The Field of Blood

by Joanne B. Freeman

  Douglas’s proposal stunned many Northerners, including French. Why repeal the Missouri Compromise? And why now? French considered the so-called Nebraska bill both dangerous and unnecessary, a “firebrand that would set the whole Union on fire.”28 In addition, he felt sure that the bill would ravage the ranks of the Democracy by alienating Northerners; Pierce might control Congress, but he couldn’t control “the people of the Free states.”29 French predicted that “not a single northern man, from President Pierce down to the most insignificant politician who goes for it, will be sustained by the people of the free states!”30 It was an exaggeration but not by much. In the midterm election, Democrats lost seventy-five seats in the House and only seven of the forty-four Northern Democrats who voted for the bill were reelected; two years later, Pierce wasn’t renominated for the presidency.31

  Outrage at the bill’s implications was amply apparent in Congress. With a precedent-setting crisis at hand that could tip the balance of power in the Union, and the South-leaning Democratic majority likely to pass the bill, “anti-Nebraska” Northerners took a strong stand. In 1850, Northerners had defied Southern bullying with a new power. Four years later, they went further, declaring themselves willing to fight.32

  The press North, South, and West echoed this dynamic, framing the debate as a do-or-die battle against proslavery or antislavery plots to steal the soul of the Union.33 Anti-Nebraska papers played up Southern bullying, portraying Senator Stephen Douglas as a blustering Slave Power tool who bullied only non-combatants, and damning Pierce as both an iron-fisted Democratic tyrant and a pliant tool of the South. Pierce and Douglas were orchestrating an underhanded plan to spread slavery throughout the Union, these papers argued; the Fugitive Slave Act proved such intentions all too well. “Nebraskite” newspapers returned the favor, denouncing the unruly tactics of anti-Nebraskans who seemed willing to do anything to destroy slavery and the South, and praising the noble Northern Democrats who supported the bill.34

  The echoes of 1850 were undeniable, but the thrust of the press coverage was far more focused on weaving tales of organized underhanded sectional conspiracies.35 Framed in this light, congressional violence became more than a parliamentary ploy. It was smoking-gun evidence of a sectional plot in progress: proof of the controlling hand of Pierce, Douglas, and the domineering Slave Power, or proof of how far fanatical antislavery Northerners were willing to go. With the American press fanning the flames of sectionalism, the Kansas-Nebraska crisis moved congressional violence to center stage.36

  Of course, the American press had a long history of dire predictions about slavery and sectionalism. But by the 1850s, its reach had grown dramatically and news traveled faster than ever before.37 Steam-powered and then rotary printing presses, railroads, the telegraph, and innovations in paper-making spread news nationally with alarming speed—alarming, that is, for congressmen who were accustomed to shaping their own press narratives. Those same technologies brought more out-of-town reporters to Washington who could say what they liked because they owed nothing to congressmen. Profit-driven New York City newspapers gained nation-shaking influence in this period, displacing Washington’s long-standing party organs as major sources of congressional news coverage; New York City editors became power brokers who could make or break congressional careers.

  During the sectional crises of the 1850s, the repercussions of this more independent press were severe. By framing those crises for maximum impact, newspapers created an endless loop of sectional strife: congressmen issued rallying cries to their constituents from the floor; the press played up the implications; and the public urged their congressmen to fight for their rights with letters, petitions, and demonstrations as well as with their votes. These extreme emotions were spread throughout the Union with ever-increasing speed and efficiency.38 Just as the nation’s slavery problem intensified because of western expansion, dangerous words and violent actions in the halls of Congress gained greater reach and influence, stoking sectional passions in the process.

  The product of this cycle of stridency was pronounced. By portraying Congress as an institution of extremes—extreme rhetoric, extreme policies, extreme belligerence; a den of braggarts and brawlers; a place of sectional conflict waged by sectional champions—the press downplayed the appeal and even the possibility of compromise. Caught in the cross-fire with urgent decisions at hand, congressmen sided with their section more consistently and defiantly than ever before.

