Mrs. Lincoln's Rival

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  He arrived soon thereafter, breathless from his mad dash through the streets of Columbus, and yet he seemed exultant, knowing he was sure to receive a generous gratuity for the happy news he carried.

  New York had gone to Mr. Lincoln, and Mr. Lincoln would go to the White House.

  • • •

  The response of the press to Mr. Lincoln’s election was swift and unsurprising. One Kansas paper referred to the news of his victory as “glorious tidings,” while the Richmond Dispatch gloomily intoned, “The event is the most deplorable one that has happened in the history of the country.” A Massachusetts editor was more sanguine, reassuring his readers that a Lincoln presidency would not “mean evil to any section of the country. It is not only regular and lawful, but is necessary to restore the old spirit and policy of the country, and give peace to the land.” The Courier of New Orleans sharply disagreed, warning that the election had “awakened throughout the South a spirit of stubborn resistance which it will be found is impossible to quell.” The New York Enquirer paid homage to the spirit of democracy and took a conciliatory approach, proclaiming, “Stretching out our hands to the South over this victory, we have no word of taunt to utter for the threats of disunion which were raised for our defeat. Let those threats be buried in oblivion.” The editor of the Semi-Weekly Mississippian would have none of that, and beneath a headline declaring, “The Deed’s Done—Disunion the Remedy,” appeared a foreboding statement that Kate feared was echoed in hearts throughout the South:

  The outrages which abolition fanaticism has continued year by year to heap upon the South, have at length culminated in the election of Abraham Lincoln and Hannibal Hamlin, avowed abolitionists, to the presidency and vice presidency—both bigoted, unscrupulous and cold-blooded enemies of the peace and equality of the slaveholding states, and one of the pair strongly marked with the blood of his negro ancestry. . . . In view of the formal declaration, through the ballot box, of a purpose by the northern states to wield the vast machinery of the federal Government as now constituted, for destroying the liberties of the slaveholding states, it becomes their duty to dissolve their connection with it and establish a separate and independent government of their own.

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” Kate told her father, “how any reasonable person could believe that it is wrong to destroy the liberties of slaveholding states and yet perfectly acceptable to destroy the liberties of human beings. And to call for disunion so that they might persist in their cruelty”—she shook her head—“what good do they expect to come of this?”

  Father reminded her that the South had been threatening to leave the Union for more than forty years, and that a certain amount of heightened agitation and a frenzied clamor for secession could be expected in the aftermath of such a hard-fought election. “Nothing will come of these calls for disunion,” he assured Kate. “They will subside after Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration, just as they always have, and Congress will settle down to the usual squabbling and deal making.”

  Kate hoped he was right, but in the midst of the postelection turmoil, it was still unclear whether Father would be involved in that squabbling and deal making. No cabinet position had been offered him, and his queries to mutual acquaintances received inconclusive replies. It was known that Mr. Lincoln was forming his cabinet, but whether he meant to include Father was uncertain. And so Father prepared to return to the Senate, although he told Kate that the prospect of resuming his position there disheartened him, and he would happily decline and retire from politics altogether if he thought he could do so honorably. The admission would have greatly troubled Kate if she had not known that he was merely speaking his mood of the moment, and not the true desire of his heart.

  In the meantime, Father’s prediction that the outrage of the South would subside proved terribly, shockingly wrong. A few days before Christmas, at a state convention held at Saint Andrew’s Hall in Charleston, the delegates of South Carolina voted unanimously to secede from the Union.

  Although warnings of secession had appeared with increasing frequency in Southern papers after Mr. Lincoln’s election, many people in the North, including Father and President Buchanan, were astounded when South Carolina finally made good on their threat. The stock market roiled, politicians debated what to do, and citizens North and South wondered with trepidation or eagerness which state would be next to secede. Any hopes that South Carolina could swiftly be restored to the Union through negotiation were dashed when its newly appointed leaders declared that the three federal forts within its borders fell within their jurisdiction. While President Buchanan dithered over the appropriate response, perhaps wishing that Mr. Lincoln could assume his high office sooner than scheduled, the federal officer in charge of one of the forts took action. On the night of December 26, Major Robert Anderson moved his troops from their vulnerable position at Fort Moultrie on the mainland to the more defensible Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor. The next day, South Carolina militia seized Fort Moultrie and Castle Pinckney, and demanded Major Anderson’s surrender. Major Anderson declined, and instead resolutely held his post while the South Carolina military settled in for the siege.

  In the midst of unprecedented national turmoil and alarm, Mr. Lincoln was still obliged to continue the work of his fledgling administration. In the early days of what boded to be a tumultuous New Year, Father received a brief letter from Springfield.

  Hon. S. P. Chase

  Springfield, Ill.

  December 31, 1860

  My dear Sir:

  In these troublous times, I would much like a conference with you. Please visit me here at once.

  Yours very truly,

  A. LINCOLN

  Kate’s heart jumped when she read the angular script and discerned the urgency of the request. “When will you depart?”

