Abraham Lincoln

by Clara Ingram Judson

  The President must have rejoiced when the Kansas-Nebraska Act was repealed and when new laws opening free homestead lands and setting up a national banking system settled business problems that were debated in his youth.

  And all the time Lincoln continued his search for competent generals. The South had a brilliant leader in the West Point–trained General Robert E. Lee; had the North no one his equal? Daily the President had to hear bitter criticism of his conduct of the war—all the harder to bear because he was earnestly trying to win in the shortest possible time. Lincoln well knew that until the war was won he could not announce his cherished plans for strengthening the Union. In his despair he sometimes wondered whether the form of government undertaken in the United States was a noble dream for which the world was not yet ready.

  At night the President walked the floor of the silent White House. The misery of thousands was his own grief, for since Willie’s death he knew what it was to see a tall son die. Perhaps Willie would be alive today if his father had stayed in Springfield! The tenderhearted “Abe” Lincoln who could not shoot wild turkeys must now send thousands of fine men to battle. It seemed sometimes that he could not endure to stand by and see soldiers court-martialed and shot for sleeping at post of duty when they were exhausted—yet he knew discipline was necessary. At times the President seemed overwhelmed by the misery of civil war.

  Often his pacing ended on his knees, begging God for help and guidance. God seemed nearer, somehow, since Willie was gone. Willie’s lonely father prayed to find God’s way and for the strength to follow it. And so long nights passed and each day the problems of war mounted.

  War news was usually about movements in the East. People talked about “taking Richmond” and “defending Washington.” Few noticed what the Navy was doing on the Mississippi River or complained to the President that no general had taken that Gibraltar of the river, the fort at Vicksburg, Mississippi. As for Ulysses S. Grant, a West Point graduate, people hardly noticed when he re-entered the army and was sent to serve in the midwest. But Grant was not seeking fame for himself. He was busy planning how to take Vicksburg. It would not easily be won.

  In the spring of 1863, after an uncomfortable, disappointing winter of effort that ended in failure, Grant made a bold plan. With his men he crossed the river from the west and camped south of Vicksburg. At the same time the United States Navy ran the gauntlet of river forts to join him. There, in June, Grant boldly besieged the city. His plans were so well laid and carried out that on July 4th Vicksburg surrendered and on the 9th a Federal steamboat traveled from St. Louis to New Orleans without interference.

  But news of this success was slow in reaching the East because a messenger had to take it 600 twisting miles by steamboat to Cairo before it could be put on the wires!

  During the weeks when Grant was quietly maneuvering near Vicksburg, General Hooker of the Army of the Potomac suffered a bitter defeat at Chancellorsville. Lee’s Confederate army, hoping now to gain a quick victory, moved north—perhaps to raid the rich Shenandoah Valley, perhaps to attack Washington. Hooker cut across to defend the capital. Spies from both armies were cut off and neither knew, at that critical end of June, just where the opposing army was located.

  In this crisis, Hooker was refused more troops and resigned his command. The President, smarting under criticism of Hooker’s recent defeat, ordered George Meade, an officer on Hooker’s staff, to take his place.

  Meade was a good army man, safe rather than brilliant, but he had never planned a battle. Sixty regiments of his army had left for home, their enlistment time ended. In their place, he had thousands of new, untrained recruits. Lee’s army was thought to be near, but Meade, in desperation, wondered where?

  Four days after Meade got his orders, a few of his men literally stumbled onto Lee’s army and a major battle at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, began. The fierce fighting lasted three days; the slaughter was shocking. On the evening of July 4th, Lee gathered what little was left of his army and slipped away. He knew that hope for victory that summer was ended. Efforts to make peace with a recognition of the Confederacy would be futile.

  Meade and the remnant of his army were too exhausted to realize at once that they had won a great victory.

  These two major victories, coming actually on the same day, effectively turned the tide of war. Nearly two years were to pass before the war ended, but after July 4, 1863, there was little question as to which army would ultimately win.

  Weeks after that fateful July day, someone suggested that the government buy land at Gettysburg for a national cemetery. Popular sentiment approved. An October day was set for the dedication and the greatest living orator, Honorable Edward Everett, was asked to make the address. He replied that he needed time to prepare his speech; so the date was changed to November.

  No one suggested that the President speak. The committee wanted an orator who could do justice to this solemn occasion. As an afterthought someone asked Mr. Lincoln to say a few words. “Just say something to set apart formally these grounds to their sacred use,” the President was told.

  Abraham Lincoln accepted and began turning over in his mind what he should say. It must be short—was this the time and place to speak his thoughts about government and the Union? He began to set on paper words to express his exact meaning.

