At the same time, the President-elect repeatedly asked Northerners to stand firm in the crisis. Not once in the dozens of speeches he made along the journey did he suggest willingness to agree to secession, to acquiesce in Southern seizure of federal forts and arsenals, or to recognize the Confederacy. Over and over, he stressed that he had been elected to uphold the Constitution and enforce the laws. To those who argued this would mean “coercion” and “invasion” of the South, he responded in his Indianapolis speech with a rhetorical question: would it be coercion if the government “simply insists upon holding its own forts, or retaking those forts which belong to it,... or ... the collection of duties upon foreign importations,... or even the withdrawal of the mails from those portions of the country where the mails themselves are habitually violated.” But, unwilling to precipitate a crisis, he quickly added, “Now, I ask the question—I am not deciding anything.”
As the presidential party moved toward the East, news from the South became more ominous. Jefferson Davis was inaugurated Provisional President of the Confederate States of America on February 18, while Lincoln was traveling to Washington; Alexander H. Stephens, Lincoln’s old friend from whom he had expected a strong support of the Union, became Provisional Vice President. On that same day, General David E. Twiggs surrendered all the United States military outposts in Texas to the secessionists.
Lincoln responded to these developments by making it clearer than ever that he intended to preserve the Union. At a brief stop in Dunkirk, New York, he stepped from the train to grasp an American flag and asked his audience “to stand by me so long as I stand by it.” In New York City he told the audience: “Nothing... can ever bring me willingly to consent to the destruction of this Union.” In Trenton he promised the New Jersey legislature he would seek a peaceful settlement of the crisis, but he warned, “It may be necessary to put the foot down firmly.”
VII
In the final days of the journey an unexpected development threatened the image of dignified courage that he was building. Allan Pinkerton, the head of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, informed Judd of a plot to assassinate Lincoln as he passed through Baltimore. This was not the first warning of danger to the President-elect, but it seemed entitled to more credence than earlier alarms. Working for S. M. Felton, the president of the Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railroad, who feared that secessionists might sabotage bridges along his route, Pinkerton found anti-Lincoln sentiment rampant in Baltimore, a strongly pro-Southern city with a long reputation for street violence, and his operatives reported details of a plot to kill the President-elect. When Lincoln’s train from Philadelphia arrived at the Calvert Street Station, the President-elect and his party would have to get out and go across town to the Camden Street Station in order to board the Baltimore & Ohio train for Washington. Just as Lincoln emerged from the narrow vestibule of the Calvert Street Station, Cypriano Ferrandini, a Baltimore barber, and a few associates planned to assassinate him. Pinkerton urged the President-elect to leave Philadelphia immediately, passing through Baltimore on a night train before the conspirators could learn of his change of plans.
Lincoln refused to alter his schedule. “I can’t go to-night,” he insisted. He was committed to raising the flag at Independence Hall the next morning and he had promised to address the Pennsylvania legislature at Harrisburg later in the day. He vowed he would fulfill those engagements “under any and all circumstances, even if he met with death in doing so.”
The threat was clearly on his mind as he spoke at Independence Hall on February 22. The country must be saved on the basis of the Declaration of Independence, which promised liberty for all and offered “hope to the world for all future time.” “If it can’t be saved upon that principle, it will be truly awful,” he warned. “I was about to say I would rather be assassinated on this spot than to surrender it.”
As he was leaving for Harrisburg, young Frederick W. Seward brought confidential news from Washington that both his father, the senator, and General Winfield Scott believed the Baltimore conspiracy was genuine. After Lincoln made the promised address to the Pennsylvania legislature, he and his most trusted advisers met to discuss the danger. Pinkerton proposed that Lincoln, traveling alone so as to avoid suspicion, should take a special train from Harrisburg to Philadelphia; there, incognito, he would board the 11 P.M. train to Baltimore, passing unrecognized through that city at about 3:30 A.M. and arriving unannounced in Washington two and a half hours later. Judd endorsed the plan. Colonel Sumner denounced it as “a d——d piece of cowardice” and said it would be better to get a squad of cavalry to cut a way to Washington, but Captain Pope favored Pinkerton’s recommendation. After considerable discussion, David Davis, who had expressed no opinion, asked the President-elect: “What is your judgement on the matter?”
