Books: The Life of Abraham Lincoln

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He still used his epigram and was still reminded of "a little story,"
when he wished to point a moral or adorn a tale. But they were
superficial indeed who thought they saw in him only, or chiefly, the
jester. Once when he was reproved for reading from a humorous book he
said with passionate earnestness that the humor was his safety valve.
If it were not for the relief he would die. It was true. But he lived
on, not because he wanted to live, for he would rather have died. But
it was God's will, and his country needed him.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE DARKEST HOUR OF THE WAR.

There were so many dark hours in that war, and those hours were so
dark, that it is difficult to specify one as the darkest hour. Perhaps
a dozen observers would mention a dozen different times. But Lincoln
himself spoke of the complication known as the Trent affair as the
darkest hour. From his standpoint it was surely so. It was so because
he felt the ground of public confidence slipping out from under him as
at no other time. The majority of the North were with him in sentiment
for the most part. A goodly number were with him all the time,--except
this. This time, Charles Sumner, the Chairman of the Senate Committee
on Foreign Relations, was in agreement with him, but beyond that,
everybody was against him, North and South, and all Europe as well.
Upon him fell the task of turning the very turbulent current of public
sentiment into the channel of duty and wisdom.

The facts of the affair were simple. Two men, Mason and Slidell, both
ex-senators of the United States, had started, with their secretaries
and families, to England and France as emissaries of the Confederate
government. These countries had already recognized the Confederates as
belligerents, and the mission of these men was to secure the
recognition of the Confederate government as a nation. They succeeded
in running the blockade at Charleston and put in at Havana. There they
were received with much ostentation. They took passage on the British
mail steamer _Trent_ to St. Thomas, intending to take the packet thence
to England.

Captain Wilkes, commanding a war vessel of the United States, was in
the neighborhood and learned of these proceedings and plans. He stopped
the British vessel on the high seas and by force took the two men and
their secretaries. They were confined in Fort Warren, Boston Harbor.

This capture set the entire North ablaze with enthusiasm. Seward was in
favor of it. Stanton, who a few weeks later was appointed Secretary of
War, applauded the act. Welles, Secretary of the Navy, wrote a
congratulatory letter upon the "great public service." The people of
Boston tendered a banquet to the hero of the hour. When congress
assembled about a month later, it gave him a vote of thanks. This wave
of public enthusiasm swept the country from ocean to ocean. The
southern sympathies of England and France had been so pronounced that
this whole country seemed to unite in hilarious triumph over this
capture, and regarded it as a slap in the face to England's pride. The
fact that the complications threatened war with that nation only added
fuel to the flames.

The excitement ran highest among the soldiers. Camp life had become
monotonous, no decisive victories had raised their courage and
enthusiasm. They were tired. They were exasperated with England's
policy. They wanted to fight England.

The feeling upon the other side of the question ran equally high in the
South, in England, and in France. As soon as the matter could receive
official attention, the British minister at Washington was instructed
to demand the instant release of the four men with a suitable apology.
He was to wait seven days for an answer, and if the demand was not met
by that time, he was to break off diplomatic relations with the United
States. This of course meant war.

Sumner seems to have been the only other one who said, "We shall have
to give them up." Lincoln, when he heard of the capture, declared that
they would prove to be white elephants on our hands. "We shall have to
give them up," he too said. But the difficulty was to lead the excited
nation to see the need of this as he saw it. He declared that "we
fought Great Britain for doing just what Captain Wilkes has done. If
Great Britain protests against this act and demands their release, we
must adhere to our principles of 1812. We must give up these prisoners.
Besides, one war at a time." He again said that it was "the bitterest
pill he ever swallowed. But England's triumph will not last long. After
this war is over we shall call her to account for the damage she has
done us in our hour of trouble."

