by Jim Bishop
Now, the two women felt that the war was over, and that John would soon be home.
Mrs. Surratt read the Maryland letter by herself. It was from Charles Calvert, and he noted that he had tried, by every honorable means, to collect the money due him, and had failed. His lawyers had sought a judgment for the full amount in Maryland District Court. He would not have done this, Mr. Calvert said, except that he had met John Nothey, who had owed the Surratts $479 for thirteen years, and Mr. Nothey had said that he had tried to arrange a settlement of the debt, but that Mrs. Surratt did not seem interested in coming to terms. The little widow showed flashing indignation and said that, somehow, she would have to get to Surrattsville today. Mr. Wiechman usually drove her when John wasn’t home, but the boarder was working and there was no man around to help. Still, she was determined to have a showdown with Mr. Nothey that day.
At the War Department office, immediately west of the White House, General Ulysses Simpson Grant was finishing his war’s-end work. He stood, short and squat, tunic open, cigar in mouth, eyes squinting against the sight of the papers on the desk, and he approved the recommendations which would now go to Stanton.
The Secretary of War had been kind, in a curt, formal manner, to the hero of the Civil War. He had assigned a special office to him, saw to it that help was available, and had insisted that the general bring Mrs. Grant to the Stanton home. The secretary did not permit the general to forget that Stanton was boss but, other than that, he was somewhat pleased to find that the general was genuinely modest, did not want any honors, dreaded public appearances, asked for no voice in matters of policy, and wanted to visit his children in Burlington, New Jersey.
The secretary was surprised to find that, in Grant, there was nothing to guard against. He had asked the general, when he had come in from the front, to sketch a plan for cutting the size of the United States Army to something approaching a peacetime level, and to mark off which contracts for munitions and supplies could be canceled at once.
Grant had worked two days on the problem, often walking across the hall to the secretary’s office for advice, going to the telegraph office to send dispatches, and digging into contract records. Now he had shown which divisions could be cut to what size (the Union Army would still have to patrol much of the South); and he had canceled contracts for items like shovels, ambulances, bayonets, cannonballs, food, uniforms, shoes. He found time to write two telegrams to General Meade, at Burke’s Station, Virginia, granting permission to two Confederate messengers to return to Danville.
When the work was done, he went into Stanton’s office and sat with the secretary. Mr. Stanton, fearful as always that President Lincoln would stumble, had sat up late last night working on his draft of proposals for peace in the South. He was still working on it. Grant told Stanton today, as he had on Thursday, of Mr. Lincoln’s wish that the Grants accompany them to the theater tonight, but that neither one felt like attending. He did not tell something that Stanton may not have known at all: that Julia Dent Grant did not want to attend the theater tonight in the company of Mrs. Lincoln. In any case, the general said, he wanted to see his two children.
Stanton’s silken whiskers hung over his papers and his head swung from side to side as he studied, first one draft of his peace proposals, then the other. He talked in short bursts and what he said was that he and Mrs. Stanton always turned down presidential invitations to the theater; they were, in fact, turning another one down this morning. His advice was not to feel bad; if the Grants did not go, the Lincolns would find someone else. The Cabinet members, he said, had all turned down such invitations and the Lincolns did not seem to be offended.
Grant felt better. He said that he was never much of a man for public appearances anyway, and he turned to his cipher operator, Samuel Beckwith, as though for confirmation. Mr. Stanton said that his advice to the general would be to wait until the Cabinet meeting at eleven, and then tell the President that he must decline. He added that Washington City was seething with intrigue, that, in some ways, it was as “Secesh” as Richmond, and that he had repeatedly asked Lincoln not to expose himself, either in theaters or at public gatherings.
The general and his cipher operator left the secretary’s office and Grant sent a messenger to Mrs. Grant, at the Willard, to make arrangements to leave tonight for Burlington.
Lincoln did not know this.
10 a.m.
A convalescent sun came out, weak and pale, and young buds and rooftops glistened in the cool air. Ships which had been anchored downstream, loaded with prisoners, began to hoist anchor and sail and move upward against the southwesterly breeze.
In Charleston at this time of day, men stood proud and men stood sullen as they watched the Stars and Stripes lift jerkily up the halyard at Fort Sumter where, four years ago, it had come down. On the mainland, the Federal artillery belched fire and rattled the windows of the homes and the churches of Charleston.
An old alien authority had returned to South Carolina and the Union was going to have its celebration even if it had to do its own applauding. The slate blue smoke was lifting over the harbor when the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher spoke the speech that few Southerners believed—that the war was the fault of a small ruling class in the South, that the common people of the South would join their brethren of the North and rule the United States, that there was honor for all in this peace. Then he thanked God, who had sustained the life of the President, “under the unparalleled burdens and sufferings of four bloody years, and permitted him to behold this auspicious confirmation of that national unity for which he has waited with so much patience and fortitude. . . .”
In the White House, the man with so much patience saw a lawyer from Detroit, named William Alanson Howard. Then ex-Senator John P. Hale of New Hampshire, newly appointed to be Minister to Spain, sat down for a chat. He had served sixteen years in the United States Senate and he had permitted himself to become the biggest bone in a factional fight and had been defeated for reelection. Now he was grateful for an appointment to a $12,000-a-year job.
