Grant and Sherman: The Friendship that Won the Civil War

by Charles Bracelen Flood

  Despite Lincoln’s saying that he hoped for “a righteous and speedy peace,” those who wanted a rousing speech soon found themselves disappointed. They were listening to a scholarly soliloquy, in which Lincoln revealed himself as still wrestling with the moral problems and political realities that lay ahead at this moment when Lee had surrendered to Grant and Sherman was clearly moving to finish off the one remaining large Confederate force under Joseph E. Johnston.

  Concerning “reconstruction, as the phrase goes,” Lincoln called it a prospect “fraught with difficulty.” Speaking defensively, he referred to a criticism “that my mind has not seemed definitely fixed on the question whether the seceded states, so called, are in the Union or out of it.” Terming that question “a merely pernicious abstraction,” he said, “We all agree that the seceded States, so called, are out of their proper practical relation to the Union, and that the sole object of the [federal] government, civil and military, is to again get them into that proper practical relation.” Lincoln told the crowd, “We simply must begin with, and mould from, disorganized and discordant elements.” He added, using as an example the continuing efforts made during the war to form and maintain a state government in Louisiana that was acceptable to the Union, that in the coming period “no exclusive, and inflexible plan can be prescribed as to details.” Again using the example of what might be accomplished in Louisiana, he spoke in favor of “giving the benefit of public schools equally to black and white, and empowering the Legislature to confer the franchise upon the colored man.” As for who among the blacks should have the right to vote, Lincoln was at the moment for being selective: “I would myself prefer that it now were conferred on the very intelligent, and on those who serve our cause as soldiers.”

  The mist turned to rain; before Lincoln finished speaking, a considerable number of the crowd drifted away. The man who had led the nation through its greatest crisis, the man who had held the border states in the Union and nonetheless freed so many slaves was being honest and realistic enough to say of those who had supported the Union that even now “we, the loyal people, differ among ourselves as to the mode, manner, and means of reconstruction.” This speech of Lincoln’s on April 11, two days after the surrender at Appomattox, was not the speech the crowd wanted to hear.

  The next day, in a cabinet meeting and in separate discussions with several cabinet members, Lincoln discovered that his advisers had learned about his recent dealings in Richmond with the Confederate leader Campbell and his subsequent instruction to Union general Weitzel to allow the Virginia legislature to assemble for the purpose of withdrawing from the Confederacy. (Assistant Secretary of War Charles A. Dana, who had been with Lincoln at City Point and knew about all this, had sent reports to his superior, Secretary of War Stanton, about the matter, and Stanton had passed on the information to Attorney General James Speed and Postmaster General William Dennison.) Lincoln, who took the position that he had “just seen” a letter from Campbell to Weitzel in which Campbell spoke of reassembling the Virginia legislature in its official capacity, tried to argue that he was simply trying “to effect a reconciliation as soon as possible.” He added that he had never intended to treat the Virginia legislators as “a rightful body,” but his cabinet resolutely opposed him on the issue. Finally admitting that he “had perhaps made a mistake,” Lincoln gave up on the initiative he had discussed with Campbell and later in the day wrote Weitzel, concerning the Virginia legislators, “Do not allow them to assemble, but if any have come, allow them safe-return to their homes.”

  While Sherman continued trying to bring things to an end in North Carolina, Julia Grant reported that in Washington “everyone was wild with delight” about the surrender. Grant returned to City Point from Appomattox shortly after four a.m. on Tuesday, April 13, and Julia noted, “About fifty generals of high rank and other officials breakfasted with us that morning.” Later in the morning, she, Grant, and “a large number of other officers” went up to Washington aboard the Mary Martin, and as they came up the Potomac, “all the bells rang out in merry greetings, and the city was literally swathed in flags and bunting. The sun shone brightly, and the very winds seemed on a frolic.” Julia was struck by the appearance of the American flag at the landing: the wind had come up strongly, and the Stars and Stripes was “broadly spread as though to show that not a single star was lost from that blue field … Our Union is safe.” Grant drove in a carriage with Julia and the wife of John Rawlins to the fashionable Willard Hotel and then, Julia said, “as soon as he saw me comfortably located, went straight to the Executive Mansion” to meet with Lincoln.

