American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  In May 1860, Lincoln was nominated to be the Republican candidate for president. Seward’s opponents were relieved, but hardly in a mood to celebrate; the Democratic Party was badly splintered, and no single candidate appeared able to overcome the advantage of Republicans united under Lincoln. Though the Illinoisan was not as obnoxious to Southerners as Seward was, he shared the same values and goals—and more important, the same power base.

  That summer, when Booth was in New York to attend the wedding of Edwin and Mary Devlin, he got in touch with Matthew W. Canning, Jr., a Philadelphia lawyer and part owner of some playhouses in the South. Canning had put together a touring company for the coming season, and on Edwin’s recommendation, he signed John Wilkes as its leading man. After three years of stock acting, John Wilkes Booth was about to become a star.

  SEVEN

  “THE MAN OF GENIUS IN THE BOOTH FAMILY”

  THE SEASON BEGAN IN COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, WHERE PAPERS announced that John Wilkes Booth and Mary Mitchell would appear in Romeo and Juliet at Temperance Hall. It was Booth’s first performance as a leading man, and critics were favorably impressed. The Daily Sun found him “not so much experienced as Edwin, but bids fair soon to equal him. He has all the promise, and in personal appearance is handsome and prepossessing.” Booth quickly became a sensation with the ladies. They fussed over him, primped for him, and pined for a few breathless words with him. As one actress later wrote, “as the sunflowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him.” Booth left many a fluttering heart in his wake.1

  Even now, he had a confidence and assertiveness that had taken Edwin years to develop. Knowing how closely the critics would look, he still chose to open with Romeo, a part he had never played before, and to follow it with Kotzebue’s The Stranger, also for the first time. Then, for his benefit performance, he played Richard III, a challenging role that would certainly invite comparisons to the elder Booth. Apparently he was up to the task; a critic for the Daily Times had no doubt that the son would do credit to his father’s memory. And as he pointed out, Booth was a Southern patriot.

  “When John Brown made his raid into Virginia, Mr. Wilkes was playing in Richmond. So soon as the tocsin of the alarm was sounded and call made for volunteers to defend Southern honor and Southern homes, he, among the first, doffed the sock and buskin, and donning the musket, and knapsack, did faithful service until peace and quiet were restored to the borders of the Old Dominion. For this, at least, to say nothing of his merits as an actor, he should receive a bumper. Let us give him one worthy alike of the actor in peace—the soldier in war.”2

  John Wilkes Booth would always be associated with the capture of John Brown, and for the rest of his life he would encourage the belief that he had taken part in that event. In fact, he missed it entirely.

  Hamlet was announced on October 12, but things did not go as planned. An hour before curtain time, Booth was in manager Matt Canning’s hotel room, going through his lines with actor Johnny Albaugh, when Canning came in looking exhausted. Booth was concerned. “Now, you must let me nurse you,” he said. “You are fagged out.” The manager replied that he only wanted to go to sleep. As he lay on the bed, Booth noticed a pistol jutting out of Canning’s back pocket and saw an opportunity to show off. Sliding the weapon out, he carefully took aim at a mark on the opposite wall. The loud discharge brought the startled Canning instantly to his feet. Booth was a superb marksman, but this time he missed the mark, and he wanted to have another shot at it. Canning, on the other hand, just wanted to get his heart back out of his throat. He insisted on having his gun back, but Booth would not give it up. They fussed over it, and as they did, Booth noticed some rust on the barrel. He got the manager to hold the weapon while he scraped it off with his pocketknife. The pistol discharged, and the ball struck Booth in the thigh, barely missing the femoral artery. It was a serious wound, and one that might have ended his career, if not his life. Albaugh played the role of Hamlet that night and became the company’s new star; Booth remained in the hotel for weeks of recuperation. He did not return to the stage until the end of the engagement, and then just long enough to recite Marc Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar. It was a feeble effort, but he wanted to show the city of Columbus that he had not forgotten its kindness to him. 3

