Books: The Life of Abraham Lincoln

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CHAPTER XXXVII.

CLOSE OF THE WAR.

As the year 1864 wore towards its close, military events manifestly
approached a climax. In 1861 the two armies were comparatively green.
For obvious reasons the advantage was on the side of the South. The
South had so long been in substantial control at Washington that they
had the majority of the generals, they had nearly all the arms and
ammunition, and, since they had planned the coming conflict, their
militia were in the main in better condition. But matters were
different after three years. The armies on both sides were now composed
of veterans, the generals had been tried and their value was known. Not
least of all, Washington, while by no means free from spies, was not so
completely overrun with them as at the first. At the beginning the
departments were simply full of spies, and every movement of the
government was promptly reported to the authorities at Richmond. Three
and a half years had sufficed to weed out most of these.

In that period a splendid navy had been constructed. The Mississippi
River was open from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. Every southern
port was more or less successfully blockaded, and the power of the
government in this was every month growing stronger.

Strange as it may seem, the available population of the North had
increased. The figures which Lincoln gave prove this. The loyal states
of the North gave in 1860 a sum total of 3,870,222 votes. The same
states in 1864 gave a total of 3,982,011. That gave an excess of voters
to the number of 111,789. To this should be added the number of all the
soldiers in the field from Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Jersey,
Delaware, Indiana, Illinois, and California, who by the laws of those
states could not vote away from their homes, and which number could not
have been less than 90,000. Then there were two new states, Kansas and
Nevada, that had cast 33,762 votes. This leaves an increase for the
North of 234,551 votes. It is plain that the North was not becoming
exhausted of men.

Nor had the manufactures of the North decreased. The manufacture of
arms and all the munitions of war was continually improving, and other
industrial interests were flourishing. There was indeed much poverty
and great suffering. The financial problem was one of the most serious
of all, but in all these the South was suffering more than the North.
On the southern side matters were growing desperate. The factor of time
now counted against them, for, except in military discipline, they were
not improving with the passing years. There was little hope of foreign
intervention, there was not much hope of a counter uprising in the
North. It is now generally accepted as a certainty that, if the
Confederate government had published the truth concerning the progress
of the war, especially of such battles as Chattanooga, the southern
people would have recognized the hopelessness of their cause and the
wickedness of additional slaughter, and the war would have terminated
sooner.

In the eighth volume of the History by Nicolay and Hay there is a
succession of chapters of which the headings alone tell the glad story
of progress. These headings are: "Arkansas Free," "Louisiana Free,"
"Tennessee Free," "Maryland Free," and "Missouri Free."

In August Admiral Farragut had captured Mobile. General Grant with his
veterans was face to face with General Lee and his veterans in
Virginia. General Sherman with his splendid army had in the early fall
struck through the territory of the Southern Confederacy and on
Christmas day had captured Savannah. The following letter from the
President again shows his friendliness towards his generals:

"EXECUTIVE MANSION,
WASHINGTON, December 26, 1864.

MY DEAR GENERAL SHERMAN:

Many, many thanks for your Christmas gift, the capture of Savannah.

When you were about leaving Atlanta for the Atlantic, I was anxious, if
not fearful; but feeling that you were the better judge, and
remembering that 'nothing risked, nothing gained,' I did not interfere.
Now, the undertaking being a success, the honor is all yours; for I
believe none of us went further than to acquiesce.

And taking the work of General Thomas into the count, as it should be
taken, it is indeed a great success. Not only does it afford the
obvious and immediate military advantages; but in showing to the world
that your army could be divided, putting the stronger part to an
important new service, and yet leaving enough to vanquish the old
opposing force of the whole,--Hood's army,--it brings those who sat in
darkness to see a great light. But what next?

I suppose it will be safe if I leave General Grant and yourself to
decide.

Please make my grateful acknowledgment to your whole army--officers and
men.

Yours very truly,
A. LINCOLN."