The policy of the government with regard to this matter was not settled
in the cabinet meeting until the day after Christmas. Public enthusiasm
by that time had had six weeks in which to cool down. In that time the
sober second judgment had illuminated many minds, and the general
public was ready to see and hear reason. The outline of the reply of
the United States was directed by Lincoln, but he instructed Seward to
choose his own method of arguing the case. The reply was set forth in a
very able and convincing paper. It reaffirmed our adhesion to the
doctrine of 1812, said that Captain Wilkes had not done in an orderly
way that which he did, promised that the prisoners would be cheerfully
set at liberty, but declined to make any apology.

At this late date we are able to look somewhat behind the scenes, and
we now know that the Queen and the Prince consort were very deeply
concerned over the possibility of a war with us. They had only the
kindest feelings for us, and just then they felt especially grateful
for the many courtesies which had been shown to the Prince of Wales
upon his recent visit to this country. They were glad to get through
with the incident peaceably and pleasantly.

Seward's reply was accepted as fully satisfactory. The English
concurred, the Americans concurred, and the danger was over. There was
then something of a revulsion of feeling. The feeling between our
government and that of England was more cordial than before, and the
same is true of the feeling between the two peoples. The South and
their sympathizers were bitterly disappointed. The wise management of
our President had turned one of the greatest dangers into a most
valuable success. There was never again a likelihood that England would
form an alliance with the Southern Confederacy.

The result was most fortunate for us and unfortunate for the southern
emissaries. They were no longer heroes, they were "gentlemen of
eminence," but not public functionaries. They were like other
travelers, nothing more. They were not received at either court. They
could only "linger around the back doors" of the courts where they
expected to be received in triumph, and bear as best they could the
studied neglect with which they were treated. The affair, so ominous at
one time, became most useful in its practical results to our cause.
Lord Palmerston, the British premier, got the four prisoners, but
Lincoln won the game.

This is a convenient place to speak of the personal griefs of the
President. From his earliest years on, he was wonderfully affected by
the presence of death. Very few people have had this peculiar feeling
of heart-break with such overwhelming power. The death of his infant
brother in Kentucky, the death of his mother in Indiana, impressed him
and clouded his mind in a degree entirely unusual. We have seen that in
Springfield the death of Ann Rutledge well-nigh unseated his reason.
From these he never recovered.

The horror of war was that it meant death, death, death! He, whose
heart was tender to a fault, was literally surrounded by death. The
first victim of the war, Colonel Ellsworth, was a personal friend, and
his murder was a personal affliction. There were others that came near
to him. Colonel E. D. Baker, an old friend and neighbor of Lincoln, the
man who had introduced him at his inaugural, was killed at Ball's Bluff
Oct. 21, 1861. Baker's personal courage made him conspicuous and marked
him out as a special target for the enemy's aim. While gallantly
leading a charge, he fell, pierced almost simultaneously by four
bullets. It fell upon Lincoln like the death of a brother. He was
consumed with grief.

The following February his two boys, Willie and Tad, were taken ill.
Lincoln's fondness for children was well known. This general love of
children was a passion in regard to his own sons. In this sickness he
not only shared the duties of night-watching with the nurse, but at
frequent intervals he would slip away from callers, and even from
cabinet meetings, to visit briefly the little sufferers. Willie died on
February 20th, and for several days before his death he was delirious.
His father was with him almost constantly.

This is one of the few instances when he could be said to neglect
public business. For a few days before, and for a longer period after,
Willie's death, he was completely dejected. Though he was a devout
Christian, in spirit and temper, his ideas of personal immortality were
not at that time sufficiently clear to give him the sustaining help
which he needed under his affliction.

J. G. Holland records a pathetic scene. This was communicated to him by
a lady whose name is not given. She had gone to Washington to persuade
the President to have hospitals for our soldiers located in the North.
He was skeptical of the plan and was slow to approve it. His hesitation
was the occasion of much anxiety to her. When he finally granted the
petition, she thanked him with great earnestness and said she was sure
he would be happy that he had done it. He sat with his face in his
hands and groaned: "Happy? I shall never be happy again!"

