The Day Lincoln Lost

by Charles Rosenberg

  “I’ll start with Senator Douglas. He has killed his once good prospects with his popular sovereignty nonsense of letting people vote on whether or not to permit slavery in territories that want to become states. Southerners don’t want a vote, just the right to take their human property with them into the new areas. In the North, most want no slavery at all, anywhere, vote or no vote.”

  “I agree,” Buchanan said. “I’d even wager you Douglas will end up without a single Northern state in his column. I’ll give you ten-to-one odds on it.” He dug a ten-dollar gold piece out of his waistcoat pocket.

  “Put it back, Mr. President. I wouldn’t take that bet even at one-hundred-to-one.”

  They had again reached the little table and resumed their seats. Buchanan filled their tumblers once again, this time to the brim. He raised his glass, spilling a small amount, which he ignored. “To anyone but Lincoln.”

  They clinked glasses, and Buchanan said, “What about my vice president, Mr. Breckinridge? He seems to be running a robust campaign.” He asked, despite knowing full well what the answer was going to be.

  “Ha!” Black said. “He’s a Southerner who owns slaves.”

  “Owned. Past tense.”

  “Then or now, doesn’t matter. He’ll probably carry all of the Southern states, but that will be it, and not enough to win.” They didn’t even bother to discuss the fourth candidate, John Bell, the aging candidate of the recently formed Constitutional Union Party, who had ludicrously chosen a former president of Harvard as his running mate. Their platform urged that the country just ignore the slavery problem and focus on strengthening the Union.

  “So we are going to be stuck with Lincoln,” Buchanan said, and took a long swallow from his glass.

  “Yes. The crude Westerner will be coming to town and sitting in your chair, along with his loud wife. Who everyone says is a shrew.”

  Buchanan smiled. “Perhaps he can retreat to this lovely spot to get away from her.”

  “You will likely be introduced to her at the inauguration and can judge her for yourself, Mr. President.”

  Buchanan took the tiny orange from his pocket, held it up and laughed. “Perhaps I will offer her this orange, tell her it is from the White House garden and laud its sweetness. By the time she bites into it, I will be well on my way back home to Lancaster, where I will be but a spectator to the coming catastrophe.”

  Black drank down the last of his rye. “If the hotheads in South Carolina secede...”

  “There’s no if about it, Jeremiah.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, each thinking his own thoughts.

  Black broke the silence. “Perhaps Lincoln will let them go without using military force to stop them.”

  “I don’t think a president has the authority to use force to stop them,” Buchanan said. “As you know.”

  “I doubt Lincoln agrees with you about that. And he will be the one sitting in this house as commander-in-chief. The military will do what he tells them to do.”

  Buchanan refilled their glasses again. “If we keep this up, Jeremiah, we will both soon be drunk.”

  “I think we long ago proved we could hold our liquor, Mr. President.”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s much to do now but drink. The nation we love is either going to be split asunder or racked by war. And there’s apparently nothing much I can do to affect Lincoln’s choice of which that will be.”

  “I think perhaps there is something we can do,” Black said. “I’ve come up with an idea that might stop Lincoln from being elected.”

  13

  “Do you read Harper’s Weekly, Mr. President?” Black said.

  “Who does not? Although they have disappointed recently by supporting Douglas.”

  “Have you seen the most recent issue?”

  “No.”

  “I had meant to bring one, but forgot.”

  “I would hazard that there must be multiple copies here in the White House,” Buchanan said. He picked up a small bell that was sitting on the table and rang it. Washburn appeared within seconds.

  “What can I be of assistance with, Mr. President?”

  “Mr. Washburn, could you locate the current issue of Harper’s Weekly? I am sure there must be one about somewhere.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. I will return with it as soon as possible.”

  “Why are you wanting me to see it, Jeremiah?”

  “Have you heard about the riot in Springfield that prevented the return of a slave to her master?”

  “Not that I recall. Those events are now so common—the abolitionists become bolder with every passing day—that I pay little attention and permit others to deal with it.”

  “This one is perhaps a bit different because the riot is said to have been caused by a speech by a radical abolitionist named Abby Kelley Foster.”

  “Ah, I have heard of her. Long before I became president, Harriet attended one of her antislavery harangues. In Pennsylvania I think it was. Harriet was impressed by her willingness to endure what came her way.”

  “What came her way?”

  “Why, according to Harriet, rotten eggs. And worse.”

  Black drew back and his eyes widened. “Is Harriet an abolitionist, then?”

  Buchanan paused, wanting to think carefully before answering. “She hates slavery and would see it end. But I do not think she is an abolitionist, at least in the sense people use that term now.”

  Just then Washburn returned and handed a stack of papers to Buchanan. “I think the one you want is on top, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Washburn.” Buchanan took the stack from him and handed it immediately to Black.

  “Yes, here it is,” Black said. “Right on top. The issue of September 8, with Senator Douglas on the cover.” He leafed through the issue and opened it to an interior page. “Here, Mr. President, is the drawing that caught my attention.”