Lincoln said he was not entirely convinced that there was a conspiracy, and he recognized that he might appear ridiculous in fleeing from a nonexistent danger. On the other hand, he respected Pinkerton’s professional judgment and was impressed that Frederick Seward’s warnings confirmed those of the detective. He concluded, “Unless there are some other reasons besides fear of ridicule, I am disposed to carry out Judd’s plan.”
That left only the details to be arranged. Pinkerton wanted no one else in the presidential party to be told of the change of plans, but Lincoln insisted that his wife must know, “as otherwise she would be very much excited at his absence.” Against Colonel Sumner’s protest, Lamon was chosen as his only companion and bodyguard during the trip. Lamon may indeed have been, as Pinkerton said, “a brainless egotistical fool,” but he was big, brave, and—most important of all—willing to lay down his life to save Lincoln’s.
That evening the President-elect quietly slipped out of the hotel in Harrisburg. He was unrecognized because, instead of the usual stovepipe hat that had become his trademark, he wore for the first time in his life a soft felt “Kossuth” hat someone in New York had given him. To help conceal his tall figure his long overcoat was thrown loosely over his shoulders without his arms being in the sleeves. He boarded a special train in Harrisburg, where all telegraphic communication had been interrupted to prevent possible leaks to the conspirators. At Philadelphia, accompanied only by Pinkerton and Lamon, he entered a sleeping car of the train to Baltimore and occupied a berth Pinkerton had reserved for an “invalid passenger.” He was so tall that he could not stretch out on the bed. The train proceeded undisturbed to Baltimore, and without being observed, Lincoln transferred to the Camden Station and went on to Washington. Emerging from the car, he attracted no attention until a loud voice hailed him: “Abe you can’t play that on me.” Pinkerton and Lamon turned to attack the stranger when Lincoln interposed, recognizing his old friend Congressman E. B. Washburne, who had learned of the plan and come to meet him. He quickly drove with Lincoln to Willard’s Hotel at Fourteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue.
Inevitably Lincoln’s secret night ride attracted unfavorable comment. It took on elements of farce after an enterprising newspaperman, Joseph Howard, needing to flesh out his story for the New York Times, wrote that Lincoln had not merely fled from Harrisburg but had disguised himself by wearing a Scotch plaid cap and a long military coat. Cartoonists presently portrayed the disguise as a tam and kilts. Even serious observers were troubled by the episode. “We take it for granted that Mr. Lincoln is not wanting in personal courage,” the New York Tribune editorialized—but it wanted some proof that “imminent and great” danger had required him to take such a remarkable course. Soberly George Templeton Strong recorded his hope that Lincoln could prove beyond cavil the existence of a Baltimore plot; otherwise “this surreptitious nocturnal dodging or sneaking of the President-elect into his capital city... will be used to damage his moral position and throw ridicule on his Administration.”
Eventually the furor died down, but Lincoln came to regret that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to undertake the night trip. As he told the Illinois
congressman Isaac N. Arnold, “I did not then, nor do I now believe I should have been assassinated had I gone through Baltimore as first contemplated, but I thought it wise to run no risk where no risk was necessary.” That was a sound and reasonable decision—but it did nothing to sustain the reputation for firmness that he had been so carefully building on his long journey from Springfield.