  “Tomorrow.” Father’s expression was a curious mixture of joy and apprehension. “He must want to name me secretary of state immediately so I may assist him in addressing this crisis.”

  Father wrote back to inform the president-elect that he would leave the following day on the morning train, which would put him in Springfield on January 4. Swiftly Kate helped him pack and prepare for the journey, wishing that she might accompany him. Indeed, she saw no reason why she should not, except that her presence might suggest to Mr. Lincoln that Father regarded the visit as a social call rather than a serious matter of state.

  While her father was away, Kate followed the news from Fort Sumter and Washington in the papers and waited for a telegram from Springfield that never came. Tantalizing glimpses of her father’s meetings with Mr. Lincoln appeared in brief newspaper reports noting his arrival in Springfield, the quality of his lodgings at the Chenery House, and the days, locations, and duration of his visits with the president-elect. Rumors about the nature of their discussions varied so wildly that she could trust none of them. They were almost lost too, amid the flurry of reports from the East. The day Father departed for Springfield, the Herald reported that a steamship called the Star of the West had set out from New York en route for Charleston with supplies and troops to relieve Major Anderson at Fort Sumter. Other newspapers confirmed the story, noting where and when the merchant vessel had been spotted as it journeyed south along the coast. Kate would have felt more reassured by President Buchanan’s decision to take action if she were not aware that the people of Charleston could get the news from Eastern papers as easily as she could. Surely their military forces would be ready and waiting when the Star of the West arrived.

  When Father at last returned home, nearly a week after his departure, Kate flew to the door to welcome him and help him out of his coat, but his grim, bedraggled expression stopped her short. “What’s wrong?” she asked as he stood on the doorstep stamping snow from his boots. “Did Mr. Lincoln not offer you the Department of State?”

  “He offered me nothing.”

  “What?” They had assumed fr
om the moment Mr. Lincoln’s letter had arrived that he would not have summoned Father so urgently for anything less than a cabinet position. “Why on earth did he have you travel so far for nothing?” Her father’s look was so full of woebegone misery that she immediately adopted a gentler tone. “You must be exhausted. Wash up and change if you like, and by the time you come downstairs again, I’ll have a hot supper waiting for you.”

  Father obediently trudged off, his servant Will trailing after him with his suitcase. Kate summoned the cook and put the kettle on, and when Father came to the table, his gloomy expression cleared somewhat at the sight of the plate of eggs, ham, pickled asparagus, and toast spread thickly with butter. Nettie bounded in as he seated himself and queried him about the most trivial aspects of his journey—what he had seen through the train windows, whether Mr. Lincoln truly was as ugly as everyone said—with such innocent eagerness that his misery gradually dissipated. By the time he finished eating and Nettie danced off again, his manner had become relaxed, though subdued, and he seemed ready to talk.

  “It was a bewildering interview,” he told Kate when they were alone. “From the tone of Mr. Lincoln’s letter, I had expected the offer of a cabinet position.”

  “As did I,” said Kate.

  “I cannot help thinking that he had intended to offer me a position, but that between writing the letter and meeting me at my hotel in Springfield, something happened to change his mind.” Father sighed and ran a hand over his brow. “Upon my arrival I had sent him my card and a note saying I would call when convenient. I had scarcely settled into my room when the bellman came up and told me Mr. Lincoln was waiting for me in the lobby.”

  “Then it was an urgent matter.”

  “So it seemed. I went down promptly to see him, and he shook my hand and thanked me heartily for my efforts on his behalf leading up to the election, as well as the stumping I did for him in 1858.”

  “As well he should have.”

  “We talked at length about the issues of the day, when quite unexpectedly, he said, ‘I have done with you what I would not perhaps have ventured to do with any other man in the country—sent for you to ask whether you will accept the appointment of secretary of the treasury, without, however, being exactly prepared to offer it to you.’”

  For a moment Kate could only stare at him, dumbfounded. “He offered you the Treasury, and yet did not offer it?”

  Father sighed wearily and nodded.

  “He had you travel hundreds of miles merely to gauge your interest?” Indignant, Kate folded her arms over her chest and sank back into her chair. “This was not a question you could have answered just as easily through the mails?”

  Father nodded again. “You understand, then, why I was less than enthusiastic in my reply.”

  Kate was almost afraid to hear the answer, but she asked, “What did you say?”

  “I denied that I had sought any appointment whatsoever, and I implied that if I were to be offered a cabinet post, I would not accept a subordinate place. And there our interview concluded.”

  Kate’s heart sank with dismay, but she kept her voice even. “But that could not have been the last word, or you would have come home sooner.”

  “Exactly so. We met again, several times over the next few days, and Mr. Lincoln eventually revealed that he intended to make Seward his secretary of state in deference to his status as the leader of the party.”

  “Mr. Seward enjoys a certain prominence, to be sure,” said Kate, “but no more so than you. Your lifetime of service, your experience in governance, your devotion to the cause of abolition—all mark you as equally deserving of a senior position.”