The principal thing now to be done was the destruction of the
Confederate army or armies in Virginia. That and that only could end
the war. The sooner it should be done the better. Grant's spirit cannot
in a hundred pages be better expressed than in his own epigram,--"I
propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer." It did
take all summer and all winter too, for the Confederates as well as the
Federals had grown to be good fighters, and they were no cowards. They,
too, were now acting on the defensive and were able to take advantage
of swamp, hill, and river. This was an important factor. Grant had
indeed captured two armies and destroyed one, but this was different.

It needed not an experienced eye or a military training to see that
this could only be done at a costly sacrifice of life. But let it be
remembered that the three years of no progress had also been at a
costly sacrifice of life. The deadly malaria of Virginia swamps was
quite as dangerous as a bullet or bayonet. Thousands upon thousands of
soldiers were taken to hospital cursing in their wrath: "If I could
only have been shot on the field of battle, there would have been some
glory in it. But to die of drinking the swamp water--this is awful!"
The sacrifice of life under Grant was appalling, but it was not greater
than the other sort of sacrifice had been. What is more, it
accomplished its purpose. Inch by inch he fought his way through many
bloody months to the evacuation of Richmond and the surrender of Lee's
army at Appomattox, April 9, 1865. Then the war was over.

[Illustration: Grant's Campaign around Richmond.]

The sympathies of the President were not limited to his own friends or
his own army. The author is permitted to narrate the following
incident--doubtless there were many others like it--which is given by
an eye-witness, the Reverend Lysander Dickerman, D.D., of New York
City:

It was at Hatcher's Run on the last Sunday before the close of the war.
A detachment of Confederate prisoners, possibly two thousand in all,
had just been brought in. They were in rags, starved, sick, and
altogether as wretched a sight as one would be willing to see in a
lifetime. A train of cars was standing on the siding. The President
came out of a car and stood on the platform. As he gazed at the
pitiable sufferers, he said not a word, but his breast heaved with
emotion, his frame quivered. The tears streamed down his cheeks and he
raised his arm ("I don't suppose," commented the Doctor, "he had a
handkerchief") and with his sleeve wiped away the tears. Then he
silently turned, reentered the car which but for him was empty, sat
down on the further side, buried his face in his hands, and wept. That
is the picture of the man Lincoln. Little did the Southerners suspect,
as they in turn cursed and maligned that great and tender man, what a
noble friend they really had in him.

As the end came in sight an awkward question arose, What shall we do
with Jeff Davis--if we catch him? This reminded the President of a
little story. "I told Grant," he said, "the story of an Irishman who
had taken Father Matthew's pledge. Soon thereafter, becoming very
thirsty, he slipped into a saloon and applied for a lemonade, and
whilst it was being mixed he whispered to the bartender, 'Av ye could
drap a bit o' brandy in it, all unbeknown to myself, I'd make no fuss
about it.' My notion was that if Grant could let Jeff Davis escape all
unbeknown to himself, he was to let him go. I didn't want him."
Subsequent events proved the sterling wisdom of this suggestion, for
the country had no use for Jeff Davis when he was caught.

Late in March, 1865, the President decided to take a short vacation,
said to be the first he had had since entering the White House in 1861.
With a few friends he went to City Point on the James River, where
Grant had his headquarters. General Sherman came up for a conference.
The two generals were confident that the end of the war was near, but
they were also certain that there must be at least one more great
battle. "Avoid this if possible," said the President. "No more
bloodshed, no more bloodshed."

On the second day of April both Richmond and Petersburg were evacuated.
The President was determined to see Richmond and started under the care
of Admiral Porter. The river was tortuous and all knew that the channel
was full of obstructions so that they had the sensation of being in
suspense as to the danger of torpedoes and other devices. Admiral
Farragut who was in Richmond came down the river on the same day, April
4th, to meet the presidential party. An accident happened to his boat
and it swung across the channel and there stuck fast, completely
obstructing the channel, and rendering progress in either direction
impossible. The members of the presidential party were impatient and
decided to proceed as best they could. They were transferred to the
Admiral's barge and towed up the river to their destination.