  The lingering tug of eroding party loyalties only made matters worse, intensifying the pressures of the floor. There were no clean divides between Whig and Democrat, North and South; the crisis advanced man by man, choice by choice. In more ways than one, the halls of Congress became a theater of conflict. The deaths of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay in 1852 seemed to confirm the passing of the spirit of compromise as well as the passing of a generation. Violated pacts and talk of sectional plots pushed cross-sectional trust to an all-time low; as portrayed in the press, neither North nor South was fighting a fair fight.

  With newspapers connecting the dots, displaying and deploring congressional threats and violence with full-throated zeal, public opinion of Congress began a downward spiral of doubt that would continue for some time to come.39 National institutions of all kinds were under fire at precisely the moment when their influence most mattered. Ironically, the workings of a free press enforcing congressional accountability—the very touchstone of democracy—were helping to tear the nation apart. Democracy is an ongoing conversation between the governed and their governors; it should come as no surprise that dramatic changes in the modes of conversation cause dramatic changes in democracies themselves.

  The Democracy was hit hard by these changes; doughfaces abandoned the party by the score. French’s journey was typical of many; congressional insider and inveterate newsman that he was, even he wasn’t immune to the furies of the press and the evolving narrative of sectional warfare. Although in 1852 French promoted Franklin Pierce as a man for all sections, less than three years later he was damning Pierce as a tool of the slavocrats, and damning the slavocrats for their nefarious plot. Somewhat fittingly for a man who devoted so much time to priming the press, newspapers ultimately pushed French to cross the fateful line from defending the Union at any cost to defending the Union as he thought it should be.

  A CONGRESS THAT NEVER WAS

  In a sense, as a Pierce promoter in the 1852 election, French was as skilled a “romancer” as Hawthorne. Winning a presidential campaign demanded no less, particularly amid rampant sectional distrust. This isn’t to say that French openly lied; as he put it, he tried “to keep on the hither side of truth.” But he didn’t tell all that he knew about Pierce, noting that it was better “when the sun is too hot, to travel where it’s a little shady.”40

  The “hither side of truth” is a good way to describe congressional press coverage during much of the first half of the nineteenth century. As interested as the public was in congressional doings—and judging by the number of column inches devoted to Congress, the public was interested—it was difficult, if not impossible, for readers to get an accurate account of what happened on the floor.41

  This wasn’t for lack of coverage. A single issue of a typical newspaper—usually four pages of close type—might contain a lengthy summary of debates in both houses, several articles on congressional politics, and a spicy account of congressional rumors and rumblings framed as a letter to the editor from a reporter on location. Congressmen also published the occasional letter defending themselves or attacking a foe.42 In addition, they printed and mailed copies of their speeches by the thousands, sometimes by the tens of thousands. There were many avenues of access to Congress.

  For a time, congressional press coverage was a largely local enterprise, with two Washington newspapers offering abstracts of debates. The National Intelligencer covered Congress beginning in 1800, when the nation’s capital moved to Washington; from 1824 to 1837, the editors Joseph Gales, Jr., a
nd William Seaton also published an annual record of congressional coverage called the Register of Debates. The daily Globe arrived in 1821, founded by the editors Francis Preston Blair and John Cook Rives; beginning in 1833, they also published a weekly record of debate titled—appropriately enough—the Congressional Globe, though most people simply called it the Globe.43 Although not official government records, these publications were the period’s equivalent of the Congressional Record. Reprinted in newspapers around the country, they were also the nation’s main access to Congress.44

