The Last Weeks of Abraham Lincoln

by David Alan Johnson

  Abraham Lincoln had visited the Patent Office once before. On May 22, 1849, when he was still a congressman, Lincoln registered a patent for a mechanical device that would move boats over sandbars and other river obstructions. It is the only patent ever to be registered to an American president.7

  The Patent Office was one of Washington's landmarks. The Stranger's Guide-Book to Washington City says, “The Patent Office Building is one of superior finish and elegance.”8 It housed models for all the patented inventions, along with curiosities from the country's past, including a printing press that is reported to have belonged to Benjamin Franklin and personal possessions of George Washington. Since the beginning of the war, the building was also used as temporary barracks, and store for articles captured from the Confederacy.

  Mrs. Lincoln was the center of attention at the ball, not President Lincoln—at least as far as the women in the room were concerned. Her ball gown attracted more attention than all the ornaments and decorations in the room put together: “Mrs. Lincoln is most richly dressed in a white moire antique, profusely ornamented with exquisite lace.”9 One news reporter wrote, “Mrs. Lincoln…wore a white silk skirt and bodice, an elaborately-worked white lace dress over a silk skirt.”10

  The president was mentioned, as well, but almost as an afterthought: “The president was dressed in black, with white kid gloves.”11 Four years earlier, at his first inauguration ball, the president also seemed ill at ease in his black suit, and especially with his kid gloves. An observer noted that Lincoln cut “an awkward figure” and had “a mind, absent in part, and in part evidently worked by white kid gloves.”12 He was probably just as uncomfortable at his second inauguration ball but was determined not to let it show.

  The president and his wife were escorted from the ballroom to the dining room shortly after midnight. After dinner, the Lincolns left the ball and returned to the White House. Mary Lincoln enjoyed the evening's activities much more than her husband, but the ball was a nice change of pace for the president. At least the “glorious spectacle” took his mind off the problems and the pressures of his office for a few hours, which must have given him some relief. With the coming of the spring offensive, which could only be two or three weeks away at most, Lincoln knew that the pressures would increase even further.

  The president spent much of Tuesday, March 7, endorsing applications for jobs: Philip C. Schuyler was recommended for a position as Indian agent for the Sac and Fox tribes; Charles C. Coffenberry had a similar recommendation as agent for the Otoe tribe; and M. R. Dutton received an endorsement as agent for the Kickapoo tribe, with the note, “This application assumes that the incumbent is wholly incompetent,” which was initialed by Lincoln.1

  President Lincoln also issued orders for five people who owned unspecified “products of the insurrectionary states” to bring these products “within military lines for sale to agents of government.”2 But in addition to these fairly mundane details, President Lincoln also sent a special communiqué to General U. S. Grant: “In accordance with a Joint Resolution of Congress, approved December 17, 1863,” the president awarded a gold medal and an engrossed parchment copy of the resolution. Lincoln went on to say, “Please accept, for yourself and all under your command, the renewed expression of my gratitude.”3

  President Lincoln had appointed General Grant general-in-chief of all Union armies a year before, in March 1864, and also promoted him to the rank of lieutenant general. Grant was the hero of Vicksburg—he not only captured the city, but also forced the surrender of Confederate general John Pemberton's army of thirty thousand—and was one of the few generals whom Lincoln had faith in. Lincoln had gone through three other generals-in-chief before Grant—Winfield Scott, Henry Halleck, and George McClellan. All of them had either been too old—Winfield Scott was an overweight and infirm seventy-five-year-old—or just plain incompetent. In the year since Grant had taken command, he had driven Robert E. Lee and his army south through the Wilderness and Spotsylvania and Cold Harbor to Petersburg, where he kept the entire Army of Northern Virginia bottled up in their trenches all through the winter of 1864–65. None of his predecessors would have had either the determination or the ability to outfight General Lee, or to bring his fabled army to the brink of surrender.