The grandeur of that triumphal entry into Richmond was entirely moral,
not in the least spectacular. There were no triumphal arches, no
martial music, no applauding multitudes, no vast cohorts with flying
banners and glittering arms. Only a few American citizens, in plain
clothes, on foot, escorted by ten marines. The central figure was that
of a man remarkably tall, homely, ill-dressed, but with a countenance
radiating joy and good-will. It was only thirty-six hours since
Jefferson Davis had fled, having set fire to the city, and the fire was
still burning. There was no magnificent civic welcome to the modest
party, but there was a spectacle more significant. It was the large
number of negroes, crowding, kneeling, praying, shouting "Bress de
Lawd!" Their emancipator, their Moses, their Messiah, had come in
person. To them it was the beginning of the millennium. A few poor
whites added their welcome, such as it was, and that was all. But all
knew that "Babylon had fallen," and they realized the import of that
fact.

Johnston did not surrender to Sherman until April 26th, but Lee had
surrendered on the 9th, and it was conceded that it was a matter of but
a few days when the rest also would surrender. On Good Friday, April
14th,--a day glorious in its beginning, tragic at its close,--the
newspapers throughout the North published an order of the Secretary of
War stopping the draft and the purchase of arms and munitions of war.
The government had decreed that at twelve o'clock noon of that day the
stars and stripes should be raised above Fort Sumter. The chaplain was
the Reverend Matthias Harris who had officiated at the raising of the
flag over that fort in 1860. The reading of the psalter was conducted
by the Reverend Dr. Storrs of Brooklyn. The orator of the occasion was
the eloquent Henry Ward Beecher. And the flag was raised by Major (now
General) Anderson, whose staunch loyalty and heroic defense has linked
his name inseparably with Sumter.

The war was over and Lincoln at once turned his attention to the duties
of reconstruction.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ASSASSINATION.

Ward H. Lamon asserts that there was no day, from the morning Lincoln
left Springfield to the night of his assassination, when his life was
not in serious peril. If we make generous allowance for the fears which
had their root in Lamon's devoted love for his chief, and for that
natural desire to magnify his office--for his special charge was to
guard the President from bodily harm--which would incline him to
estimate trifles seriously, we are still compelled to believe that the
life was in frequent, if not continual, danger. There are, and always
have been, men whose ambition is in the direction of a startling crime.
There were not less than three known attempts on the life of Lincoln
between Springfield and Washington. There may have been others that are
not known. If any one was in a position to know of real and probable
plots against the President's life, it was Lamon. It was he, too, who
showed the greatest concern upon the subject, though he was personally
a man of unlimited courage.

An event occurred early in 1862, which we here transcribe, not merely
because of its intrinsic interest, but especially because it hints of
dangers not known to the public. Lincoln was at this time residing at
the Soldier's Home and was accustomed to riding alone to and from this
place. His friends could not prevail on him to accept an escort, though
they were in daily fear of kidnapping or murder. Lamon narrates the
occurrence substantially (in the President's words) as follows: One day
he rode up to the White House steps, where the Colonel met him, and
with his face full of fun, he said, "I have something to tell you." The
two entered the office, where the President locked the door and
proceeded:

"You know I have always told you I thought you an _idiot_ that ought to
be put in a strait jacket for your apprehensions of my personal danger
from assassination. You also know that the way we skulked into this
city in the first place has been a source of shame and regret to me,
for it did look so cowardly!"

"Yes, go on."

"Well, I don't now propose to make you my father-confessor and
acknowledge a change of heart, yet I am free to admit that just now I
don't know what to think: I am staggered. Understand me, I do not want
to oppose my pride of opinion against light and reason, but I am in
such a state of 'betweenity' in my conclusions, that I can't say that
the judgment of _this court_ is prepared to proclaim a decision upon
the facts presented."

After a pause he continued:

"Last night about eleven o'clock, I went to the Soldiers' Home alone,
riding _Old Abe_, as you call him; and when I arrived at the foot of
the hill on the road leading to the entrance to the Home grounds, I was
jogging along at a slow gait, immersed in deep thought, when suddenly I
was aroused--I may say the arousement lifted me out of my saddle as
well as out of my wits--by the report of a rifle, and seemingly the
gunner was not fifty yards from where my contemplations ended and my
accelerated transit began. My erratic namesake, with little warning,
gave proof of decided dissatisfaction at the racket, and with one
reckless bound he unceremoniously separated me from my eight-dollar
plug hat, with which I parted company without any assent, express or
implied, upon my part. At a break-neck speed we soon arrived in a haven
of safety. Meanwhile I was left in doubt whether death was more
desirable from being thrown from a runaway Federal horse, or as the
tragic result of a rifle-ball fired by a disloyal bushwhacker in the
middle of the night."

