Chase and his daughter Kate had plotted his ascent to the presidency for years, and as Lincoln's secretary of the Treasury, he had never been closer to the seat of power. Though Chase had done a laudable job with the nation's finances, his blatant and easily blunted political ambition finally caused Lincoln to accept his resignation. Chase was not unemployed for long, for Chief Justice Roger Taney passed away on October 12, 1864. New York Republican George Templeton Strong remarked, "The Hon. Old Roger B. Taney has earned the gratitude of his country by dying at last. Better late than never." Pressure from abolitionists immediately descended upon Lincoln to appoint the one man who could be counted on to secure gains to be made on slavery and civil rights in this period. As Lincoln proved many times, personal animus did not distract him from appointing the best person for the job, even if he would rather have "swallowed his buckhorn chair than to have nominated Chase."15
Douglass sat in the living room of Chase's three-story red-brick house, on the corner of Sixth and E Streets in downtown Washington. With a devastating mix of intelligence and beauty, Kate was the belle of Washington and thus the object of Mrs. Lincoln's fierce jealousy. Kate's wedding to the wealthy William Sprague—rumored to be motivated by her wish to use his money for her father's political career—had been the social event of the previous year. Chase could not deny the great opportunities in his new role on the court, but this was far less true of a dejected Kate.16
Yet, in their evening with Douglass, they did their best to focus on what Chase could do as the most powerful man in America's court system. The highlight of the evening for Douglass was helping Kate place Chase's new robe on his broad shoulders. Douglass wrote, "There was a dignity and grandeur about the Chief Justice which marked him as one born great."17
Although the war was drawing to a close, it was not over and there was more death to come. The president weighed this oppressive fact as he prepared his inaugural address, which, to the surprise of many, would be cast in a far from triumphant mode. The war could be won, but after the death of nearly one in ten of the young men who had fought it, victory was a hard word to employ.
As the morning broke on Saturday, the threatening clouds burst open. After this terrible war, Noah Brooks wrote that the rain fell from "tearful skies." Special trains dashed down the Baltimore & Ohio tracks, and Willard's Hotel packed people in the hallways to accommodate the thousands of visitors for the inaugural. At midmorning, Lincoln began the trip down Pennsylvania Avenue, riding alone with the top of his carriage folded down. Douglass maneuvered to walk as close as he could to Lincoln's carriage. Every wink or nod between individuals he saw lining the vast avenue sent Douglass's mind spinning through nightmarish assassination scenarios. He felt a visceral sense of dread, a foreboding in his gut.18
As the wheels of the president's barouche sank into the thick mud along the way to the outdoor ceremony, police ordered the crowds to stay back. This made it easy for Douglass to keep pace with Lincoln's horses. When they reached the Capitol, Douglass felt the president was safe. However, it was later established, and confirmed by a close inspection of photographs taken of the moment of the inaugural address, that John Wilkes Booth was standing close to Lincoln, on a high balcony above the speaker's stand.
Douglass found a place in front of the east portico. Hard winds whipped through the restless crowd. What many noticed about this inauguration day was the large number of black people in the crowd. Washington residents claimed to have never seen so many in the city before. An English correspondent estimated that half the crowd was black.19
Lincoln entered the Capitol and attended Vice President Andrew Johnson's swearing-in ceremony in the white rotunda. The morning had been an inauspicious start to Johnson's tenure. After consuming three full glasses of whiskey straight while awaiting the ceremony, the Tennessean had taken his official oath in an incoherent ramble before horrified members of the administration in the Senate chamber. Before heading back outside, Lincoln made it clear that under no circumstances should they allow Johnson to address the crowd.20
Douglass was close enough to catch Lincoln's eye as the president walked outside to the platform built over the Capitol steps. Lincoln even took a moment to point out the orator to Johnson. As Lincoln pointed to him, Douglass got a glimpse into Johnson's soul he would never forget. The drunken Johnson shot Lincoln an irritated look and gesture. He seemed contemptuous that Lincoln would call his attention to him; Douglass knew well the signals of racial enmity when he saw them. The vice president realized Douglass was gazing right back at him, and Johnson immediately stiffened up into a rigid face of forced affability. The damage was done. Leaning over to a man next to him, Douglass said Johnson "was no friend to my people."21
Douglass found the ceremony "quiet, earnest and solemn," though he also noted "a leaden stillness about the crowd." As Lincoln stepped forward and began his address, the sun broke through the clouds. It was a startling phenomenon, flooding the scene with light as the president's distinctive mid-western twang, high pitched and able to reach out surprisingly far above the crowd, began the shortest inaugural address in our history. There was an emotional poignancy to his voice, and its power grew with conviction. Douglass found it firm and yet inconsolably sad. Lincoln's subject was tragic, but his voice would not quite break.22
The president was an unusual speaker for the times because he rarely gestured or moved on the platform. He did not move his hands in placing emphasis but held them firmly behind his back, the left holding the right. His feet never moved. On this day, the famously awkward Lincoln seemed possessed of a solemn gravitas.23
Lincoln prepared the crowd for a short address, letting them know he would offer neither a forecast for the end of the war, nor congratulatory sentiments over its increasingly evident outcome. He simply hoped that people found the war's progress "satisfactory and encouraging to all," then reminded the crowd of the dire situation that accompanied his first inauguration speech. Lincoln asked his listeners to remember the nation's situation at that time. "Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained," nor that it would end up eradicating slavery.