  The excitement in the city that Julia saw on arriving by boat was a foretaste of the evening to come: Washington was to have a “Grand Illumination” that night, with government buildings lit by flaming gas jets, some designed as stars and eagles, and others spelling out “Peace” and “Victory.” Candles would shine brightly in every window of the government buildings and many of the residents’ houses; there would be bonfires in the streets and in front of statues, and fireworks in the sky. Julia was looking forward to the events of the evening, which would include a reception honoring Grant at Stanton’s house, to take place after the Grants and the Stantons rode around the city together in a carriage to see the city in its festival mood. Then, at a moment when Grant was out, a note from Mrs. Lincoln was delivered to the Grants at the Willard, and Julia opened it. Addressed only to Grant and not mentioning Julia, it said, “Mr. Lincoln is indisposed with quite a severe headache, yet would be very pleased to see you at the [White] house this evening about 8 o’clock & I want you to drive around with us to see the illumination.”

  When Grant returned—apparently Lincoln was feeling so bad that he held meetings with Grant, Secretary of War Stanton, and Navy Secretary Gideon Welles but did not venture out of the White House until the next day—Julia showed him this invitation. Grant’s first reaction was that this would be fine; Julia would ride around the city with the Stantons and he would ride with Mrs. Lincoln and come by himself to the Stantons’ after that, but he quickly learned that would not do. “To this plan,” Julia recalled, “I protested and said I would not go at all unless he accompanied me.” Grant retreated and said he would first ride around Washington with Julia and the Stantons, then “escort the wife of our President to see the illumination” as he felt it his duty to do, and then come to the party at the Stantons’. “This was all satisfactory to me,” Julia said, “as it was the honor of being with him when he first viewed the illumination in honor of peace being restored to the nation, in which he had so great a share—it was this I coveted.”

  And so Julia and her “Ulys” drove through the brilliantly lit streets—the Capitol’s marble dome and portico were gleaming, and many flags hung from the balconies and windows of the White House. There were thirty-five hundred candles in the windows of the Government Post Office, and six thousand illuminated the Patent Office. Lanterns glowed everywhere, and fireworks exploded high above them as crowds surged through the streets while bands playing patriotic tunes marched in every direction. Later, at the Stantons’ house, Grant was the center of attention. Julia wrote, “All of the great men of the nation who were necessarily in Washington at that time were assembled that night. Such congratulations, such friendly, grateful grasps of the hand and speeches of gratitude!” The next day would mark the fourth anniversary of the surrender of Fort Sumter after the Confederate bombardment that began the fighting. On that day in 1861, Ulysses S. Grant, who had been forced to resign as a captain, a rank three grades below that of colonel, was not yet back in the army. Now he was the victorious commander of a force that had grown to a million men.

  On the morning of that next day, Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Julia had plans to go to Burlington, New Jersey, where she and Grant had rented a house for her and their four children to use when they were not visiting him at his headquarters at City Point. She had their seven-year-old son Jesse with them in Washington, but now she wanted
to get back to the other three children and asked Grant to come with her on the evening train to Philadelphia and then on to Burlington. Grant explained that he had to go to the White House at eleven that morning to meet Lincoln and his cabinet to discuss “the reduction of the army” and doubted he could get away at any point that day. Finally, when Julia said she could not wait until the next day, he said, “Well, I will see what I can do. I will certainly go if it is possible.”

  At noon, a man whose looks Julia did not like arrived at the Willard Hotel and said to her, “Mrs. Lincoln sends me, Madam, with her compliments, to say that she will call for you at exactly eight o’clock to go to the theater.” On hearing what he had to say—there was no written message, and in any event the tone of it “seemed like a command”—she told the man to convey her regrets to Mrs. Lincoln and to say that she and Grant would be leaving the city that afternoon. The man persisted, saying, “Madam, the papers say that General Grant will be with the President tonight at the theater.” Julia told him to leave.