  He handed it to Buchanan, who examined it and said, “I see a turned-over carriage and a hat on the ground. Is that spot on the ground supposed to be blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it have to do with defeating Lincoln? Was he involved?”

  “Not so far as we know. But this event is reliably said to be the aftermath of Mrs. Foster’s speech, in which she harangued a crowd in a Springfield church to interfere with the return of a slave to her lawful owner. The slave was recently escaped from Kentucky.”

  “Where is the slave now?”

  “No one knows. Nor does anyone know where the slave owner is. He left only blood and his hat behind. Or at least I’ve been told the blood is his.”

  “Is there anything special about the slave?”

  “She’s only twelve years old.”

  Buchanan shuddered. “This is such bad business, but it is the law.” He took another sip from his glass, which was near to being empty.

  “Whether it be bad business or good business, it appears Mrs. Foster interfered with the return of a slave to her lawful owner, in violation of the Fugitive Slave Act,” Black said. “The slave was in the custody of the United States marshal. We can prosecute her for that.”

  Buchanan didn’t respond but instead rang the small bell again. When Washburn reappeared, the president said, “Mr. Washburn, would you bring another bottle of Old Overholt, please?” He paused. “And, uh, please dispose of the empty bottle here where Miss Lane is not likely to see it.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Buchanan tipped his glass back and drained it, then said, “I don’t follow how prosecuting Mrs. Foster will help us defeat Lincoln.”

  “It is a bit complicated—and uncertain—Mr. President, but let me describe it to you.”

  Before Black could continue, Washburn reappeared with a fresh bottle and, without being asked, filled both glasses ne
ar to the top.

  “Thank you, Washburn,” the president said. “Please continue, Jeremiah.”

  “In a nutshell, Mr. Lincoln has been very careful to say he is not an abolitionist,” Black said.

  “I know, I know. Lincoln claims, every day it seems, that he will leave slavery as it is in the states that have it now, while trying to bar it from new territories. And that he will even enforce the Fugitive Slave Act.”

  “Exactly, but at least some of the abolitionists are moving toward voting for him anyway, in the belief that he is not telling the truth about his intentions. Because when he was in Congress he sponsored a bill to abolish slavery here in the District.”

  “Which is why the South will not vote for him at all,” Buchanan said.

  “Correct. But if abolitionists—many of whom have up ’til now refrained from voting at all—turn out for him in large numbers, it will help Lincoln carry New York and Pennsylvania, where they are now thick as flies. And that will get him elected.”

  “That is all very interesting,” Buchanan said. “Yet I still don’t see how prosecuting Mrs. Foster will help to defeat him.”

  “It’s simple, Mr. President. If we prosecute her, the abolitionists are sure to ask Lincoln, ‘If she is convicted and you are elected president of the United States, are you going to pardon her?’”

  Buchanan sloshed the liquor around in his glass. “So...if he refuses to answer, the abolitionists will abandon him, is that your theory?”

  “Yes. But if he even hints that he will pardon her, the voters in the North who think he is the only reasonable candidate—who have taken him at his word on enforcing the Fugitive Slave Act—will instead abandon him.”

  Buchanan took a long swallow from his glass.

  “It is brilliant, Jeremiah. Brilliant. In the bitter politics of our time, he could lose both sets of voters. Is there time to get it done?”

  “The election is still almost two months away. I think we can easily get a grand jury to indict her in that time.”

  “What if she is acquitted? After all, when we’ve prosecuted people who interfered with the return of escaped slaves, they’ve mostly been acquitted.”

  “I think we can arrange for the trial to start before Election Day, but the verdict, whatever it turns out to be, to come only after Election Day.”

  “Putting maximum pressure on Lincoln to say something.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you want me to refill your glass, Jeremiah?”

  “Uh, no. I have to go home soon, and Mrs. Black has been threatening to join a temperance society if I don’t let up some.”

  “Pity, that. Well, where is Mrs. Foster now?”

  “Still in Springfield, tending to an ill friend.”

  “Even better,” Buchanan said. “She can be indicted and tried right in Lincoln’s backyard. Is this something you can order directly?”

  “No. United States attorneys are under the control of the Solicitor of the Treasury Department. But I’m sure it can be arranged.” He paused briefly. “The current solicitor is a Southerner.”

  Buchanan raised his glass. “To success in this!” Then he put his glass back down. “Oh, I forgot. Yours is empty. I insist, no matter what Mrs. Black might think.” He filled Black’s glass to the very brim.

  Buchanan raised his glass again. “To success.” Black raised his own glass, which was sloshing over slightly, and they clinked.

  “By the way, do we know what has actually happened to the slave and her master?” Buchanan said.

  “We don’t know, and I think we might be better off not knowing,” Black said.

  Buchanan thought for a moment. “I’m not sure you’re right about that.”

  “How do you mean, Mr. President?”

  “If you manage to make this into a national issue, the mystery of what happened to them will no doubt enthrall the public.”