  Though only partially recovered, Booth swept into Montgomery, Alabama, where patrons turned out in record numbers to see him. He was the toast of the city, and one fan even named a racehorse in his honor. Everyone agreed that his Columbus opening had been no fluke. His career was off to a phenomenal start. He was the darling of society, the favorite of critics, and the idol of countless belles.4

  He was still there on November 6, when Abraham Lincoln was elected president. In the four-way race, Lincoln had won only 39 percent of the popular vote, but a wide electoral majority. The divide was especially pronounced along the Mason-Dixon line. To the north, 56 percent of Pennsylvania voters supported Lincoln, while their immediate neighbors in Maryland ranked him dead last with barely 2.5 percent of the vote. So William Seward was right. The slavery issue gave Republicans all the votes they needed to carry the election. Since the party did not exist in the South, Abraham Lincoln won without even being a candidate in the Southern states. The Seward strategy had rendered those voters irrelevant.

  Reaction was swift and predictable. The Montgomery Advertiser recommended that Alabama secede, telling its readers, “You can only sink to the condition of Ireland as members of this Union.” Farther north, the Baltimore Daily Republican pointed out that only the North and East had elected Lincoln, so it was doubtful he would “ever be President of the United States.” Even federal employees in Washington were incensed. According to the New York Herald, they “were for forming a Southern Confederacy at once, and some of the more resolute and determined donned the cockade, and indicated their willingness to shoulder their muskets and resist the inauguration of Lincoln.” One editor in North Carolina advised a cautious approach, but added, “If Lincoln violates his oath, let us dethrone him.”5

  Booth’s reaction to all this is unknown, but we may assume his views reflected his upbringing. Like all former Know-Nothings, he still put the Union first. They believed the culprits in this crisis were those who tore the nation apart with their attacks on slavery. They were the real disunionists, and if the South made the next move, they did so because it was the only option left to them. Lincoln’s election had already effectively put them out of the Union.

  Booth returned to Philadelphia, where he recuperated and watched the national drama unfold. On December 13, a “Grand Union assembly” was held at Independence Hall, under a large banner that read: “Concession Before Secession.” One after another, city leaders took the podium to blame anti-slavery influence for the state of affairs. They suggested that Southern fears were perfectly reasonable, and called for an end to state laws that resisted the Fugitive Slave Act.6

  These were not unusual sentiments. Northerners everywhere held abolitionists responsible for the crisis. In his annual message to Congress, President James Buchanan insisted that anti-slavery agitation had given slaves a dangerous thirst for freedom. “Hence a sense of security . . . has given place to apprehensions of servile insurrection. Many a matron throughout the South retires at night in dread of what may befall herself and her children before the morning.” Booth had been hearing such talk in all his travels. From Baltimore to Richmond to Montgomery to Philadelphia, the “noisy element” seemed to agree that there would be no crisis if only some people would leave the slavery issue alone. Hearing this, Booth had every reason to believe that this was a moderate view, and that those now coming into power were extremists on the far fringes of politics. 7

  Victorious Republicans were riding an enormous wave of support, and they weren’t above taunting the opposition. It became fashionable to show Southerners how much their influence had waned. Texas senator Louis T. Wigfall warned his fellow senators in
Washington that the South was indeed serious about secession. “It is well known,” he said, “that before this day next week one of the States will cease to be a member of this Union.” His words drew loud bursts of laughter.8

  Booth could read countless opinions and solutions to the crisis in the columns of the Philadelphia papers. Indeed, it was the consuming topic of the day. Not one to watch from afar, he wrote down some of his own thoughts in the form of a speech. Perhaps he intended to have it published, as so many others were doing at the time, or maybe it was nothing more than a therapeutic exercise. But it was written to be heard, not read, with a tone and cadence like that of Marc Antony’s funeral oration. It is self-effacing at times, and expresses the hope that the cause will be taken up by a more capable speaker. It is a rough draft, full of misspellings and incomplete thoughts.