  I dispatched a note to General Grant entreating him to take me home that evening; that I did not want to go to the theater; that he must take me home. I not only wrote to him, but sent three of his staff officers who called to pay their respects to me to urge the General to go home that night. I do not know what possessed me to take such a freak, but go home I felt I must.

  Grant sent word that if he could possibly accompany them to Burlington, he would pick Julia and Jesse up at the hotel and they would go together to the station. Lincoln had indeed invited him and Julia to the theater—Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see Our American Cousin, a popular farce that was having its last performance at the Ford Theatre—but Grant was able to make their excuses. Julia was having a “late luncheon with Mrs. Rawlins and her little girl and my Jesse” at the hotel when four men came in and sat at the next table. Julia thought she recognized the man who had brought the message purporting to be from Mrs. Lincoln, and she was particularly struck by the behavior of “a dark, pale man” who “played with his soup spoon, sometimes filling it and holding it half-lifted to his mouth, but never tasting it. This occurred many times. He also seemed very intent on what we and the children were saying. I thought he was crazy.” Quietly, Julia asked Mrs. Rawlins what she thought of the men at the next table, and when Mrs. Rawlins agreed that their behavior seemed “peculiar,” Julia said, referring to a famous Confederate raider, “I believe they are part of Mosby’s guerrillas and they have been listening to every word we have said. Do you know, I believe there will be an outbreak tonight or soon. I just feel it and am glad I am going away tonight.”

  The cabinet meeting that Lincoln had invited Grant to attend began at eleven and went on for three hours. The entire cabinet was present, except for Secretary of State Seward, who had been severely injured in a carriage accident nine days before and was in a weakened condition at home in bed. On some matters there was agreement: as soon as the victory was complete, unhindered commercial relations should be established with the states that had seceded, and the Departments of Treasury and the Interior would resume their normal functions in the South, along with the reestablishment of one national postal service under the postmaster general.

  Then the substance and the mood of the meeting changed. Lincoln not only believed in magnanimity toward the defeated South, but was convinced, as he now told his cabinet, that as a practical matter, “We can’t undertake to run State governments in all these Southern states. Their people must do that—though I reckon at first some of them may do it badly.” This did not precipitate an argument, but it was generally agreed that an army of occupation would be needed, with military governors ruling the former Confederate states under martial law until some form of civilian rule was reestablished. (In this connection, the Commonwealth of Virginia would become, in administrative terminology, Military District No. 1.)

  Lincoln was ready to give up on some of the specifics of what was to be done in the postwar situation, even deferring for the moment the matter of who in the South should be allowed to vote, but he persisted in putting forward his philosophy of what was needed. He did not want trials of the Southern leaders, or hangings. His solution: “Frighten them out of the country,” he told his advisers, waving his hands as if shooing something away. “Let down the bars, scare them off.” He expressed his fears about the “feelings of hate and vindictiveness” among many in Congress.

  Unanimity in the room was reestablished when Lincoln asked Grant to tell the cabinet about the surrender at Appomattox. Lincoln was clearly pleased when Grant said of the Confederates, “I told them to go back to their homes and families, and they would not be molested, if they did nothing more.” Some of Lincoln’s advisers then wanted to know about Sherman’s progress toward finishing things with Joseph E. Johnston in North Carolina, and Grant responded that he was expecting to hear more about that at any hour.

  The reference to Sherman prompted Lincoln to tell the meeting about a dream he had the previous night. He was aboard a ship moving with “great rapidity” toward a shore that he described as “vast” and “indefinite.” Lincoln said that it was the same dream he had before receiving the news of Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and other victories. He felt certain that this time the good news was coming from North Carolina. “I think it must be from Sherman,” Lincoln said. “My thoughts are in that direction, as are most of yours.”

  The cabinet meeting had finished in time for Grant to make good on his promise to Julia that he would accompany her to Burlington, New Jersey, that evening. As Grant, Julia, and their young son Jesse rode to the station with the wife of General Daniel Rucker, whose carriage they were in, Julia recalled, speaking of the strange person she had seen at lunch, “This same dark, pale man rode past us at a sweeping gallop on a dark horse—black, I think. He rode twenty yards ahead of us, wheeled and returned, and as he passed us both going and returning, he thrust his face quite near the General’s, and glared in a disagreeable manner.” When Mrs. Rucker said, “General, everyone wants to see you,” Grant replied, “Yes, but I do not care for such glances. They are not friendly.”