Below all his play of wit and humor, there was an undercurrent of
agony. So great were his kindness, gentleness, tenderness of heart,
that he could not live in this cruel world, especially in the period
when the times were so much out of joint, without being a man of
sorrows. The present writer never saw Lincoln's face but twice, once in
life and once in death. Both times it seemed to him, and as he
remembers it after the lapse of more than a third of a century, it
still seems to him, the saddest face his eyes have ever looked upon.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

LINCOLN AND FREMONT.

In a community like that of the United States, where free press and
free, speech prevail, where every native-born boy is a possible
President, some undesirable results are inevitable. The successful men
become egotistic, and it is a common, well-nigh universal, practise for
all sorts and conditions of men to speak harshly of the authorities. In
the loafers on the street corners, in the illiterate that use the
country store as their club, in the very halls of congress, are heard
the most unsparing criticisms and denunciations of the administration.
These unwarranted comments fell thick and fast on Lincoln, because he
was at the post of responsibility in a critical period, a time of
general unrest. Self-appointed committees of business men, politicians,
clergymen, editors, and what not, were continually telling him what to
do and how to do it. Not a few of even the generals caught the
infection.

It is not possible nor desirable to tell of Lincoln's relations with
many of the eminent men with whom he dealt. But a few will be selected
--Fremont, McClellan, Greeley, and Grant--in order to explain some of
the difficulties which were continually rising up before him, and by
showing how he dealt with them to illustrate certain phases of his
character. This chapter will treat of Fremont.

At the outbreak of the war he was the most conspicuous military man in
the North. He had earned the gratitude of the country for distinguished
services in California, and he was deservedly popular among the
republicans for his leadership of the party in 1856. He was at the best
period of life, being forty-eight years of age. His abilities were
marked, and he possessed in an unusual degree the soldierly quality of
inspiring enthusiasm. If he could turn all his powers into the channel
of military efficiency, he would be the man of the age. He had the
public confidence, and he had such an opportunity as comes to few men.

At the opening of the war he was in Paris and was at once summoned
home. He arrived in this country about the first of July and was by the
President appointed Major-General in the regular army. On the 3d of
July he was assigned to the Western department with headquarters at St.
Louis. This department included the state of Illinois and extended as
far west as the Rocky Mountains.

At that time the condition of affairs in Missouri was distressful and
extremely threatening. The state of Missouri covers a very large
territory, 69,415 square miles, and it was imperfectly provided with
railroads and other means of communication. Private bands of marauders
and plunderers were numerous and did a great amount of damage among
law-abiding citizens. There were also several insurgent armies of no
mean dimensions threatening the state from the southwest. There were
good soldiers and officers there in defense of the Union, but they were
untried, insufficiently armed and accoutered, unprovided with means of
transportation, and, above all, they were in need of a commanding
general of sagacity, daring, and personal resources. Fremont seemed to
be just the man for the important post at that critical hour.

Generals Lyon, Hunter, and others, were sore pressed in Missouri. They
needed the presence of their commander and they needed him at once.
Fremont was ordered to proceed to his post immediately. This order he
did not obey. He could never brook authority, and he was not in the
habit of rendering good reasons for his acts of disobedience. Though he
was aware that the need of his presence was urgent, he dallied about
Washington a long time and then proceeded west with leisure, arriving
in St. Louis nearly three weeks later than he should have done. These
three weeks were under the circumstances time enough for an
incalculable amount of damage, enough to make all the difference
between success and failure. It was long enough to insure the death (on
August 10th) of that brave soldier, General Lyon, and long enough to
account for many other disasters.

One of the most annoying things with which the subordinate generals had
to contend, was that about this time the term of service of the men who
had enlisted for three months was beginning to expire. Many of these
reenlisted, and many did not. It was not possible to plan an expedition
of any sort when it was probable that a large portion of the command
would be out of service before it was completed. There was need of a
master hand at organizing and inspiring loyalty.

Though Fremont had so unaccountably delayed, yet when he came he was
received with confidence and enthusiasm. Lincoln gave to him, as he did
to all his generals, very nearly a _carte blanche_. His instructions
were general, and the commander was left to work out the details in
his own way. All that he required was that something should be done
successfully in the prosecution of the war. The country was not a
judge of military plans; it was a judge of military success and
failure. They expected, and they had a right to expect, that Fremont
should do something more than keep up a dress parade. Lincoln laid on
him this responsibility in perfect confidence.