  His arguments are the same ones aired at the Grand Union meeting: that this was an issue of Northern aggression versus Southern rights; that abolitionists were responsible for the current mess; that they should be “hushed forever,” and their treason “stamped to death.” Those who have “laughed at, prayed [sic] upon and wronged” the South should be punished, Booth wrote. In some ways, he thought, these sectional politicians were worse than an infamous abolitionist who had been put to death the year before. “I may say I helped to hang John Brown,” wrote Booth. “His treason was no more than theirs, for open force is holier than hidden craft. The Lion is more noble than the fox.”9

  On the issue of human bondage, Booth had adopted the paternalist argument that was then in vogue. “Instead of looking upon slavery as a sin (mearly because I have none) I hold it to be a happiness for themselves and a social & political blessing for us. . . . I have been through the whole South and have marked the happiness of master & of man.” This was a point that he and others would continue to insist on: that even as slaves, African Americans were better off here than Africans anywhere else in the world.10

  All attempts at reconciliation failed, and on the afternoon of December 20, a special convention in South Carolina passed an ordinance of secession. Within weeks, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, and Georgia followed suit. The Union was breaking apart. Virginia awaited further developments, and common wisdom held that Virginia’s actions would determine Maryland’s course.

  Booth had fully recovered from his bullet wound, but no sooner had he returned to the stage than he suffered another mishap, this time in Albany. While playing Pescara in The Apostate, he inflicted a slight cut on the head of his co-star. They continued the scene, and only later did the audience learn that Booth himself had also been injured. He had fallen on his dagger, and the blade had cut away three inches of muscle near the armpit. As one critic wrote, “It seemed as though the climax of the TRAGEDY had indeed been reached.”

  Though the injury was serious, Booth would not let it stop his engagement. He returned to the stage a few days later, playing Pescara with his right arm tied to his side. “Mr. Booth makes an impression on you by the mere force of intellect,” said one review. Another said, “He throws his whole soul into his sword, giving to the contest a degree of earnestness never approached, even by his father. . . . [Three cheers] were given with a power that almost took the roof off.” Critics hardly noticed the handicap.11

  Abraham Lincoln was also in Albany that night, having dinner with the governor. Lincoln was on his way to Washington, and the trip was about to get interesting. His advisers learned of rumors that an assassination would be attempted in Baltimore, and they asked him to skip the meandering journey he had planned. They wanted him to head straight for the capital, passing through Baltimore without fanfare and ahead of schedule. Lincoln agreed, and on the night of February 22, he quietly boarded an early train from Philadelphia to Washington. That was a mistake.

  Hostile newspapers made the most of the story, showing cartoons of a terrified president-elect sneaking out of a railroad car in a ridiculous Scotch cap. Lincoln regretted the course he had taken, but felt he had little choice. He knew the threat was real, even if some were denying it, and he was just acting prudently in hurrying past the danger. But to the public he looked scared and undignified. He had been publicly embarrassed. 12

  Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated on March 4, and he named William H. Seward to be his secretary of state. It was an appointment to which Seward felt entitled. Like much of the public, the senator from New York assumed that he, and not the inexperienced president, would actually run the government. He was mistaken. In the coming weeks, Lincoln quietly put Seward in his place, and from then on, the secretary acted the part of trusted friend and adviser. Though Abraham Lincoln was certainly in charge, the perception remained that William Seward was the actual guiding force of the administration.