Lincoln said, "Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged." On other occasions, Lincoln had conjured harsher words for those defending slavery through their Bibles, but that was not his message this day.
Lincoln speaking at the presidential inaugural ceremony, March 4, 1865. (He is standing in the front row on the wooden stage, behind a short white baluster at the center of this photograph.)
The unavoidable truth was that God could not grant two opposing wishes, yet this did not mean that either one would be fully fulfilled. Lincoln surmised, "The Almighty has His own purposes." The president supposed that "American slavery" had been an offense that God was ready to see destroyed. It was no accidental choice of words, for Lincoln defined slavery throughout the speech and throughout his career as a vast national sin owned by the whole nation, refusing to reprimand the South through moral superiority. He said God "gives to both North and South, this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came."
He declared, as he closed a speech that likely lasted no more than seven minutes, that a great price had been paid for the burden of slavery, and now was a time of relief and release from the past:
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."
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 first, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.
As he listened, Douglass was overwhelmed. Even in his highest expectations, he had not imagined Lincoln's speech having this kind of power. As he remembered, "such a sentence I never heard from the lips of any man in his position before." He thought the authority of these words "rang out over that throng" more like a sermon and less like a state paper. Hardly a hero-worshiper, especially of Lincoln, Douglass immediately recognized an element of the ancient prophet in the man in front of him.24
The second inaugural speech, in its essence, was a melding of Lincoln's and Douglass's visions of the Civil War, which had been so long so divergent. Douglass's impact was evident. Still, like so many others who had strived to influence Lincoln, Douglass had been more witness than persuader. The greatest influence by far had been the powerful flood of events washing over them all; as Douglass had said of this war, there were "mighty currents" shifting everything in its path, no single person or voice. Lincoln was an intensely private and inner-directed man, and those who knew him best had long concluded that no one really swayed him—though his reading of his people's mood could do the trick. Yet, this speech did not materialize from a void; it was a realization and culmination of themes that had been emerging in Lincoln's mind for months, even years. Here was their final eloquent expression, and its commonalities with Douglass's messages are unmistakable.
One need only go back to the October 1861 issue of the Douglass Monthly to find the concept of national sin that was at the core of Lincoln's speech. At the time, Lincoln was fighting to keep slavery out of the war, but Douglass said the Americans were failing "to recognize the great and all-comprehensive National Sin to which the calamities deplored owe their existence." Douglass also quoted scripture, "Be not deceived. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap."25
Lincoln's speech confronted a question that had long tormented him: Was there meaning in the taking of so many lives? Douglass had wrestled with the same question, asking, "Why does the cold and greedy earth now drink up the warm red blood of our patriot sons, brothers, husbands and fathers—carrying sorrow and agony into every household?" The path to the nation's healing was captured in the president's closing entreaty to the people: "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 . . ."26
The inauguration reception was fully open to the public and Douglass resolved that he would be there that evening. To his knowledge, no black person had ever presented himself at such an occasion other than as a servant or waiter. Douglass did not realize that four black men had attended the president's annual New Year's Day reception three months before. He believed that a black man congratulating the president seemed a modest and appropriate thing to do; yet he also knew that in reality, it might not be a light matter "to break in upon the established usage of the country, and run the risk of being repulsed."27
Among black friends Douglass saw after the ceremony, he floated the idea of them joining him at the reception. All were wholeheartedly in favor of Douglass going and breaking this barrier, though they declined to do so. Douglass thought back to days when he had risked his life to desegregate Massachusetts trains, sitting in and absorbing beatings until he was thrown off the train. Other men had praised the undertaking, leaving it to Douglass to carry it out. Someone had to lead. He decided it was his right to see President Lincoln during this illustrious event.
Standing in the vast line, Douglass took in the elite nature of the individuals surrounding him. Douglass felt "a man among men," but harsh reality intruded as the line moved forward, and Douglass reached the door. Two brawny policemen guarding the White House entrance forcibly grabbed his arms and told him to stand back, pushing him hard in that direction. They were to admit no person of color, an order they appeared enthusiastic to obey.28
Douglass had come this far and did not intend to turn back. Ignoring the embarrassment of being singled out in front of so many distinguished people, Douglass told the guards that there must have been some mistake, for "no such order could have emanated from President Lincoln." Douglass boldly predicted, "If he knew I was at the door he would desire my admission."