  “Grant has stamped a new character on the tactics of the Federals,” the Times of London declared. This was certainly a remarkable reversal of opinion—the Times had always been deliberately antagonistic toward Lincoln, as well as his generals, every one of them. Now the editors were saying flattering and complimentary things, not only about Grant but also about his general strategy. “No other general would either have advanced upon the Wilderness…or followed up an almost victorious though retiring enemy. Under his command the Army of the Potomac has achieved in invading Virginia an amount of success never achieved before except in repelling invasion.”4

  Lincoln was more straightforward in his letter to General Grant. He just expressed his appreciation “for yourself and all under your command,” his gratitude “for yourself and their arduous and well-performed public service”5

  General Grant was too practical and down-to-earth to have his head turned by anything as flashy and transient as a gold medal, even if it was from Congress. He did not even mention the medal, or the engrossed parchment scroll, or the president's letter, in his Memoirs—that would have been completely out of character for the truly modest tanner's son from Ohio. He was certainly touched by the president's—and Congress's—gesture, but he was too unassuming to let his feelings show.

  General Grant probably would also have said that the reason for his reticence was that he had more important things on his mind, namely the Army of Northern Virginia, Robert E. Lee, and exactly what General Lee intended to do with his army in the very near future. He was especially anxious that General Lee and his army would slip out of their Petersburg trenches and escape to North Carolina where they would join forces with General Joseph E. Johnston's army. He had done the same thing to General Lee the previous June—evacuated his entrenchments at Cold Harbor and escaped from General Lee—so he knew that it could be done.

  “I felt that the situation of the Confederate army was such that they would try to make an escape at the earliest practicable moment,” Grant would write many years later, “and I was afraid, every morning, that I would awake from my sleep to hear that Lee had gone, and that nothing was left but a picket line.”6 General Lee had the railroad at Danville, which was about 135 miles from Petersburg, to take his army south. He might just decide to load everything aboard a train—men, artillery, equipment, tents, and baggage—and simply disappear, leaving Grant stuck in his trenches south of Petersburg.

  “I knew that he could move much more lightly and rapidly than I, and that, if he got this start, he would leave me behind so that we would have the same army to fight again further south—and the war might be prolonged another year.” General Grant said that he was “naturally very impatient” to start his spring campaign against General Lee, “which I thoroughly believed would close the war.”7

  President Lincoln had the same hopes and the same fears—he hoped that the war would end in the spring, but was afraid that something might happen that would prolong the fighting. Grant instructed his troops around Petersburg “to keep a sharp lookout to see that such a movement should not escape their notice.”8 The president was in full agreement with General Grant's orders, and dreaded the escape of General Lee and his army as much as Grant.

  Among the president's activities on this Wednesday was a meeting with Secretary of State William Seward about a suitable appointment for former postmaster Montgomery Blair.

  In September 1864, President Lincoln had asked Postmaster Blair to resign his position. The president's request had been a purely political move, which had been made to bolster his chances of winning the election. The candidate of the third-party Radical Democracy Party, John C. Fremont, was threatening to split the Republican vote in November. The Ra
dical Democracy was made up mainly of dissatisfied and disgruntled Republicans who still held a good many of the same views as the Republicans, except that the Radicals were a lot more extreme in their outlook regarding slavery—they wanted to abolish slavery immediately and did not have the patience to wait until the end of the war. Fremont was popular enough that he might very well have taken enough votes away from Lincoln and Andrew Johnson to give the election to the Democrats and their candidate, George B. McClellan. Fremont agreed to withdraw from the race in exchange for Montgomery Blair's resignation.

  Fremont and the Radicals wanted Blair out of politics, or at least out of the immediate political picture—among other things that alienated Fremont and his fellow Radicals, Blair had opposed the Emancipation Proclamation and was not an extreme abolitionist. So Lincoln asked for Blair's resignation in exchange for Fremont's dropping out of the presidential race.