  Late in the evening of November 17th, William Slade, the steward at the White House, came to the President’s study to see if anything was needed before he went off duty. The steward was a free black man from Virginia. His business was buying food used in the White House, catering for parties, and such work. The President liked him and trusted him; Slade had become Mr. Lincoln’s confidential messenger, a kind of valet and personal friend. Lincoln valued Slade as Mrs. Lincoln cherished the friendship of Mrs. Keckley. Now he wanted Slade’s help.

  “Listen to this, William,” Mr. Lincoln said. “See how you think it sounds.” He read aloud the talk he had written for the dedication.

  “I like it, Mr. President,” Slade said. “It’s good.”

  Reassured Lincoln went to bed.

  The next day the President and a large party went from Washington to Gettysburg by special train. In his pocket he had the paper he had read to William Slade. On the train he took it out to make a slight change. Men nearby saw him writing and thought that he had carelessly left writing his speech until this last minute.

  On the 19th the parade formed and marched to the cemetery. Notables sat on a wooden platform and grew bored during the long, long prayer and Everett’s two-hour address. When the President was introduced he seemed just one speaker too many.

  He stepped forward, his kindly eyes on the cold, weary people. His words were spoken in slow, clear tones, easy to follow:

  “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

  “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

  “But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be dedicated here to the great task remaining before us—that from those honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion— that we here highly resolve that those dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shal
l have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

  The echo of his last word faded. There was little applause. As he turned to his seat Lincoln felt that his speech had failed to express his ideals to the people. The crowd broke up and hurried home.

  When people read the speech in the newspapers the next day they thrilled with Lincoln’s noble conception of the purpose of the war. They gained a truer understanding of his high hope for the Union. But it was for later generations to realize that the Gettysburg Address was a literary masterpiece. The world had found in it inspiration to strive for the ideal of government Abraham Lincoln had so eloquently expressed.

  • CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

  “WITH MALICE TOWARD NONE”

  The glow of victories continued through the autumn months. Grant and Meade were heroes of the time. The President’s skill in keeping Kentucky from seceding was little noticed. Few realized that he had kept Missouri as a safety zone, or observed the important work the Navy was doing on the Mississippi River. Lincoln rejoiced in the sense of winning, and he too now felt sure that he had found the right generals.

  General Ulysses S. Grant.

  “The Lord is on our side!” someone remarked and Lincoln answered quickly:

  “I am not so much concerned that the Lord should be on our side,” he said. “I pray daily that we may be on the Lord’s side.”

  Grant followed up his success at Vicksburg with a victory at Chattanooga in November; so early in 1864 the President gave him command of all the Union armies. Congress approved, and revived the rank of Lieutenant General which George Washington had held. Grant was voted this honor and ordered to Washington.

  On the eighth of March (1864) the President and Mrs. Lincoln were giving a reception and word got around that Grant might be there. The rooms were crowded with guests.

  Grant had not expected a party. As he left the train, travelworn and wearing his service uniform, he went directly to the White House.

  The Executive Mansion was brightly lighted, but Grant hardly noticed. He asked to see the President, and was ushered into the crowded rooms. Often the measure of a man’s greatness is shown in such a time. Grant walked forward. A few recognized him from his pictures and drew back, respectfully. Chatter stopped. Grant reached the room where the President was receiving, and the two great men faced each other. They needed no introduction. The short, shabby soldier looked up at the tall gaunt President, and they clasped hands.

  Secretary Seward, ever ready to do the correct thing, introduced the general to Mrs. Lincoln. Guests, recovering breath, cheered till the crystal drops on the chandeliers tinkled. Crowds surged near to shake the general’s hand. Seward edged him to a sofa—from it General Grant spoke briefly, and then met the long line of guests.

  The next morning Grant came again to the White House and his commission as Lieutenant General was formally presented. The President made a short speech, a part of which was:

  “ … As the country herein trusts you, so, under God, it will sustain you… . with what I speak here for the nation goes my own hearty personal concurrence.”

  Now people were hopeful. Few guessed then that a year of fighting was still ahead.

  President Lincoln’s popularity went up and down along with the success of battles. Through the middle of his term he seemed to have more enemies than friends. But after Grant took command that changed.

  In June a convention met in Baltimore to nominate a president. Most men attending were Republicans; but since there were also some who called themselves “War Democrats,” the convention was named the “National Union” convention.

  Mr. Lincoln must have chuckled when he heard what happened there. Now, after the months of bitter criticism, men actually fought for the honor of nominating him for president! He won on the first ballot.

