Part 56 (1/2)

The crowd stirred uneasily, and the men on the dais tried with varying success to conceal their dismay. ”Stanton looked like a petrified man,” Noah Brooks observed. ”All this is in wretched bad taste,” Speed whispered to Welles. ”The man is certainly deranged.” Welles whispered to Stanton that ”Johnson is either drunk or crazy.” Dennison, the new postmaster general, ”was red and white by turns,” while Justice Samuel Nelson's jaw ”dropped clean down in blank horror.” Seward and Lincoln alone appeared unruffled. Seward remained as ”serene as summer,” charitably suggesting to Welles that Johnson's performance was a by-product of ”emotion on returning and revisiting the Senate.” Lincoln listened in silence, ”patiently waiting” for the harangue to end, his eyes shut so that no one could discern his discomfort. ”You need not be scared,” he said a few days later; Johnson had ”made a bad slip” but was not ”a drunkard.”

When Johnson finished at last, the audience proceeded outside to the east front of the Capitol for the inaugural ceremony. As the president appeared on the platform, observed Noah Brooks, ”the sun, which had been obscured all day, burst forth in its unclouded meridian splendor and flooded the spectacle with glory and light.” It seemed to many, including the superst.i.tious Lincoln, an auspicious omen, as did the appearance of the newly completed Capitol dome, topped with the statue of Freedom.

If the spirited crowd expected a speech exalting recent Union victories, they were disappointed. In keeping with his lifelong tendency to consider all sides of a troubled situation, Lincoln urged a more sympathetic understanding of the nation's alienated citizens in the South. There were no unbridgeable differences, he insisted: ”Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same G.o.d; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just G.o.d's a.s.sistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes.”

In his Springfield speech a decade earlier, Lincoln had maintained that he could not condemn the South for an inability to end slavery when he himself knew of no easy solution. Now the president suggested that G.o.d had given ”to both North and South, this terrible war” as punishment for their shared sin of slavery. Speaking with ”the eloquence of the prophets,” he continued, ”Fondly do we hope-fervently do we pray-that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pa.s.s away. Yet, if G.o.d 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.'”

Drawing upon the rare wisdom of a temperament that consistently displayed uncommon magnanimity toward those who opposed him, he then issued his historic plea to his fellow countrymen: ”With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as G.o.d 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 just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”

More than any of his other speeches, the Second Inaugural fused spiritual faith with politics. While Lincoln might have questioned the higher force that shaped human ends, ”as he became involved in matters of the gravest importance,” his friend Leonard Swett observed, ”a feeling of religious reverence, and belief in G.o.d-his justice and overruling power-increased upon him.” If his devotion were determined by his lack of ”faith in ceremonials and forms,” or by his failure ”to observe the Sabath very scrupulously,” Swett added, ”he would fall far short of the standard.” However, if he were judged ”by the higher rule of purity of conduct, of honesty of motive, of unyielding fidelity to the right,” or by his powerful belief ”in the great laws of truth, the rigid discharge of duty, his accountability to G.o.d,” then he was undoubtedly ”full of natural religion,” for ”he believed in G.o.d as much as the most approved Church member.”

His address completed, the president turned to Chief Justice Salmon Chase, who administered the oath of office. The crowd cheered loudly, the artillery fired a round of salutes, the band played, and the peaceful ceremony drew to a close.

That evening the gates of the White House were opened for a public reception attended by ”the largest crowd that has been here yet,” according to Nicolay. The president was reported to be ”in excellent spirits” as he tirelessly shook the hands of the more than five thousand people who came to show their respect and affection. ”It was a grand ovation of the People to their President,” Commissioner French observed, and Mary vowed ”to remain till morning, rather than have the door closed on a single visitor.” French estimated that Lincoln shook hands ”at the rate of 100 every 4 minutes.”