  As far as Lincoln was concerned, this was a more than fair exchange. He might have been president as well as commander in chief, but above all he was a professional politician, and a very practical and hard-headed politician at that. Now that Blair had resigned as postmaster, Lincoln offered him a post as ambassador to either Spain or Austria. Blair considered Lincoln's offer and decided to reject both appointments.

  The president also nominated a Commander John J. Young promotion to the rank of captain on the Navy's reserve list. Commander Young had been passed over for promotion “in consequence of physical disability, this disability having occurred in the discharge of his duties.” The Senate confirmed Young's promotion two days later, on March 10, 1865.1 One of Lincoln's more enjoyable duties as president included doing a good deed from time to time, including speaking up for a naval officer who had been slighted by government officials.

  The time had not yet come when General Grant could “commence the spring campaign,” as he would write,2 but fighting had already started in North Carolina. On March 8, Federal troops under Jacob D. Cox were attacked by Confederates commanded by Braxton Bragg near the town of Kinston. Some of the Union troops broke and ran, but the line held and the Confederates were beaten off. In spite of this initial setback, Bragg continued his attack against the Union position. The battle was another indication that it would only be a matter of time before fighting began in Virginia—Kinston, North Carolina, is only 161 miles away from Petersburg, Virginia.

  General Grant and President Lincoln were not the only ones who hoped that the impending battles would be the final campaign of the war. Every soldier in the trenches south of Petersburg was hoping for the same thing. “It rained hard all day and everything looks desolate, and I feel very lonely and homesick,” Lieutenant Colonel Elisha Hunt Rhodes scribbled in his diary. “No news of a move yet, but it cannot be delayed long. If Lee stays in Petersburg General Grant will catch him from the south. I hope so, for I am tired of fighting and want the war to end.”3

  The president spent much of the day in his office, seeing to endorsements and appointments. Among them was an endorsement for Corporal Hayden De Lany, of the Thirteenth Ohio Volunteers, to attend the US Military Academy at West Point. (De Lany entered West Point in July 1865, and received his commission as a second lieutenant in September 1867.) It was certainly the type of endorsement that Lincoln enjoyed making.1

  The president also replied to a telegraph that General Grant had sent to Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton. “I understand that rebel prisoners in the North are allowed to take the oath of allegiance and go free,” the general said. “I think this is wrong. No one should be liberated on taking the oath…who has been captured while bearing arms against us except where persons of known loyalty vouch for them.”2

  Any Confederate prisoner who took the oath of allegiance also promised to obey and support the Constitution of the United States. General Grant did not trust either the rebel soldiers who took the oath or their motives. He strongly suspected that the prisoners were taking the oath only as an expedient—after swearing allegiance to the United States, they would cross the Confederate lines and rejoin their regiments. Confederate soldiers did not change sides unless they had an ulterior motive, at least not as far as Grant was concerned. If any rebel wanted to take the oath, they could always “come into our lines if they do not wish to fight.”3

  Lincoln intercepted Grant's telegram to Secretary of War Stanton—the president frequently visited the War Department's telegraph office to read the latest communiques from his generals, including General Grant. “I see your dispatch to the Sec. of War, objecting to rebel prisoners being allowed to take the oath and go free,” Lincoln responded. “What has been done is that Members of Congress come to me from time to time with lists of names alleging that from personal knowledge,” he went on to explain, “and evidence of reliable persons they are satisfied that it is safe to discharge the particular persons named on the list, and I have ordered their discharge.”4

  He went on to say that most of the released Confederate prisoners came from the border states, not the seceded Confederate states, and that only two of the “liberated” persons rejoined the army instead of returning home. “Doubtless some more have proven false; but on the whole I believe what I have done in this way has done good rather than harm.” Those who agreed with Lincoln's point of view present this as evidence of his compassion for Confederate prisoners of war, too many of whom were suffering dreadfully in Northern prisoner of war camps. Critics complained that Lincoln was not behaving wisely, and that he was more soft-headed than soft-hearted in his dealings with the rebels.