  “Mr. Lincoln did say that if Seward had declined, he would have offered the State Department to me without hesitation.”

  It seemed odd that Mr. Lincoln was apparently able to offer the highest position in the cabinet to one man, yet was somehow prevented from giving the next most important post to another. “Did Mr. Lincoln mention anyone else he is considering for secretary of the treasury?”

  “No, but—” He hesitated. “On the way to Springfield, I heard rumors that Mr. Lincoln had already offered the post to General Cameron, and that he had accepted.”

  Bewildered, Kate shook her head. “That makes no sense. That would make your entire journey to Springfield a cruel farce. Why measure your interest in a position that has already been filled?”

  “There could be any number of reasons, and I believe I have contemplated every one of them.”

  “Keeping in mind that one cannot decline what has not been offered . . .” Kate hesitated. “Did you decline?”

  “Not outright.” As Kate breathed a sigh of relief, he added, “I told him I was unprepared to accept the position if it were extended to me. I reminded him that I had six years in the Senate to look forward to, and that I could be of service to him and to the nation in that capacity as well if not better than in the cabinet.” He smiled ruefully. “He didn’t dispute the point, but he didn’t agree either.”

  In the days that followed, Father and Mr. Lincoln had met again, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or two other advisors, but always to confer at great length, earnestly and seriously. Father had come away from their interviews impressed with the president-elect’s grasp of the complexities of the constitutional crisis facing the nation, his willingness to accept advice, and his warm, amiable nature. On Sunday Father attended church services with Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, and on Monday morning Mr. Lincoln saw Father off at the train station with the parting request that he consult with trusted friends about accepting the Department of Treasury post, which Mr. Lincoln was still unable to offer.

  “Will you?” Kate asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. “Consult with people you trust, I mean, and consider accepting the position, should it be offered?”

  “I’ve already begun,” Father admitted. “My pride is not too great for that. I wrote to several friends from the train asking them to speak well of me to Mr. Lincoln. I confess—and this is for your ears alone, daughter—that I would like to be offered a cabinet position, but not to seem to seek it—and I don’t yet know if I will accept one if it is eventually offered.”

  Kate nodded, greatly relieved that her father’s wounded pride had not compelled him to refuse to serve in Mr. Lincoln’s administration. Although he would not be first in rank, he would command a great deal of authority and influence during a time of increasing national uncertainty. She knew of no better man—none wiser, none more ethical—to be at the president’s side in a crisis.

  And, she admitted to herself, it could only help him in four years’ time if the nation learned now what a strong, intelligent leader he was, and would be.

  • • •

  The morning after Father’s homecoming, the newspapers were ablaze with news from South Carolina. The previous day, while Father was writing letters to trusted friends from a jolting railcar, the Star of the West sailed into Charleston Harbor and was fired upon by militia and young military cadets. Struck in the mast but not seriously damaged, the steamer nonetheless was forced back into the channel and out to the open sea.

  On that same day, far to the south, delegates in Mississippi voted in favor of secession. The next day, Florida seceded from the Union, and the next, Alabama. One after another they fell, like books carelessly arranged on an unsteady shelf, but just when Kate began to believe that no voice of reason and prudence remained in the South, former president John Tyler, living in retirement in Richmond, Virginia, published an appeal for a convention to make one last great effort to resolve the crisis. Two days later, Georgia seceded, and two days after that, five senators from Alabama, Florida, and Mississippi—some defiantly, others full of sorrow—rose to offer farewell speeches before resigning their seats in the Senate and leaving Washington for their homes in the South. The papers somberly described how Senator Jefferson Davis, the last to s
peak, reiterated his opinion that states did have the constitutional right to leave the Union, and that his home state of Mississippi had justifiable cause for doing so. Even so, he regretted the conflict that had divided them. “I am sure I feel no hostility toward you, senators from the North,” he said. “I am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may have been between us, to whom I cannot now say, in the presence of my God, I wish you well; and such, I feel, is the feeling of the people whom I represent toward those whom you represent.” He expressed his hopes that their separate governments would eventually have peaceable relations, and made his own personal apology for any pain he might have inflicted upon any other senator in the heat of discussion. “Mr. President and senators,” he concluded, weary from illness and strain, “having made the announcement which the occasion seemed to me to require, it only remains for me to bid you a final adieu.”

  Five days later, Louisiana seceded.

  Although to Kate it seemed a futile effort, plans were swiftly made to organize Mr. Tyler’s Peace Convention. And in the final days of January, Father at last received an appointment, though not the one he had been hoping for.

  Much to Father’s chagrin, for he had long been an outspoken opponent of any compromise with the secessionist and slaveholding powers, Governor Dennison appointed him a delegate to the Peace Convention in hopes that the crisis could be resolved through negotiation before Mr. Lincoln took office. Father would be returning to Washington sooner than expected, and in a role he never could have imagined and did not want.

  Chapter Five

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