The first thing Fremont accomplished in Missouri was to quarrel with
his best friends, the Blair family. This is important chiefly as a
thermometer,--it indicated his inability to hold the confidence of
intelligent and influential men after he had it. About this time
Lincoln wrote to General Hunter a personal letter which showed well how
things were likely to go:--

"My dear Sir: General Fremont needs assistance which it is difficult to
give him. He is losing the confidence of men near him, whose support
any man in his position must have to be successful. His cardinal
mistake is that he isolates himself and allows no one to see him; and
by which he does not know what is going on in the very matter he is
dealing with. He needs to have by his side a man of large experience.
Will you not, for me, take that place?"

It was Louis XV. who exclaimed, "_L'etat? C'est moi!_" "The state?
_I'm_ the state!" The next move of Fremont can be compared only with
that spirit of the French emperor. It was no less than a proclamation
of emancipation. This was a civic act, while Fremont was an officer of
military, not civil, authority. The act was unauthorized, the President
was not even consulted. Even had it been a wise move, Fremont would
have been without justification because it was entirely outside of his
prerogatives. Even had he been the wisest man, he was not an autocrat
and could not have thus transcended his powers.

But this act was calculated to do much mischief. The duty of the hour
was to save the Union. Fremont's part in that duty was to drive the
rebels out of Missouri. Missouri was a slave state. It had not seceded,
and it was important that it should not do so. The same was true of
Kentucky and Maryland. It is easy to see, upon reading Fremont's
proclamation, that it is the work not of a soldier, but of a
politician, and a bungling politician at that.

When this came to the knowledge of the President he took prompt
measures to counteract it in a way that would accomplish the greatest
good with the least harm. He wrote to the general:

"Allow me, therefore, to ask that you will, as of your own motion,
modify that paragraph so as to conform to the first and fourth sections
of the act of congress entitled, 'An act to confiscate property used
for insurrectionary purposes,' approved August 6, 1861, and a copy of
which act I herewith send you. This letter is written in a spirit of
caution, and not of censure."

But Fremont was willing to override both President and congress, and
declined to make the necessary modifications. This placed him, with
such influence as he had, in direct antagonism to the administration.
That which ought to have been done by Fremont had to be done by
Lincoln, upon whom was thrown the onus of whatever was objectionable in
the matter. It did give him trouble. It alienated many of the extreme
abolitionists, including even his old neighbor and friend, Oscar H.
Browning. They seemed to think that Lincoln was now championing
slavery. His enemies needed no alienation, but they made adroit use of
this to stir up and increase discontent.

So matters grew no better with Fremont, but much worse for three
months. The words of Nicolay and Hay are none too strong: "He had
frittered away his opportunity for usefulness and fame; such an
opportunity, indeed, as rarely comes."

On October 21st, the President sent by special messenger the following
letter to General Curtis at St. Louis:

"DEAR SIR: On receipt of this, with the accompanying enclosures, you
will take safe, certain, and suitable measures to have the inclosure
addressed to Major-General Fremont delivered to him with all reasonable
despatch, subject to these conditions only, that if, when General
Fremont shall be reached by the messenger,--yourself or any one sent by
you,--he shall then have, in personal command, fought and won a battle,
or shall then be in the immediate presence of the enemy in expectation
of a battle, it is not to be delivered but held for further orders."

The inclosure mentioned was an order relieving General Fremont and
placing Hunter temporarily in command. It is plain that the President
expected that there would be difficulties, in the way of delivering the
order,--that Fremont himself might prevent its delivery. General
Curtis, who undertook its delivery, evidently expected the same thing,
for he employed three different messengers who took three separate
methods of trying to reach Fremont. The one who succeeded in delivering
the order did so only because of his successful disguise, and when it
was accomplished Fremont's words and manner showed that he had expected
to head off any such order. This incident reveals the peril which would
have fallen to American institutions had he been more successful in his
aspirations to the presidency.