  General Grant was more than satisfied with the president's explanation. “Your dispatch of this morning shows that prisoners of war are being exchanged only in accordance with the rule I proposed,” he replied on the afternoon of March 9. He went on to say that officers from Camp Morton and Rock Island prisoner of war camps had misinformed him that “great numbers were being discharged on taking the oath of allegiance.” These officers were under the impression that any and all persons “who desired to do so” were being allowed to take the oath and immediately were being sent home, which is how Grant received the mistaken impression that anyone who took the oath could “go free.” The president corrected Grant's misinformation, and also put his mind at rest.5

  Fighting continued in North Carolina. Confederate troops under Braxton Bragg kept trying to break the Federal line held by Jacob Cox and his men near Kinton. At Monroe Crossroads, Confederate cavalry under Wade Hampton attacked Union forces commanded by General Hugh Kilpatrick. The Federals were taken completely by surprise, and ran from the field in confusion. According to myth, Kilpatrick was still in bed when the attack began—with a young woman from Columbia, in some versions—and was so flummoxed that he did not have time to put his trousers on before he ran out of his tent. Trousers or not, Kilpatrick managed to rally his men, turn them around, and counterattack. This time, it was Wade Hampton's turn to be surprised—Kilpatrick's unexpected charge drove them back in a full retreat. The episode is known historically as the Battle of Monroe's Crossroads, but in legend it is the Battle of Kilpatrick's Drawers.6

  General Sherman was on the move from Randalsville, North Carolina, toward Fayetteville. He was impatient to make contact with forces under John M. Schofield, which were said to be at Wilmington, but was only able to move at a snail's pace because of bad roads. But his most immediate goal was Fayetteville, with its arsenal and its factories for making weapons and ammunition. When he reached Fayetteville, Sherman planned to destroy everything—the factories and machine shops, along with all the muskets and cannon in the arsenal and anything else he could put his hands on.

  This turned out to be a much-needed day of rest for the president, a quiet day of relaxation and not much in the way of activity. He did discuss the possibility of offering a cabinet post to his former vice-president, Hannibal Hamlin, and also attended a meeting with his cabinet. But he sent no communiques on March 10, wrote no letters, and does not appear to have made any nominations or endorsemen
ts.

  Abraham Lincoln was worn out by the spring of 1865, almost on the brink of exhaustion, and often complained about being tired. He had also lost weight, and appeared to be still losing weight; his face was heavily lined from anxiety and fatigue. An officer on General George Gordon Meade's staff took one look at the president and said that he was “the ugliest man I ever put my eyes on,” and also that he had an “expression of plebeian vulgarity in his face.”1 Lincoln's secretary John Hay had a great deal more sympathy regarding the president's appearance, along with more understanding on the subject of what made him appear so old and worn-out.

  John Hay had known the president for the past four years and was well aware that it had been the pressures and worries of the war—“the great conflict in which he was engaged and which he could not evade,” is the way Hay put it—that had ground Lincoln down and made him an old man while he was still in his fifties. “Under this frightful ordeal his demeanour and disposition changed,” Hay would write, “so gradually that it would be impossible to say when the change began; but he was in mind, body, and nerves a very different man” at the end of the four years that produced Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Antietam, Shiloh, and a score of other battles that cost horrible numbers of lives.2

  The war, which Lincoln feared would produce additional battles and even more loss of life, was moving toward Virginia, but was not moving very quickly. General Sherman and his army made their way toward Fayetteville but were slowed dramatically, sometimes to a full stop in places, by the weather and especially by the mud that turned all the roads into bogs and swamps. None of the roads were paved, which meant they had to be covered by fence rails and felled trees—called corduroying—to make them even halfway safe for the horses and wagons and artillery that had to pass over them. The mud was so deep and so cloying that sometimes the logs would disappear into it after the army had driven over that section of road. It was very slow going, but General Sherman was determined to get to Fayetteville and was not about to let anything as insignificant as a sea of mud get in his way.3