  “I still don’t see...”

  “If they’re found—and especially if the slave master is found dead—the outcry to convict Mrs. Foster by those who support the South will be much greater. Southerners have a tremendous fear of slave uprisings fomented by abolitionists.”

  Black wrinkled his brow. “This wasn’t an uprising, and it wasn’t in the South.”

  “Close enough. Do you have someone you trust who can be sent to try to find the slave master?”

  Black shrugged. “There is really no official person to send, Mr. President.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have no federal police force, and the State of Illinois doesn’t have one either. Out West, there is only the county sheriff and his deputies. And possibly a constable or two in the town.”

  “What about someone from the United States attorney’s office in Springfield?”

  “There is only one lawyer in that office—the US attorney himself—and I doubt very much he has anyone who could investigate this sort of thing. Our United States attorneys tend to focus on federal financial crimes, like counterfeiting.”

  “Perhaps the United States marshal?”

  “It’s a possibility, although the marshal is controlled by the district court there, which tends to guard its independence. I have been in touch by telegram with the district court judge there about it, however.”

  “And?”

  “He is reluctant to have the marshal get involved in ‘slave chasing,’ as he put it. Plus the marshal and his deputies were made to look foolish in this riot, and they are apparently not wanting to risk further embarrassment if either the master or the slave is found dead.”

  “Perhaps I could send a staff member from here.”

  “Not a good idea. I will find someone who can do the job, Mr. President. I promise.”

  14

  Springfield, Illinois

  Law Offices of Lincoln and Herndon

  Herndon had been watching Lincoln for a while and finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Lincoln, if you go on tipping your chair back while you read that newspaper, you’ll topple over and break your neck.”

  “Billy, I been doin’ it all my life and it ain’t happened yet.”

  “Well, if it did happen this time, the party would have to find a new candidate for president, and it’d likely be Seward or Chase.”

  “They’d do just fine, I’m sure.”

  “No, they would lose the election, because they are both avowed abolitionists, which you are not.”

  “Very carefully not.”

  “Which paper are you reading?”

  “The latest issue of that new local one, The Radical Abolitionist. They’re still trying to sell copies by writing stories about the enslaved girl, Lucy Battelle, and the mob that freed her a month or so ago.”

  “I’m surprised that story hasn’t gone away. There’ve been so many attempts by mobs across the North to prevent the return of slaves that it doesn’t seem like much of a story anymore.”

  “The story continues of interest to people, Billy, because those two people have disappeared. Everyone loves a mystery.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Lincoln handed it over, and Herndon started to read it.

  Just then, the door into the office slammed open—reminding Herndon, who tended to take care of such things around the office—that he’d neglected to fix the broken doorstop. John Hay, whom they’d recently hired to work part-time on correspondence for the campaign, burst into the room, out of breath from, apparently, having run up the steps to the office. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Lincoln asked, finally lowering the front legs of his chair to the floor and sitting fully upright.

  “The United States attorney here in Springfield has impaneled a grand jury, and they indicted Abby Kelley for, among other things, interfering with the return of that runaway slave when Red was trying to transfer her back
to her so-called owner. She’s charged with a federal felony under the Fugitive Slave Act. It carries a prison term.”

  “Abby Kelley interfered with Red?” Lincoln said. “However did she do that? Was she there?”

  “No. They say Kelley fomented the riot that freed the enslaved girl and carried off her master.”

  “Fomented. Well, there’s a fancy word,” Lincoln said. “What are the details?”

  “The indictment supposedly says—I’ve not actually seen it yet—that she gave an antislavery lecture in a church here, Second Presbyterian, and at the very end, urged the crowd to ‘go and do something about’ the enslaved girl who was about to be returned south.”

  “Do we know anyone who was there?” Lincoln said.

  “I was,” Hay said.

  Lincoln raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know you well, Johnny, but I would have expected you to be out drinking and carousing of an evening, not attending antislavery lectures.” He laughed.

  “I was there by happenstance,” Hay said.

  “Well, never mind why you were there,” Herndon said. “Did Abby Kelley do the kind of urging the indictment says she did?”

  “Um, I don’t know because I left before the end.”

  “Why?” Lincoln said.

  “I was bored,” Hay said. “But up until the point I left, it was just the usual antislavery talk. No urging, except perhaps to contribute money to the cause. Oh, and saying she did not support Mr. Lincoln.”

  Lincoln rose from the chair and walked to the tall window that looked out over a rooftop. The window, Herndon noted, was even more stained and dirty than usual—one more thing he’d neglected to take care of.

  “So, right here in this office, we don’t know whether Abby Kelley urged anyone to do anything violent, do we?” Lincoln said.

  Herndon spoke up. “I was there, too.” He looked momentarily abashed. “But I, too, left early. Same reason.”

  Lincoln folded his hands behind his back, still staring out the window. “Whether she urged or didn’t urge, the press will be here by the dozens for the trial, on the top of the national press already here for the election. I will need to find somewhere to hide out.”