  Yet they were hardly objective. For one thing, as party organs, they were unquestionably partisan. The Intelligencer began as a Jeffersonian Republican paper and later became Whiggish. The Globe was Democratic. Bound to politicians through ties of patronage and woven into the workings of government (congressional printers were sworn officers), the Globe and the Intelligencer worked for the company in a company town. Not surprisingly, both papers routinely played up friends and played down foes, whose howling protests appeared on their pages, though to preserve their reputations as “journal-like” public records, they couldn’t stray too far from center. Thus French’s liking for the Whig Intelligencer, which he read first thing every morning. As much as he disliked its politics, he considered it “the Chief Justice Marshall of newspapers”—simple, dignified, and straightforward. The Globe had too much “stilted dignity” for his taste.45

  Both papers also were selective in their coverage. “Leading” speeches were included; lesser attempts were not. Abstracts of debate were exceedingly patchy; the Globe promised only “sketches.” Legislative proceedings were documented in detail, but most congressional mayhem was missing or glossed over, apart from blowups too big to ignore.

  Given the power of threats and violence during debate, their absence is striking—though logical. As official congressional records of a sort, both papers had a certain institutional dignity to uphold. As party organs, they also had to appease their congressional patrons, and as eager as some congressmen were to pose as champions, most of them didn’t want to look like thugs. Even bullies wanted their most savage bullying suppressed, as more than one reporter learned the hard way by reporting it. In fact, for the sake of their skin, reporters were well advised to avoid recording insults altogether; it was too easy to become entangled in their impact. As one reporter put it, insults were “dangerous things for Reporters to meddle with.”46 The potential reward for such censorship was mighty: government printing contracts often meant survival for a struggling party press, and Congress was a major source of funding.47 Until 1861, there was no government printing office, so Washington papers filled the gap and reaped the profits.

  Thus the remarkably well-behaved Congress of record. In the Intelligencer and the Globe, there are few personal insults, though plenty of bravado. Physical clashes—if mentioned at all—are reduced to the barest detail. There are no weapons, unless a congressman mentions having seen one. (French saw “pistols in hand” during an 1836 fight but knew not to mention it.)48 Personal apologies appear in all their glory, but more often than not the clash that prompted them is nowhere to be found.49

  Not that there aren’t clues. Evidence of violence abounds between the lines. Personal insults are often summed up as “remarks of an unfortunately personal nature.” A fistfight might be described as “an altercation of an angry and painfully personal character.” A violent uproar might appear as “a sensation.” Occasionally there was more detail, particularly when dozens of congressmen rushed toward a fight, allegedly to break it up but often to join in; such chaos was hard to hide. But even these episodes were usually glossed over as “indescribable confusion and calls to order.”50

  During the rancorous Kansas debate, Washington newspapers would have been hard-pressed to eliminate all of the violence, and indeed they include plenty of angry exchanges, though almost always with the rough edges smoothed away. Note for example the Globe’s account of an 1854 confrontation between two Tennesseans on opposite sides of the aisle. Outraged by Whig William Cullom’s speech denouncing the Nebraska bill, the Democrat William Churchwell sneered that abolitionists had applauded it. Cullom had a sharp comeback, but not as sharp as the one that he inserted in the Globe’s account of their exchange. Seeing that account the next day, Churchwell called Cullom a liar. At this, reported the Globe, “Mr. CULLOM rose from his seat and rushed towards Mr. CHURCHWELL with threatening gestures,” raising “loud shouts of ‘Order!’ and the greatest confusion.” This was spicy stuff for the Globe but the truth was spicier: Churchwell pulled a gun on Cullom. Globe readers discovered this only when it was discussed during lamentation speeches the next day. As always, little came of the lamentation aside from the burst of laughter and applause that greeted one freshman’s suggestion to put a gun rack in the rotunda to keep weapons off the floor. Two years later, that well-meaning freshman—Preston Brooks (D-SC)—showed what harm could be inflicted without a gun when he caned Senator Charles Sumner (R-MA).51