Frederick Dougla.s.s would always remember the events of that evening. ”On reaching the door, two policemen stationed there took me rudely by the arm and ordered me to stand back, for their directions were to admit no persons of my color.” Dougla.s.s a.s.sured the officers ”there must be some mistake, for no such order could have emanated from President Lincoln; and that if he knew I was at the door he would desire my admission.” His a.s.sumption was later confirmed when he discovered there were ”no orders from Mr. Lincoln, or from any one else. They were simply complying with an old custom.” The impa.s.se continued for a few moments, until Dougla.s.s recognized a gentleman going in and asked him to tell the president that he was unable to gain entry. Minutes later, the word came back to admit Dougla.s.s. ”I walked into the s.p.a.cious East Room, amid a scene of elegance such as in this country I had never before witnessed.”

Dougla.s.s had no difficulty spotting Lincoln, who stood ”like a mountain pine high above the others,” he recalled, ”in his grand simplicity, and home-like beauty. Recognizing me, even before I reached him, he exclaimed, so that all around could hear him, 'Here comes my friend Dougla.s.s.' Taking me by the hand, he said, 'I am glad to see you. I saw you in the crowd to-day, listening to my inaugural address; how did you like it?'” Dougla.s.s was embarra.s.sed to detain the president in conversation when there were ”thousands waiting to shake hands,” but Lincoln insisted. ”You must stop a little, Dougla.s.s; there is no man in the country whose opinion I value more than yours. I want to know what you think of it?”

For a moment these two remarkable men stood together amid the sea of faces. Lincoln knew that Dougla.s.s would speak his mind, just as he always had. ”Mr. Lincoln,” Dougla.s.s said finally, ”that was a sacred effort.” Lincoln's face lit up with delight. ”I am glad you liked it!” he replied.

A few days later, Lincoln provided his own a.s.sessment to Thurlow Weed, predicting that the address would ”wear as well as-perhaps better than-any thing” he had written, though he did not believe it would be ”immediately popular. Men are not flattered by being shown that there has been a difference of purpose between the Almighty and them.” Just as Lincoln surmised, the speech drew criticism from several quarters. The Democratic New York World faulted Lincoln for his ”subst.i.tution of religion for statesmans.h.i.+p,” while the Tribune charged that the stern biblical overtones would impede any chance for peace.

Many others, however, recognized the historic weight of the address. ”That rail-splitting lawyer is one of the wonders of the day,” Charles Francis Adams, Jr., wrote to his father in London. ”The inaugural strikes me in its grand simplicity and directness as being for all time the historical keynote of this war.” The London Spectator, previously critical of Lincoln, agreed with young Adams, judging the address as ”by far the n.o.blest which any American President has yet uttered to an American Congress.”

Praise for the speech mingled with praise for Lincoln himself. The Spectator suggested that it was ”divine inspiration, or providence” that brought the Republican Convention in 1860 to choose Lincoln the ”village lawyer” over Seward. Congressman Isaac Arnold overheard a conversation between a celebrated minister and an unidentified New York statesman, whom one historian suggests was likely William Henry Seward himself. ”The President's inaugural is the finest state paper in all history,” the minister declared. ”Yes,” the New Yorker answered, ”and as Was.h.i.+ngton's name grows brighter with time, so it will be with Lincoln's. A century from to-day that inaugural will be read as one of the most sublime utterances ever spoken by man. Was.h.i.+ngton is the great man of the era of the Revolution. So will Lincoln be of this, but Lincoln will reach the higher position in history.”

Perhaps the most surprising contemporaneous evaluation of Lincoln's leaders.h.i.+p appeared in the extreme secessionist paper the Charleston Mercury. ”He has called around him in counsel,” the Mercury marveled, ”the ablest and most earnest men of his country. Where he has lacked in individual ability, learning, experience or statesmans.h.i.+p, he has sought it, and found it.... Force, energy, brains, earnestness, he has collected around him in every department.” Were he not a ”blackguard” and ”an unscrupulous knave in the end,” the Mercury concluded, ”he would undoubtedly command our respect as a ruler.... We turn our eyes to Richmond, and the contrast is appalling, sickening to the heart.”

The editors of the Mercury would have been even more astonished if they had an inkling of the truth recognized by those closer to Lincoln: his political genius was not simply his ability to gather the best men of the country around him, but to impress upon them his own purpose, perception, and resolution at every juncture. With respect to Lincoln's cabinet, Charles Dana observed, ”it was always plain that he was the master and they were the subordinates. They constantly had to yield to his will, and if he ever yielded to them it was because they convinced him that the course they advised was judicious and appropriate.”