VIII
The ten days between Lincoln’s arrival in Washington and his inauguration were among the busiest in his life. On the first day, after he reached Willard’s Hotel, he telegraphed Mary in Harrisburg of his safe arrival. He and Seward had breakfast together and then went to the White House, where he met President Buchanan and was introduced to the members of the cabinet. After calling on General Scott, who was not at home, he rode about Washington for an hour with Seward, who found him “very cordial and kind... simple, natural, and agreeable.” In the afternoon he received visitors, including Montgomery Blair, soon to be his Postmaster General, and his father, Francis P. Blair, Sr. In midafternoon Mary Lincoln and the boys arrived after an uneventful trip through Baltimore, and the family was reunited in the best suite at the hotel. Senator Douglas and other members of the Illinois delegation called later in the day, and the encounter between the two old rivals, both ardent supporters of the Union, was reported to be “peculiarly pleasant.” At 7 P.M. he took a carriage to Seward’s residence and dined privately with his Secretary of State-designate and Vice President-elect Hamlin. Returning to Willard’s, he found the long hall lined with people and became so absorbed in greeting them that he forgot to remove his hat. Delegates from the Peace Conference, which was just ending its unprofitable deliberations, called at 9 P.M. and found the President-elect standing unattended in the public drawing room of the hotel. Senator Chase and Lucius E. Chittenden, who represented Vermont at the conference, took it upon themselves to introduce the delegates. Afterward Lincoln held an informal reception for members of Congress and other guests who had crowded into the hotel. Among them was the wealthy New York merchant William E. Dodge, who warned the President-elect that only concessions to the South could prevent national bankruptcy; it was up to Lincoln to say “whether the grass shall grow in the streets of our commercial cities.” Looking quizzical, Lincoln responded that he preferred to see the grass grow in fields and in meadows but that he would defend the Constitution “let the grass grow where it may.” At 10 P.M. the members of Buchanan’s cabinet called to pay their respects. Not until they left could the weary President-elect go to bed.
The days that followed were similarly filled with endless calls and receptions. Both Vice President John C. Breckinridge and John Bell—like Douglas, defeated candidates in the 1860 election—paid their respects. Lincoln welcomed a call from the aged and infirm General Scott dressed in his full military regalia and wearing all his medals. The President-elect visited the Capitol and held an informal reception for members of Congress. He greeted the justices of the Supreme Court. Mayor James G. Berret and the Common Council of Washington tendered an official welcome to the city and, understanding that they had opposed his election, Lincoln expressed hope that “when we shall become better acquainted—and I say it with great confidence—we shall like each other the more.”
On most evenings he and Mary received visitors in the hotel parlors. Some came out of a sense of duty, some in the hope of securing public office, and some out of idle curiosity. One Virginian described the Presidentelect as “a cross between a sandhill crane and an Andalusian jackass,... vain, weak, puerile, hypocritical, without manners, without moral grace,” but most visitors thought him awkwardly charming. At parties he was relaxed and sociable. When he attended the dinner that Rudolph Schleiden, the minister from Bremen and the dean of the diplomatic corps in Washington, gave in his honor, he favorably impressed Lord Lyons, the British minister, and most of the other diplomats, though the ambassador from Holland complained: “His conversation consists of vulgar anecdotes at which he himself laughs uproariously.”
All this socializing allowed the President-elect to sound Washington sentiment about the crisis. No words were more welcome than those of Douglas, who strongly favored conciliating the South and urged Lincoln to persuade Republicans to compromise. At the same time, he pledged that he and his Democratic followers would not try to gain political advantage from the crisis. “Our Union must be preserved,” he told Lincoln solemnly. “Partisan feeling must yield to patriotism. I am with you, Mr. President, and God bless you.” Touched and greatly cheered, Lincoln responded: “With all my heart I thank you. The people with us and God helping us all will yet be well.” When the senator left, Lincoln exclaimed to another visitor, “What a noble man Douglas is!”
Lincoln’s numerous conferences in the week before his inauguration also helped him make a final selection of his cabinet members. Until he arrived in Washington, only Seward and Bates had been formally offered posts. After the McClure-Curtin faction withdrew their objection, Cameron was assured of a place and Pennsylvanians insisted that he must head the Treasury Department. But there was a mounting cry for Chase to have that appointment. To settle the controversy Lincoln sought the advice of the Republican senators. Sending for them in alphabetical order, he asked their preferences for Secretary of the Treasury. Of the nineteen who responded, five wasted their votes on Dayton and James F. Simmons, a justly forgotten senator from Rhode Island; three cast votes for Cameron; and eleven favored Chase. With that, Lincoln had a mandate, and he offered the Treasury Department to Chase. Cameron was given a choice of the War Department or the Interior Department and rather grumpily chose the former. The appointment suggested how far Lincoln was from thinking about a war.