Fremont had one more chance. He was placed in command of a corps in
Virginia. There he disobeyed orders in a most atrocious manner, and by
so doing permitted Jackson and his army to escape. He was superseded by
Pope, but declining to serve under a junior officer, resigned. And that
was the end of Fremont as a public man. The fact that he had ceased to
be a force in American life was emphasized in 1864. The extreme
abolitionists nominated him as candidate for the presidency in
opposition to Lincoln. But his following was so slight that he withdrew
from the race and retired permanently to private life.

Yet he was a man of splendid abilities of a certain sort. Had he
practised guerilla warfare, had he had absolute and irresponsible
command of a small body of picked men with freedom to raid or do
anything else he pleased, he would have been indeed formidable. The
terror which the rebel guerilla General, Morgan, spread over wide
territory would easily have been surpassed by Fremont. But guerilla
warfare was not permissible on the side of the government. The aim of
the Confederates was destruction; the aim of the administration was
construction. It is always easier and more spectacular to destroy than
to construct.

One trouble with Fremont was his narrowness of view. He could not work
with others. If he wanted a thing in his particular department, it did
not concern him that it might injure the cause as a whole. Another
trouble was his conceit. He wanted to be "the whole thing," President,
congress, general, and judiciary. Had Lincoln not possessed the
patience of Job, he could not have borne with him even so long. The
kindness of the President's letter, above quoted, is eloquent testimony
to his magnanimity.

CHAPTER XXIX.

LINCOLN AND MCCLELLAN.

McClellan was a very different man from Fremont. Though he was as
nearly as possible opposite in his characteristics, still it was not
easier to get along with him. He was a man of brilliant talents, fine
culture, and charming personality. Graduating from West Point in 1846,
he went almost immediately into the Mexican War, where he earned his
captaincy. He later wrote a manual of arms for use in the United States
army. He visited Europe as a member of the commission of officers to
gather military information.

His greatest genius was in engineering, a line in which he had no
superior. He went to Illinois in 1857 as chief engineer of the Central
Railroad, the following year he became vice-president, and the year
after that president of the St. Louis and Cincinnati Railway. At the
outbreak of the war this captain was by the governor of Ohio
commissioned as major-general, and a few days later he received from
Lincoln the commission of major-general in the United States army.

He was sent to West Virginia with orders to drive out the rebels. This
he achieved in a brief time, and for it he received the thanks of
congress. He was, after the disaster at Bull Run, called to Washington
and placed in command of that portion of the Army of the Potomac whose
specific duty was the defense of the capital. He was rapidly promoted
from one position to another until age and infirmity compelled the
retirement of that grand old warrior, Winfield Scott, whereupon he was
made general-in-chief of the United States army. All this occurred in
less than four months. Four months ago, this young man of thirty-five
years was an ex-captain. To-day he is general-in-chief, not of the
largest army, but probably of the most intelligent army, the world has
ever seen. He would be almost more than human if such a sudden turn of
the wheel of fortune did not also turn his head.

It was Lincoln's habit to let his generals do their work in their own
ways, only insisting that they should accomplish visible and tangible
results. This method he followed with McClellan, developing it with
great patience under trying circumstances. On this point there is no
better witness than McClellan himself. To his wife he wrote, "They give
me my way in everything, full swing and unbounded confidence." Later he
expressed contempt for the President who "showed him too much
deference." He was a universal favorite, he became known as "the young
Napoleon," he had the confidence of the country and the loyal devotion
of the army, and the unqualified support of the administration. Of him
great things were expected, and reasonably so. In the power of
inspiring confidence and enthusiasm he was second only to Napoleon.

As an organizer and drill-master he was superb. The army after Bull Run
was as demoralized as an army could be. The recruits soon began to
arrive from the North, every day bringing thousands of such into
Washington. These required care and they must be put into shape for
effective service. This difficult task he accomplished in a way that
fully met the public expectation and reflected great credit upon
himself.

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