonel Ellsworth had expected their train to be mobbed in Baltimore. To counteract the depression, Bob Lincoln had led the party in a rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as the cars crossed the Maryland line.
Leaning on the arm of Mr. Seward, Mrs. Lincoln entered the hotel, and was received in the thronged hallway by the Messrs. Willard in person. Upstairs, the President-elect sprawled in an arm-chair with a beaming face, while his two spoiled boys, Willie and Tad, climbed over him. He had had a busy afternoon, for the tide of visitors had already set toward Parlor Number 6. General Scott, whom he had missed in the morning, had returned his call in full uniform, sweeping his instep with the yellow plumes of his hat as he bowed. Headed by Stephen A. Douglas, the Illinois senators and congressmen had paid their respects. Old Francis P. Blair had come in with his hatchet-faced son, Montgomery, who was hoping to be appointed Postmaster General. The Blair family, father and two sons, were a power in the Republican party. They were a fighting clan from the border slave States, Democrats who had swung into opposition to slavery. The elder Blair, formerly a famous newspaper editor and a member of Jackson’s Kitchen Cabinet, was an acute politician who still wielded great influence behind the scenes. Frank, junior, former congressman, recently re-elected, was a Free-Soil leader in Missouri; while Montgomery, like his father, now lived and intrigued in Maryland. Mr. Lincoln reposed great confidence in the senior Blair, and submitted to him, as well as to his chief adviser, Mr. Seward, a copy of his inaugural address.
Soon after his family’s arrival, Lincoln was informed that the delegates to the Peace Conference desired to wait on him. He appointed the hour of nine to receive them, and drove off to a seven o’clock dinner at Seward’s, where the Vice-President-elect, Senator Hannibal Hamlin of Maine, was also present. The long parlor hall at Willard’s was lined with people when he returned; and, shaking hands on both sides, he was so interested, said the New York Herald, that he forgot to remove his shiny new silk hat.
Ex-President Tyler and the Honorable Salmon P. Chase of Ohio led the Peace delegates up the stairs to Parlor Number 6. Chase was as pompous as General Scott, and very nearly as antipathetic to slavery as Senator Sumner. Re-elected to the Senate after serving as governor of his State, he was the most prominent of the former Democrats in the Republican party. His rumored appointment to the Cabinet would satisfy the radicals, who were disgruntled with the conciliatory Seward. He was tall, imposing and handsome, with the noble brow of a statesman. As he stood beside Mr. Lincoln, presenting the delegates, it was Chase who looked the part of President of the United States, and Chase would have been the first to think so.
Curious and prejudiced, Easterners and men from the border slave States scrutinized the phenomenon from the prairies. The long, lean, sallow frontier lawyer was a shock to people who were unused to the Western type; and his homely phrases and mispronunciations grated on Eastern ears. It was impossible that Lincoln should have inspired confidence or admiration; but some saw shrewdness, honesty and even a natural dignity in his face. Its ugliness was partially redeemed by his eyes, though their dreamy, meditative expression did not bespeak either firmness or force. He had a pleasant, kindly smile, and was thought to be not so ill-favored and hard-looking as his pictures represented him. Chatting informally with the delegates, remembering like a good politician their claims to fame and their middle initials, Lincoln made on the whole a not unfavorable impression.
The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Lincoln attended St. John’s Church with Mr. Seward. Under the same guidance he visited the Senate and the House on Monday, and also the Supreme Court; but almost his entire time during the pre-inauguration week was spent in the big, crowded parlor of the hotel suite. Willard’s held an unprecedented collection of men notable in public affairs, civil, military and naval. Republican leaders were there to confer, and delegations to press their advice on the administration’s policies and Cabinet appointments. The Peace Conference was winding up its session with resolutions that satisfied no one, and border slave State men came to beseech guarantees that there would be no Federal coercion. Past the new President, from early morning until late at night, streamed minor politicians, place seekers, editors, reporters and handshakers. He was still unknown to the passer-by in the street, but hundreds became familiar with his features in Parlor Number 6. Mr. Lincoln assured Mayor Berret and the Common Council of Washington, who called to tender a welcome, that he had kindly feelings toward them, and meant to treat them as neighbors. It was, he remarked, the first time since the present phase of politics that he had said anything publicly in a region where slavery existed. Again, in responding to a serenade by the Washington Republicans, Mr. Lincoln voiced his awareness of his peculiar situation in the capital city, whose population was almost entirely opposed to him in politics.
The new President had formed an inflexible determination to entertain no compromise on the extension of slavery, and to defend the Constitution, as his oath of office required. None of the multitude who, since his departure from Springfield, had casually met him or heard his speeches had been able to discern either his decision or his anxiety. In his public utterances, Mr. Lincoln had depreciated the seriousness of the crisis. His placid manner, the “jocular freedom” of his conversation, and his unceasing fund of anecdote gave the impression that he had but a shallow and provincial understanding of national affairs. Among the Republican leaders, none was more puzzled than Senator Charles Sumner. Mr. Lincoln had an amiable weakness for measuring heights with other tall men, and outraged Sumner’s dignity by making the proposal to him. Sumner excused himself with the heavy pleasantry that it was a time for uniting their fronts and not their backs. The Washington Republican, Major French, who was chief marshal of the inauguration parade, declared that they all liked Old Abe, but wished “he would leave off making little speeches. He has not the gift of language,” French went on, “though he may have of western gab.”
With the appointment of Montgomery Blair as Postmaster General, the slate of Lincoln’s Cabinet was complete. At the head of his advisers was Mr. Seward, balanced by the radical Mr. Chase, who was to be Secretary of the Treasury. Two selections had been virtually
forced on Lincoln by bargains which his managers had made at the Republican convention which had nominated him. One was Caleb B. Smith of Indiana, the Secretary of the Interior, a prosaic-looking, lisping conservative. The other was Senator Simon Cameron of Pennsylvania, whom Mr. Lincoln had with much reluctance appointed Secretary of War. Cameron was the Republican leader in his own State, but his reputation for unscrupulous political practices shed no luster on the new Cabinet.
As a sop to New England, Mr. Lincoln had made Gideon Welles of Connecticut his Secretary of the Navy. He was tall and “venerably insignificant,” with a flowing beard and a huge gray wig. Welles had been a newspaperman in Hartford, and did not know the stem from the stern of a ship, but he was an industrious and capable administrator. He was also very irritable, and those who undervalued him did not know that, with a pen dipped in gall, he kept a diary. In one respect, Welles was unique among the Cabinet members—he did not think himself a better man than the President.
The Attorney General, Mr. Edward Bates of Missouri, had been one of Mr. Lincoln’s earliest selections. He was a former slaveholder, worthy, legalistic and reverential of the Constitution. The choice of the Marylander, Montgomery Blair, gave Lincoln two advisers from the border slave States. Blair was courageous, and had won abolitionist acclaim by acting as counsel for the slave, Dred Scott. However, while scarcely anyone could object to polite old Mr. Bates, the pinched and vindictive Montgomery had a host of enemies. He was detested by the radical wing of the Republicans, and disliked as an uncompromising and warmongering extremist by the moderates. He had plenty of secessionist relatives, and voiced his Union sympathies with challenge and defiance.
Reveille in Washington Page 7