The selection of Chase was a bitter dose for Seward, who had increasingly come to think of himself as the premier of the incoming Lincoln administration. In his mind the brilliant policy he had pursued in the Senate had saved the country during the months since the election. By conciliating the South, he believed that he had stopped the hemorrhage of secession after the withdrawal of the seven states of the lower South. Though the legislatures of Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Arkansas authorized conventions to consider secession, Unionists were in control in all these states. He was convinced that they would remain loyal so long as peace was preserved.
Seward did not take seriously Lincoln’s remarks made on the way to Washington and was confident he could persuade the President-elect to agree that the fever of secession should be allowed to run its course in the Deep South while Unionism should be fostered in the upper South by avoiding all provocations. He did not count on impressing Lincoln by his appearance. Slight in build, stooped and thin, with sallow complexion, a beaklike nose, and shaggy eyebrows, he was, unlike Chase, not an imposing figure. But he counted on his enormous intelligence and undeniable charm to win over the President-elect and was constantly with him at breakfasts, meetings, receptions, and dinners. Delighted with Seward’s ebullience and lack of pomposity and sharing his fondness for jokes, Lincoln appeared docilely to follow the lead of his premier. “Old Abe is honest as the sun, and means to be true and faithful,” growled Greeley, who distrusted Seward; “but he is in the web of very cunning spiders and cannot work out if he would.”
In naming Chase, Lincoln broke out of the web. Seward was furious, but he could not have been surprised. He already knew from reading the draft of the inaugural address at the request of the President-elect that his policies were not Lincoln’s. Selecting Chase, who bluntly denounced secession and made his motto “Inauguration first—adjustment afterwards,” was a further signal that Lincoln was not going to follow Seward’s cautious and conciliatory approach toward the South.
Frustrated and despondent, Seward remonstrated with Lincoln. He told the President-elect that he and Chase had irreconcilable differences. Out of “his conviction of duty and what was due to himself” he “must insist on excluding Mr. Chase if he, Seward, remained.” Failing to convince Lincoln, Seward on March 2 dashed off a curt note
: “Circumstances which have occurred since I expressed ... my willingness to accept the office of Secretary of State seem to me to render it my duty to ask leave to withdraw that consent.”
Lincoln faced a dilemma. He needed the New Yorker in his cabinet, but as he told Nicolay, “I can’t afford to let Seward take the first trick.” He signaled that Seward was not irreplaceable. When a deputation of New York merchants friendly to Seward descended on the President-elect to protest the appointment of Chase, he listened to their arguments that Chase’s commitment to free trade and his hostility toward compromise with the South would further injure business prospects. Beyond that, they insisted, Seward could never work with Chase. Agreeing that he needed a harmonious administration, Lincoln brought out two lists—one his preferred choice of cabinet members, which included both Seward and Chase, and the other, he said, a poorer one naming Dayton as Secretary of State with Seward as minister to England. With that the stunned delegation shuffled out. He gave the same message to Judd, who was vastly excited about possible last-minute changes in the cabinet list. Knowing that Judd was an intimate of Weed and that anything said to him would be immediately reported to Seward, the President-elect vowed, “When that slate breaks again, it will break at the top.”
But Lincoln said nothing directly to Seward, and he did not even acknowledge Seward’s letter of withdrawal. On Sunday, the day before the inauguration, just as though nothing had happened, the President-elect gave a dinner party for all the prospective members of his cabinet, including both Seward and Chase. The next morning, while the inauguration procession was forming, he sent Seward a brief note, asking him to reconsider his decision. Lincoln’s tactful handling of a difficult situation gave Seward time to reflect. Genuinely worried about the fate of the nation, the New Yorker felt that he did “not dare to go home, or to England, and leave the country to chance”—i.e., to Abraham Lincoln. He continued to doubt Lincoln’s plan for what he termed “a compound Cabinet,” but he told his wife, “I believe I can endure as much as any one; and may be that I can endure enough to make the experiment successful.” He agreed to serve.
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