Nothing was said of his lame-duck status, and Lincoln was not the one to mention Hale’s slashing attacks against the administration. The ex-Senator had confided to friends that, in one way, he was glad to leave the country because his daughter Bessie, he found, had succumbed to the blandishments of an actor named Wilkes Booth and he did not want an actor in the family; but that a sea voyage, and a long stay in Spain, would help the girl to forget the man.
Lincoln advised Hale to keep Assistant Secretary of State Frederick Seward informed of his preparations to leave, at least until the secretary was well enough to conduct the business of the department. The two men parted with a handshake.
The next visitor was shown into the office. For this man, the President arose from his big chair and came around to the other side of the desk for a warm handclasp. He was John A. J. Cresswell, the man who was credited with keeping Maryland from seceding from the Union. Lincoln, catching his mood from the broad beams of sunlight coming through the east windows, sat back in his chair and slapped both hands on the polished oak arms.
“Cresswell, old fellow,” he said happily, “everything is bright this morning. The war is over. It has been a tough time, but we have lived it out”—then his voice dropped—“or some of us have.”
In a moment, the notation of mass death was gone, and he said: “But it is over. We are going to have good times now, and a united country.”
Cresswell agreed. The two men chatted about family welfare and the unique feeling of peace, and at last Mr. Cresswell got around to the favor he wanted to ask. It seems that a friend of his had gone south and, through some inadvertence, had enrolled in the Confederate Army. He had fallen into the hands of the Union Army and was now a prisoner. This friend had intended no harm, but there it was.
The President listened. Mr. Cresswell reached into his pocket and withdrew some papers. They were affidavits bearing on the friend’s good character. “I know he
acted like a fool,” Mr. Cresswell said, “but he is my friend and a good fellow. Let him out, give him to me, and I will be responsible for him.”
Lincoln’s long fingers held a letter opener and he studied it as he turned the instrument in his hands. The ebullience of a few minutes ago was gone.
“Cresswell,” he said, “you make me think of a lot of young folks who once started out Maying. To reach their destination, they had to cross a shallow stream, and did so by means of an old flat boat. When they came to return, they found to their dismay that the old scow had disappeared.
“They were in sore trouble and thought over all manner of devices for getting over the water, but without avail. After a time, one of the boys proposed that each fellow should pick up the girl he liked best and wade over with her. The masterly proposition was carried out, until all that were left upon the island was a little short chap and a great, long, gothic-built elderly lady. Now, Cresswell, you are trying to leave me in the same predicament. You fellows are all getting your own friends out of this scrape, and you will succeed in carrying off one after another until nobody but Jeff Davis and myself will be left on the island, and then I won’t know what to do. How should I feel? How should I look lugging him over? I guess the way to avoid such an embarrassing situation is to let them all out at once.”
Mr. Cresswell left, his mission unaccomplished. Afterward, other visitors came and left in rapid succession. Some sought pardons, one wanted a service discharge, others asked for approval to buy contraband in the South. The President wrote short notes directing department heads to take care of certain minor matters and, when two Southerners sent in word that they would like to have a pass to revisit Richmond, Mr. Lincoln sent a note out to them:
“No pass is necessary now to authorize anyone to go to and return from Petersburg and Richmond. People go and return as they did before the war.”
In a momentary lull, he called for a messenger and asked him to run over to Tenth Street to Ford’s Theatre and to tell the manager that the President would require the State Box for the evening performance and to explain that General Grant would be in the party. He probably forgot to mention Mrs. Grant because the newspaper accounts later in the day did not mention her.
Mr. Lincoln took care of this chore early for two reasons: one was that the impending Cabinet meeting might last a long time. The second was that he had a feeling that the last big Southern army, under General Joseph Johnston, would capitulate to General William T. Sherman this day, and he wanted very much to wait this news out either in his office or in the War Department telegraph office and this would leave him too busy to think of the theater.
Someone, perhaps Major Thomas T. Eckert, chief of the Telegraph Office, reminded Secretary Stanton that today was Good Friday. Mr. Stanton said that he was aware of the day. The subordinate said that many Christians, on this day, are in the habit of attending services or merely visiting churches. At once, Stanton wrote an order stating that all clerks under his jurisdiction, in whatever department, would be permitted to leave at once to attend services if they so desired. Copies of the order went out, and a carbon was signaled to all the forts and military installations in and around Washington. It would be left to the discretion of the commanding officer, in each case, to decide whether the individual could be spared from service for the day.
Across Long Bridge, two weary regiments trooped into Washington City and, without music or drums, marched down the Avenue. The men looked dusty. In ranks of four, they marched out of step, gawking at the city sights, the hotels, the restaurants, the taverns, the citizens standing on the north side of the Avenue, and especially at the patriotic women who waved handkerchiefs.
The boys were coming home from Virginia and the dirty blue columns would be marching day after day after day down the Avenue, until, in time, few pedestrians would pause to notice, and no handkerchiefs would flutter an engaging welcome. The men would still gawk, and spit tobacco juice, and make obscene remarks, but the only thing about them that would catch the warmth of light would be their bayonets.