  On April 12, Confederate batteries opened fire on Fort Sumter, and the nation was at war. President Lincoln met the emergency head-on. He called up seventy-five thousand militia troops to repossess all property taken by the insurgents, and to quell “combinations too powerful to be suppressed by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings. . . .” He called for an emergency session of Congress, and declared a blockade of Southern ports. To Lincoln, these were commonsense measures, and no more drastic than the situation required.13

  Not everyone agreed, and on the seventeenth, states of the Upper South began to react. On that day, the Virginia State Convention voted overwhelmingly to put secession up for a popular vote. No one doubted what the outcome would be, and the only question was whether Maryland should follow her sister state. A large gathering of citizens met in Baltimore to consider the question, but they agreed to await further developments. Everyone was aware of the state’s geographical importance. If the Old Line State left the Union, the nation’s capital would be surrounded by hostile territory.

  Torn by a dual temperament, Maryland had a sizable abolitionist following in the western counties, and a dominant slave culture to the south and east. Slave owners were the more vocal of the two, and the more likely to sway the legislature. Baltimore, the state’s largest city, leaned in their favor, and it was here that the crisis would most likely come to a head. The city had long been known as a “mob town,” where politics and violence went hand in hand. Deadly riots had followed every election in recent memory, and local gangs had even roughed up president-elect James Buchanan on his way to Washington four years before. Outsiders were especially vulnerable because of the long, awkward stop required of rail passengers trying to pass through the city. No railroad line went straight through, and anyone coming from the North had to disembark at one station, then travel by foot, coach, or streetcar to another station a mile or two away. Thus, the citizens of Baltimore could act as gatekeepers in the race to join the war.14

  That became an important issue on April 19, when the 6th Massachusetts Infantry passed down Pratt Street and were attacked by a frenzied mob. Four soldiers were killed by flying bricks and other objects, and a number of citizens died when troops fired back into the crowd. News of the riot was unnerving to Lincoln, and it drove home the point that at this critical time, just a few hotheads could obstruct his efforts to assemble a fighting force. 15

  General Ben Butler secured a new route to Washington by way of Annapolis, but Baltimore’s hostility still had to be addressed. The U.S. Army’s ancient commander, General Winfield Scott, began planning a four-pronged assault on the city. The president chose a less drastic measure, but one that drew battle lines for another conflict—a fight over civil rights. On April 27, Lincoln ordered General Scott to suspend the writ of habeas corpus along the line from Philadelphia to Washington. The writ guaranteed a prompt hearing in court to determine the legality of an arrest. By setting it aside, the army could confine anyone for any reason—or for no reason at all. Its suspension was only one of several controversial measures. In the coming months, Massachusetts troops would slip into Baltimore at night and occupy the city. Nine local newspapers would be suppressed, and the city’s police department would be replaced by
federally appointed officers. Baltimore’s mayor, its police marshal, and some of its most prominent citizens would be thrown behind bars.

  The arrests led to a legal showdown in June, when Chief Justice Roger B. Taney of the U.S. Supreme Court, sitting as a circuit judge in Baltimore, denied the president’s authority to suspend the writ of habeas corpus. Taney’s decision included a blistering rebuke:

  “If the President of the United States may suspend the writ, then the Constitution of the United States has conferred upon him more regal and absolute power over the liberty of the citizen than the people of England have thought it safe to intrust to the Crown—a power which the Queen of England cannot exercise at this day and which could not have been lawfully exercised by the sovereign even in the reign of Charles the First.” The decision changed nothing. Arrests continued, and the policy was even extended to the state legislature. In September, thirty-two lawmakers and their sergeant at arms were taken from their beds at night and carried off to prison. No charges were ever filed.16

  War measures were extended incrementally to the rest of the nation, but their impact fell disproportionately on the Border States. Lincoln always maintained that he had done what was necessary to preserve the nation, and that his policy targeted only “traitors,” who might have suffered even more under existing laws. Marylanders, however, did not regard their acts as treason, but merely as opposition to an overly harsh policy. The state legislature had never voted for secession, and many citizens supported the Union as vigorously as anyone in the North. They were being falsely accused, in their view, and that is what made Abraham Lincoln an issue unto himself, quite apart from slavery or union.17