"I tell you there is no time on record equal to that made by the two
Old Abes on that occasion. The historic ride of John Gilpin, and Henry
Wilson's memorable display of bareback equestrianship on the stray army
mule from the scenes of the battle of Bull Run, a year ago, are nothing
in comparison to mine, either in point of time made or in ludicrous
pageantry."

"No good can result at this time from giving [this occurrence]
publicity. It does seem to me that I am in more danger from the
augmentation of an imaginary peril than from a judicious silence, be
the danger ever so great; and, moreover, I do not want it understood
that I share your apprehensions. I never have."

When one takes into account the number of Lincoln's bitter enemies, and
the desperate character of some of them, the wonder is that he was not
shot sooner. There were multitudes of ruffians in Washington City and
elsewhere, who had murder in their hearts and plenty of deadly weapons
within reach. Yet Lincoln lived on for four years, and was reluctant to
accept even a nominal body guard. The striking parallel between him and
William the Silent will at once occur to the reader. He, like Lincoln,
would take no precaution. He exposed himself freely, and there were
plots almost innumerable against his life before he was slain. Such
persons seem to have invisible defenders.

Lincoln was not a fatalist, but he did believe that he would live to
complete his specific work and that he would not live beyond that.
Perhaps he was wise in this. Had he surrounded himself with pomp and
defense after the manner of Fremont he could not have done his work at
all, for his special calling required that he should keep near to the
people, and not isolate himself. Moreover, it is a question whether an
elaborate show of defense would not have invited a correspondingly
elaborate ingenuity in attack. His very trustfulness must have disarmed
some. The wonder is not that he was slain at last, but that under the
circumstances he was not slain earlier.

Much has been written, and perhaps justly, of Lincoln's presentiments.
It is not exceptional, it is common in all rural communities to
multiply and magnify signs. The commonest occurrences are invested with
an occult meaning. Seeing the new moon over the right shoulder or over
the left shoulder, the howling of a dog at night, the chance assemblage
of thirteen persons, the spilling of salt,--these and a thousand other
things are taken to be signs of something. The habit of attending to
these things probably originates in mere amusements. It takes the
place, or furnishes the material, of small talk. But years of attention
to these things, especially in the susceptible period of childhood and
youth, are almost certain to have a lasting effect. A person gets into
the habit of noting them, of looking for them, and the influence
becomes ingrained in his very nature so that it is next to impossible
to shake it off. This condition is a feature of all rural communities,
not only in the West, but in New England: in fact, in Europe, Asia,
Africa, and Australia.

Lincoln shared the impressibility of the community in which he grew up;
no more, no less. Like all the rest, indeed, like all of mankind, he
counted the hits, not the misses. Being unusually outspoken, he often
told of impressions which another would not have mentioned. The very
telling of them magnified their importance. He had been having
premonitions all his life, and it would be strange if he did not have
some just before his death. He did, and these are the ones that are
remembered.

In spite of all, he was in excellent spirits on Good Friday, April 14,
1865. The burdens and sorrows of bloodshed had made an old man of him.
But the war was at an end, the stars and stripes were floating over
Sumter, the Union was saved, and slavery was doomed. There came back
into his eyes the light that had long been absent. Those who were about
him said the elasticity of his movements and joyousness of his manner
were marked. "His mood all day was singularly happy and tender."

The events of the day were simple. It was the day of the regular
meeting of the cabinet. Grant, who had arrived in Washington that
morning, attended this meeting. It was the President's idea that the
leaders of the Confederacy should be allowed to escape,--much as he had
already jocularly advised Grant to let Jeff Davis escape "all unbeknown
to himself." He spoke plainly on the subject. "No one need expect me to
take any part in hanging or killing these men, even the worst of them.
Enough lives have been sacrificed." After the discussion of various
matters, when the cabinet adjourned until the following Tuesday, the
last words he ever uttered to them were that "they must now begin to
act in the interests of peace."