  But popularity is a fragile thing. By August, when the city of Washington was threatened and the rebel army was in sight of the Capitol itself, it seemed that Lincoln could not possibly be elected. He himself did not expect it. That midsummer raid did not succeed, but it hurt people’s faith in the Union. Even Grant slipped from his pedestal, and the mournful song, “We’re Tenting Tonight,” was heard more often than the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  But the autumn successes of Farragut, Grant, and Sherman changed everything again, and Lincoln won the election.

  “If I know my heart,” Lincoln said when he was congratulated, “my gratitude is free from any taint of personal triumph.”

  Thoughtful voters may have been surprised when they learned that Lincoln was elected by a large majority although he was in disagreement with the Congress (which was elected then too) on the next most important problem—what to do with the South after the war. His triumph was clearly a personal victory; was it also a vote of confidence for his determination to consider rebellious states as still members of the Union? Only time would answer that question.

  And now Abraham Lincoln prepared for another inauguration. The war seemed to be ending. His thoughts were about how to unite a nation of brothers who had been enemies. No one knew just what Lincoln had in his mind to do. But all knew that he wished for justice, tempered with mercy.

  “We must not sully victory with harshness,” was an idea he often expressed. But paying Southerners for slaves and softening defeat with kindness were not popular ideas around the President. It was a hard winter, with need every day to watch his words.

  Lincoln aged rapidly during this time. He had little recreation to balance his responsibilities. Parties were stiff, formal affairs—no rest for a weary man. Summers, the Lincolns lived in a cottage at the Soldiers’ Home outside of Washington, and the President enjoyed the trips to and from his office. Winters, he was much confined.

  Washington life had been disappointing to Mrs. Lincoln. She was an ambitious woman, and the bitter criticism of the President and herself had been hard to endure. Like many others she had family ties on both sides of the fighting. That strain, Willie’s death, and her own difficult nature made her draw into herself.

  The one amusement which both Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln enjoyed in the winter was the theater. They attended whenever a Shakespearean play or other good bill was shown. The marshal at the White House worried about Lincoln’s safety. The President had no fear! He would walk around the city, drive to the country, or sit in an open box at the theater—how could they guard a man like that? But Lincoln went his way, unafraid. And March came.

  The rain dripped, bleak and cold, on the second inaugural day. But crowds stood patiently before the Capitol building. When the President appeared, they cheered wildly. At that instant the sun broke through and the wide plaza gleamed warmly. Many thought it a divine omen for good.

  The inaugural address was deeply religious. Passages sounded like the verses from Isaiah that Tilly Johnston had heard Abe reciting in the woods near Pigeon Creek so long ago. The Bible had been Lincoln’s guide in writing this address: he needed God’s word more than the writings of statesmen if he was to help the country now. People listened in hushed silence. His closing words would be long remembered: “With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us the strength to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work that 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 lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”

  Later in March the President planned a little journey down the Potomac aboard the River Queen. Mrs. Lincoln and Tad went along, and Robert’s fiancée. Robert was a captain on Grant’s staff. They would see Robert, of course, and the general. Lincoln had liked Grant since that first meeting at the reception. He could talk frankly to him. The order to Sherman to come and meet with Grant and Lincoln was not generally known, but he was there.

  On April 2nd, five days after Lincoln had con
ferred with Grant and Sherman, Richmond fell. Jefferson Davis and his cabinet hurriedly left the city; Lee’s army gave up hope of defending the Confederate capital, and the Union general, Weitzel, was marching to take charge. The end of the long war could not be more than a few days away.

  As soon as torpedoes were removed from the river, the President with Admiral Porter as escort, proceeded to Richmond. Lincoln wished to make a personal inspection. This visit to the fallen city, which he had never seen, must have been one of the big moments in Abraham Lincoln’s life. It was no formal entrance, just a walk with Tad to the mansion Jefferson Davis had vacated. A few black men were working on the wharf; as Lincoln and Tad walked from the boat, one recognized him.

  “Glory Hallelujah!” the man shouted and ran to kneel before the President.

  “Don’t kneel to me!” Lincoln exclaimed. “You must kneel to God only!” But the man did not move.

  “ ’Scuse us, sir, we mean no disrespect … we mean all love and gratitude.” Others ran to kneel, too, and they began to sing a hymn. It was with difficulty that Lincoln moved forward. Up the streets, as far as he could see were singing, shouting people.

  The tall man walked slowly, holding his son’s hand. Tad was twelve now, but small for his age. He was not afraid; his eyes sparkled, and he smiled. The President’s face showed gentleness and concern. White people, peeping from shuttered windows, looked at him, astonished. Was this man the monster of the dreadful tales they had heard? He looked like a friendly neighbor coming to visit!

  When the crowd became too great, Lincoln spoke again.

  “I have but little time to spare,” he told them. “I want to see your capital and must return at once to Washington to secure for you that liberty which you seem to prize so highly.” So they let him move on.