  In Philadelphia, before taking a ferryboat across the Delaware to get the train for Burlington at Camden, New Jersey, the Grants stopped to dine at Bloodgood’s Hotel, near the ferry slip. Grant had not eaten since nine that morning and ordered some oysters. “Before they were ready for him,” Julia said, “a telegram was handed to him, and almost before he could open this, another was handed him, and then a third.” She described her husband’s reaction. “The General looked very pale. ‘Is there anything the matter?’ I inquired. ‘You look startled.’ ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Something very serious has happened. Do not exclaim. Be quiet and I will tell you. The president has been assassinated at the theater. I must go back at once. I will take you to Burlington … see the children, order a special train, and return as soon as it is ready.’”

  When Lincoln’s assassin John Wilkes Booth was tracked down and killed while resisting capture, Julia thought from seeing pictures of him that he was the “dark, pale man” who had watched her so carefully at lunch and then ridden so close to the carriage taking them to the station. An unsolved element of mystery was added to the shock and horror of the night that Lincoln was shot, dying the next morning. In her memoirs, Julia recalled that the next morning an unsigned letter arrived, saying, “General Grant, thank God, as I do, that you still live. It was your life that fell to my lot, and I followed you on the [railroad] cars. Your car door was locked, and thus you escaped me, thank God.” (Years later, Grant confirmed that such a letter had come; soon after the assassination he said that he wished he had been in the presidential box at the theater when the attack occurred, because he might have been able to disarm Booth, or step in the way of the bullet intended for Lincoln.)

  It had indeed been a wider plot, involving a total of nineteen conspirators. The first part was the attack on Lincoln. At about twenty minutes past ten on the evening of April 14, the famous acto
r John Wilkes Booth, who was not in the play Lincoln and his wife were watching, entered the presidential box and fired his small derringer pistol into the back of Lincoln’s head. Shouting “Sic semper tyrannis!”—Thus always to tyrants—Booth leapt to the stage, brandishing a dagger. According to one shocked witness, he exclaimed, “The South shall be free!” before he ran through the wings of the stage and escaped.

  At the same time, six blocks away near Lafayette Park, another conspirator, a tall, strong, well-dressed man who was using the name John Powell, entered the house of Secretary of State William H. Seward, who was bedridden from his recent carriage accident. Seward was lying in his sickbed on the third floor, with his broken arm in a cast and a metal brace immobilizing his head and neck as his fractured jaw healed. Powell claimed that he had some medicine that must be given to Seward; brushing past a servant, he had reached the second floor when Seward’s son Frederick confronted him. The mysterious intruder pulled out a revolver. When it failed to fire, Powell repeatedly struck Frederick on the skull with a pistol butt, causing five fractures and leaving him lying in his blood. Pulling out a big bowie knife, the assailant dashed up the next flight of stairs and into Seward’s bedroom, where he ran into Seward’s daughter Fanny and a male army nurse tending to Seward, who was lying helpless in his bed. Powell hit Fanny so hard that she fell to the floor unconscious, and then he slashed the male nurse across the forehead with his knife before hitting him so that he too fell unconscious to the floor. Finally coming to the bed where the defenseless Seward lay, Powell stabbed Seward deep in the cheek, nearly cutting his cheek from his face, and then knifed him several times more, including three stabs into his neck. At this moment Major Augustus Seward, another of the secretary of state’s sons, rushed into the room, and in the ensuing struggle, Powell stabbed him seven times. By this time the army nurse had recovered consciousness and came at Powell, who wrestled with him and stabbed him four more times. Then Powell fled down the stairs, stabbing in the chest a State Department messenger who happened to be entering the house. Having left blood splashed all over the stairs, walls, and front steps, Powell ran from the house, shouting, “I’m mad! I’m mad!” He leapt onto a horse and dashed into the darkness.