  The appendix to the Globe had even fewer rough edges, though it was sometimes more extreme. Published throughout each session, it contained speeches “written out by the members themselves, so that, if the reporters unintentionally make mistakes, these inaccuracies stand corrected.”52 In other words, the appendix included speeches as congressmen wished they’d made them. Exceptionally controversial or lengthy speeches often appeared only in the appendix. The regular Globe is full of meandering oratory, interruptions, questions, and the occasional joke or threat. The appendix is a symphony of soliloquies filled with lofty sentiments and bold stands. For example, the Globe reported an 1844 argument in the House sparked by the gag rule debate, during which Armistead Burt (D-SC) growled that he’d be responsible for some insults “elsewhere,” meaning in a duel or a street fight. In the appendix, Burt states that he is “restrained, no less by [my] own self-esteem than a just respect for my constituents, from entering into any vindication … here.” The original version was an open threat; the appendix stripped much of the bullying away.53 Filled with carefully edited showpiece speeches, the appendix truly created a Congress that never was.

  If the public knew the truth about Congress they would hold their representatives to account, French thought.54 There would be less dilly-dallying, less misuse of public funds, less stealing of stationery. But Washington newspapers weren’t in the business of truth-telling. Together, Washington newsmen and congressmen created Congress as they needed it to be. Congressional coverage in the Washington papers was as much a record of that partnership as it was a record of Congress.

  THE PARTNERSHIP OF THE PRESS

  French was part of that partnership for most of his adult life; newspapers were the making and breaking of his political career. His work as a Jacksonian editor in New Hampshire raised him to the national stage, where his yeoman’s efforts for the Democratic press promoted both his party and his reputation. By the 1840s, for at least some of the newspaper-reading public, French had a modest national presence. But that presence hurt him during the tumultuous years just before and after the Civil War. In the mid-1850s, newspapers exposed French’s wavering Democratic loyalties and drove him to make some hard choices; after the war, they exposed his wavering loyalties once again and lost him a job. It was hard to be moderate in immoderate times. The shaming capabilities of the press made it harder. Even as a member of what he called the “Press gang,” French was constantly surprised by the power of the press.55

  That didn’t stop him from trying to corral its influence; it would be hard to exaggerate the time and effort that French devoted to the press. In the service of his party, he was tireless; when he wasn’t writing for newspapers, he was reading them. During elections, he combed through countless papers from all over the country searching for useful tidbits and a broad national view.56 During Pierce’s presidential campaign, French also kept watch for fires to extinguish, and there were plenty. (Who was Franklin Pierce?) He countered such slurs in the Union, which in turn was q
uoted in other papers.

  But the press was more than a political weapon for French. It was his public voice; it gave him a public presence. He needed little if any reason to plunge into print, and his political and editorial connections provided ready outlets. French eulogized men of note in the press. Unusual snowstorm? French would be chirping about snowstorms past in the next day’s paper.57 Inaccurate weather report? French corrected it with ready readings from his own thermometers.58 He refuted any and every slash at his reputation, often the next day. (His half brother Henry called it “pouncing.”59) His Masonic writings alone fill hundreds of pages.60 And of course there were his poems, scores of them. Patriotic, Masonic, commemorative, or melancholy, they were French’s way of sharing his feelings with the world and proving himself the man of letters that he yearned to be.

  French was doing what many public figures did just as rigorously if not more so: crafting and protecting his image in the press. Congressmen, however, faced special challenges. Not only were their reputations at the mercy of the press, but their jobs depended on it. As representatives, they were accountable to their constituents for their words and actions as they appeared on the pages of newspapers. Thus their compulsive concern with press reports of their speeches.

  Only in print were a congressman’s words substantiated; only then were they real. Many a man verified harsh words in newspapers before throwing a punch or issuing a challenge. What mattered was what the public saw and heard. Unreported, a speech was “as if it had never been made,” complained John Quincy Adams when one of his speeches—a “random shot”—wasn’t recorded.61 Congress revolved around the spoken word; committing those words to paper brought the process of representation to life.