CHAPTER 26

THE FINAL WEEKS

AS LINCOLN BEGAN his second term, ”he was in mind, body, and nerves a very different man,” John Hay observed, ”from the one who had taken the oath in 1861. He continued always the same kindly, genial, and cordial spirit he had been at first; but the boisterous laughter became less frequent year by year; the eye grew veiled by constant meditation on momentous subjects; the air of reserve and detachment from his surroundings increased.”

Four years of relentless strain had touched Lincoln's spirit and his countenance. The aged, wearied face in the life-mask cast by Clark Mills in the spring of 1865 barely resembled the mold Leonard Volk had taken five years earlier. In 1860, noted John Hay, ”the large mobile mouth is ready to speak, to shout, or laugh; the bold, curved nose is broad and substantial, with spreading nostrils; it is a face full of life, of energy, of vivid aspiration.” The second life-mask, with its lined brow and cavernous cheeks, has ”a look as of one on whom sorrow and care had done their worst...the whole expression is of unspeakable sadness and all-sufficing strength.”

That inner strength had sustained Lincoln all his life. But his four years as president had immeasurably enhanced his self-confidence. Despite the appalling pressures he had faced from his very first day in office, he had never lost faith in himself. In fact, he was the one who had sustained the spirits of those around him time and again, gently guiding his colleagues with good humor, energy, and steady purpose. He had learned from early mistakes, transcended the jealousy of rivals, and his insight into men and events had deepened with each pa.s.sing year. Though ”a tired spot” remained within that no rest or relaxation could restore, he was ready for the arduous tasks of the next four years.

Settling into his daily routine after the inauguration, Lincoln was determined to avoid the thousands of office seekers who again descended ”like Egyptian locusts” upon Was.h.i.+ngton. ”The bare thought of going through again what I did the first year here, would crush me,” he confessed. In the first months of his presidency, he had been disparaged for allowing office seekers to accost him at all hours, consuming his energy and disrupting his concentration. Nicolay and Hay had tried to get him to be more methodical, to close his door to outsiders for longer periods, but at the time he had insisted that ”they don't want much; they get but little, and I must see them.” Experience had finally taught him that he must set priorities and concentrate on the vital questions of war and Reconstruction confronting his administration. ”I think now that I will not remove a single man, except for delinquency,” he told New Hamps.h.i.+re senator Clark. ”To remove a man is very easy,” he commented to another visitor, ”but when I go to fill his place, there are twenty applicants, and of these I must make nineteen enemies.”

With two cla.s.ses of office seekers, however, he was prepared to take a personal interest-artists and disabled veterans. He expressed to Seward his hope that consul positions could be offered to ”facilitate artists a little [in] their profession,” mentioning in particular a poet and a sculptor he wished to help. To General Scott, who was working with the Sanitary Commission to find government jobs for disabled veterans, Lincoln emphasized that the Commission should ”at all times be ready to recognize the paramount claims of the soldiers of the nation, in the disposition of public trusts.”

With his cabinet, he was satisfied. The only change he made after the inauguration was to replace treasury secretary William Pitt Fessenden with the banker Hugh McCulloch. When he had a.s.sumed the post the previous summer, Fessenden had been a.s.sured that he could leave once the finances of the country were in good shape. By the spring of 1865, the Treasury was stable, and when Maine reelected him to the Senate for a term to begin on March 4, Fessenden felt free to resign.

Lincoln was sorry to lose his brilliant, hardworking secretary. Fessenden, too, ”parted from the President with regret.” During his tenure at the Treasury, his initial critical att.i.tude toward Lincoln had been transformed into warm admiration. ”I desire gratefully to acknowledge the kindness and consideration with which you have invariably treated me,” he wrote to the president, ”and to a.s.sure you that in retiring I carry with me great and increased respect for your personal character and for the ability which has marked your administration.” Noting that the ”prolonged struggle for national life” was finally nearing a successful conclusion, he went on, ”no one can claim to have so largely contributed as the chosen chief magistrate of this great people.”