In the afternoon he went for a drive with Mrs. Lincoln. The
conversation embraced plans of living--in Chicago? or California?--
after the expiration of his term of office. This fact shows that his
presentments did not make so real an impression on him as many people
have believed.

Three days before this his devoted servant Colonel Lamon--we might
almost call him his faithful watch-dog, so loving, loyal, and watchful
was he--had gone on an errand for him to Richmond. Lamon, who was loath
to start, tried to secure from him a promise in advance of divulging
what it was to be. Lincoln, after much urging, said he thought he would
venture to make the promise. It was that he would promise not to go out
after night in Lamon's absence, and _particularly to the theater_
(italics Lamon's). The President first joked about it, but being
persistently entreated said at last: "Well, I promise to do the best I
can towards it."

But for the evening of the day under consideration, Mrs. Lincoln had
got up a theater party--her husband was always fond of the diversion
of the theater. The party was to include General and Mrs. Grant. But
the general's plans required him to go that evening to Philadelphia,
and so Major Rathbone and Miss Harris were substituted. This party
occupied the upper proscenium box on the right of the stage.

About ten o'clock, J. Wilkes Booth, a young actor twenty-six years of
age, and very handsome, glided along the corridor towards that box.
Being himself an actor and well known by the employees of the theater,
he was suffered to proceed without hindrance. Passing through the
corridor door he fastened it shut by means of a bar that fitted into a
niche previously prepared, and making an effectual barricade. A hole
had been bored through the door leading into the box so that he could
survey the inmates without attracting their attention. With revolver in
one hand and dagger in the other he noiselessly entered the box and
stood directly behind the President who was enjoying the humor of the
comedy.

"The awful tragedy in the box makes everything else seem pale and
unreal. Here were five human beings in a narrow space--the greatest man
of his time, in the glory of the most stupendous success in our
history, the idolized chief of a nation already mighty, with
illimitable vistas of grandeur to come; his beloved wife, proud and
happy; a pair of betrothed lovers, with all the promise of felicity
that youth, social position, and wealth could give them; and this young
actor, handsome as Endymion upon Latmos, the pet of his little world.
The glitter of fame, happiness, and ease was upon the entire group, but
in an instant everything was to be changed with the blinding swiftness
of enchantment. Quick death was to come on the central figure of that
company--the central figure, we believe, of the great and good men of
the century. Over all the rest the blackest fates hovered menacingly--
fates from which a mother might pray that kindly death would save her
children in their infancy. One was to wander with the stain of murder
on his soul, with the curses of a world upon his name, with a price set
upon his head, in frightful physical pain, till he died a dog's death
in a burning barn; the stricken wife was to pass the rest of her days
in melancholy and madness; of those two young lovers, one was to slay
the other, and then end his life a raving maniac" (Nicolay and Hay, X.
295).

The revolver was thrust near to the back of the head of the
unsuspecting victim--that kind man who had "never willingly planted a
thorn in any man's bosom," who could not bear to witness suffering even
in an animal. The report of the pistol was somewhat muffled and was
unnoticed by the majority of the audience. The ball penetrated the
President's brain, and without word or sound his head dropped upon his
breast. Major Rathbone took in the situation and sprang at the murderer
who slashed him savagely with the dagger, tore himself free, and leaped
over the balustrade upon the stage. It was not a high leap for an
athletic young man, but his spur caught in a flag with which the box
was draped, so that he did not strike quite squarely on his feet. The
result was that he broke his leg or ankle. But gathering himself up, he
flourished his dagger, declaiming the motto of Virginia, _Sic semper
Tyrannis_ (Thus ever to tyrants), and before the audience could realize
what was done, he disappeared. He ran out of the rear of the theater
where a fleet horse was in waiting. He mounted and rode for his life.
For eleven days he was in hiding, with the curse of Cain upon him,
suffering all the while excruciating agonies from his broken leg, which
could be but imperfectly cared for. He was finally corralled in a barn,
the barn was set on fire, and while thus at bay he was shot down.

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