The officers were now uncomfortable, expecting this issue to have been easily settled instead of resulting in a loud dispute with an indignant black man. Furthermore, Douglass was obstructing the doorway. One security man then spoke in a more polite tone, telling Douglass that a third officer would conduct him in. A satisfied Douglass followed the red-faced, burly man into the White House as he called back to him, "Oh, yes; come this way!" It did not take Douglass long to realize there was something wrong about the path they were taking. The guide was escorting him to a makeshift plank headed into an outside window, a temporary passageway for the White House's extra visitors that evening. Douglass had been led in to be led right out.29
More enraged than ever, Douglass cried, "You have deceived me. I shall not go out of this building till I see President Lincoln." Suddenly, a gentleman moving through the corridor recognized Douglass. Douglass called to him, "Be so kind as to say to Mr. Lincoln that Frederick Douglass is detained by officers at the door." This man rushed in to Lincoln.30
Less than a minute later, Douglass walked into the East Room and beheld a "bewildering sea of beauty and elegance . . . such as my poor eyes had never before seen in any one room at home or abroad." It was a scene of jewelry, gold, silks, and elegance. He later learned that no such order to keep out black people had ever come from Lincoln's White House. The officers were just acting on old customs. But it was no matter to Douglass now, as cabinet members and generals in their finest uniforms mingled while the Marine band played patriotic numbers. Douglass browsed through this immense crowd of guests and saw Lincoln standing with "grand simplicity, and homelike beauty? Douglass thought he looked like a mountain pine above them.31
He started to move toward the president, but before he was near, Lincoln's eyes caught his, and in a voice loud enough for all near him to hear, Lincoln exclaimed, "Here comes my friend Douglass." Douglass weaved through people to reach the president's side.
Lincoln took his hand and told him, "I am glad to see you. I saw you in the crowd today, listening to my inaugural address; how did you like it?" He had already shaken hands with thousands of well-wishers from eight o'clock on, and Douglass could see a long line of impatient faces craving a minute with their leader, and he was embarrassed.32
He responded, "Mr. Lincoln, I must not detain you with my poor opinion, when there are thousands waiting to shake hands with you."
Lincoln replied, "No, no." He added, "You must stop a little, Douglass; there is no man in the country whose opinion I value more than yours." He then asked again of his speech, "I want to know what you think of it?"
Douglass related exactly what he felt: "Mr. Lincoln, that was a sacred effort."
Lincoln's smile was warm, with a sincere sense of affirmation for his efforts. He told Douglass, "I am glad you liked it!"33
Tonight the president did not hide his relationship with a man who had once been political poison. He seemed proud to welcome this controversial man into his home, even to call him friend. It took Douglass's boldness to force his way in, and Lincoln's equal courage to proclaim their bond.
Two nights later, Elizabeth Keckley, whose remarkable life had taken her from slavery to being Mrs. Lincoln's dressmaker (and closest friend in Washington), was dressing her employer. She told the first lady of how she ran into the famous Frederick Douglass at a mutual friend's house after he had left the White House. As she described to Mary Lincoln how delighted Douglass appeared after his exchange with Lincoln, the p
resident walked into his wife's room. She immediately asked him, "Father, why was not Mr. Douglass introduced to me?" Mary Lincoln was from a slaveholding family, but her many days and nights with Keckley were a major factor in her emerging sympathy for and interest in black people.
Lincoln replied, "I do not know, I thought he was presented."
This was not an acceptable answer for his sharp and demanding spouse. She retorted, "But he was not."
All Lincoln could say was, "It must have been an oversight then, Mother, I am sorry you did not meet him."34
The words of encouragement that Douglass gave to Lincoln regarding his speech would have been comforting to him due to the weight he gave Douglass's views and because others around him clearly failed to grasp the greatness of the speech. Former secretary of war Simon Cameron received a letter from his home state of Pennsylvania that called the address "one of the most awkwardly expressed documents I have ever read."35
Lincoln knew what people were saying and that it was not a popular work, at the time. He wrote to Thurlow Weed, "Men are not flattered by being shown that there has been a difference of purpose between the Almighty and them."36Even if it cost him humiliation, he believed it a truth that demanded telling.
CHAPTER 16
"It Made Us Kin"
That spring, as a war that stained the land was closing and a country was readying to begin anew, spring rains fell unrelentingly in upstate New York. In Rochester, this precipitation loosened the deep snow banks that remained. The Genesee River was rising near the town, and on the morning of March 17, the waters rushed past the riverbanks, over the dam and through the town. By the afternoon, muddy water was coming through Front, State, and Buffalo Streets, overtaking the business district, coming through the floors and ruining expensive houses downtown. Those wishing to reach the center of Rochester for the next few days did so by rowboat. The debris would take weeks to clear.1
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