The messenger reached Ford’s Theatre at 10:30 A.M. and James R. Ford, business manager, was in the front office when he arrived. He heard the news, particularly about General Grant, with gratitude and enthusiasm. He sent the messenger back to the White House with word that the box was indeed available, that the Ford management was honored to have the President of the United States and his party as guests, and that suitable measures would be taken to entertain him.
Mr. James Ford couldn’t stop smiling. Inside, a rehearsal was going on for Our American Cousin, and Ford had, until this moment, felt certain that Laura Keene and her company would be playing to an almost empty house on this final night of the engagement. Every theater manager knew that Easter week was the worst, for business, of the year. And the worst night of the worst week, by far, was Good Friday.
To make matters more discouraging for the Fords, their rival, Mr. Hess, had advertised that tonight Grover’s Theatre would put on a monster victory celebration with lights and special songs. Ford had nothing to compete with it except an old comedy which, without Laura Keene’s infusing fire, would have burned itself out long ago. Now suddenly, miraculously, the evening had been saved, and Ford realized that he must have Mrs. Lincoln to thank because, although the President had attended Ford’s three times in the closing season, all three performances had been Shakespearean plays with Edwin Forrest. Ford could not imagine Mr. Lincoln volunteering to see Our American Cousin. It was not in character.
Still, a man has no right to question his own good fortune, and Mr. Ford bustled around the theater, passing the news to his younger brother and the actors on the stage. He stressed the fact that, while Lincoln was a fine attraction, General Grant would be the personage who would bring the crowd. Mr. Ford hurried out of the theater and over to the new Treasury building to get some bunting with which to decorate the State Box.
The exultation which James Ford felt is the more understandable because his older brother, Mr. John Ford, the owner of the theater was, at the time, in Richmond. For a week, James and young Harry Clay Ford were running the place. It was a coup to get the President of the United States on the poorest night of the year, but to get General Ulysses S. Grant was a major triumph.
John Ford, when he returned, would be pleased with his brothers. He was a veteran theater owner and manager, and had had houses in Baltimore and in Richmond. Once, by political accident, he had been Acting Mayor of Baltimore. He was known as a stubborn and independent businessman, but he was a family man too and, in spite of eleven children at home, he found time to worry about the safety of an aged uncle and a mother-in-law in Richmond. He had gone off to assure himself of their safety.
11 a.m.
The clocks were booming the hour when big Louis Wiechman, at work in the office of the Commissary General of Prisons, heard the news that Secretary Stanton would permit Christian churchgoers to attend services. At once, Wiechman asked for time off and, when it was granted, he asked if he must return to the office later. He was told that it would not be necessary to come back.
En route back to the Surratt boardinghouse, Louis Wiechman stopped in St. Matthew’s Roman Catholic Church for a visit. This was at 15th and H, diagonally behind Seward’s home, and a block away from the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church, where the Lincolns worshipped on occasion.
The President did not attend on this day. He sat at the small table between the big sunny windows chatting with the members of the Cabinet and greeting guests as they arrived for this important meeting. This one, he knew, would set the tone for the future of the South—and, by that token, the future of the North—and what was decided here today could hardly be thwarted by Congress before December, a cushion of eight months.
And so he was extra jovial in his greeting, standing to shake hands with a newcomer like General Grant, at which point the Cabinet members broke into applause. The two men sat near the window and chatted, while the other men b
roke into conversational groups. Frederick Seward came in, told the President that his father was improving slowly, then stepped away to permit Colonel Horace Porter to greet Mr. Lincoln.
The Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Welles, came in and sat in his Cabinet chair at the big table. He was puffing from the exertion of walking up the steps and down the long corridor. The Secretary of the Interior, John P. Usher, sat across from Welles and talked of spending a good part of the summer in Indiana. The newest member of the Cabinet, Hugh McCulloch, Secretary of the Treasury and the butt of Lincoln’s gentle jokes about money, stood by himself at the start of his third Cabinet meeting, as though waiting to be asked to talk to someone. The curly-bearded snob from Ohio, Postmaster General William Dennison, did not ask him nor anyone else.
James Speed, the Attorney General, with a head like a ball anchor with moss dripping from the bottom, nodded to Mr. Lincoln and the President asked everyone to be seated at the Cabinet table. All hands were present except Secretary of State Seward, who was represented by his son; Vice President Andrew Johnson, who might have been invited but wasn’t; and Secretary of War Stanton, who often arrived late.
The President sat almost sideways at the head of the table so that he could cross his legs, and opened the meeting by asking if there was any news of General Sherman. There was none, said General Grant softly, when he had left the War Department. No news from Sherman meant no news of surrender from General Joseph Johnston. The President said that he had a feeling that there would be news before the day was out.
He started to tell a story, in a soft, deprecating way, about a recurring dream he had had, and he had engaged the attention of his appointees when Mr. Stanton arrived, dropping his hat and coat in the anteroom, and apologized for being late. He said that he had hoped to bring great news of General Sherman, but he had none.
