Aside from the President's desire to be at the front at this critical
time, he had an almost feverish anxiety to escape from the petty
concerns and details of official life in Washington. In Welles's Diary
is this entry (March 23, 1865): "The President has gone to the front,
partly to get rid of the throng [office-seekers, politicians, etc.] that
is pressing on him. The more he yields, the greater the pressure. It has
now become such that he is compelled to flee. There is no doubt he is
much worn down. Besides, he wishes the war terminated, and, to this end,
that severe terms shall not be exacted of the Rebels."
Much of the time during the President's visit to the army he had his
quarters on the steamer "River Queen," lying in the James river at City
Point. It was the same vessel on which he had received the Southern
peace commissioners a month before, and the one on which he had made the
journey from Washington. On the 27th of March a memorable interview
occurred in the cabin of this vessel, between President Lincoln,
Generals Grant and Sherman, and Admiral Porter. General Sherman thus
describes the interview: "I left Goldsboro on the 25th of March and
reached City Point on the afternoon of the 27th. I found General Grant
and staff occupying a neat set of log huts, on a bluff overlooking the
James river. The General's family was with him. We had quite a long and
friendly talk, when Grant remarked that the President was near by in a
steamer lying at the dock, and he proposed that we should call at once.
We did so, and found Mr. Lincoln on board the 'River Queen.' We had met
in the early part of the war; he recognized me, and received me with a
warmth of manner and expression that was most grateful. We sat some time
in the after-cabin, and Mr. Lincoln made many inquiries about the events
which attended the march from Savannah to Goldsboro, and seemed to enjoy
the humorous stories about 'our bummers,' of which he had heard much.
When in lively conversation his face brightened wonderfully, but if the
conversation flagged it assumed a sad and sorrowful expression. General
Grant and I explained to him that my next move from Goldsboro would
bring my army, increased to 80,000 men by Schofield's and Terry's
reinforcements, in close communication with Grant's army then investing
Lee and Richmond; and that unless Lee could effect his escape and make
junction with Johnston in North Carolina, he would soon be shut up in
Richmond with no possibility of supplies, and would have to surrender.
Mr. Lincoln was extremely interested in this view of the case, and we
explained that Lee's only chance was to escape, join Johnston, and,
being then between me in North Carolina and Grant in Virginia, he could
choose which to fight. Mr. Lincoln seemed impressed with this; but
General Grant explained that at the very moment of our conversation
General Sheridan was pressing his cavalry across James River from the
north to the south, that with this cavalry he would so extend his left
below Petersburg as to meet the South Shore Road, and that if Lee should
'let go' his fortified lines he (Grant) would follow him so close that
he could not possibly fall on me alone in North Carolina. I in like
manner expressed the fullest confidence that my army in North Carolina
was willing to cope with Lee and Johnston combined, till Grant could
come up. But we both agreed that one more bloody battle was likely to
occur before the close of the war. Mr. Lincoln repeatedly inquired as to
General Schofield's ability to maintain his position in my absence, and
seemed anxious that I should return to North Carolina. More than once he
exclaimed, 'Must more blood be shed? Cannot this last bloody battle be
avoided?' We explained that we had to presume that General Lee was a
real general; that he must see that Johnston alone was no barrier to my
progress, and that if my army of 80,000 veterans should reach Burksville
he was lost in Richmond; and that we were forced to believe he would not
await that inevitable conclusion, but would make one more desperate
effort."
General Sherman adds this personal tribute to Lincoln to the account of
the interview on board the "River Queen": "When I left Mr. Lincoln I was
more than ever impressed by his kindly nature, his deep and earnest
sympathy with the afflictions of the whole people, resulting from the
war, and by the march of hostile armies through the South. I felt that
his earnest desire was to end the war speedily, without more bloodshed
or devastation, and to restore all the men of both sections to their
homes. In the language of his second inaugural address, he seemed to
have 'charity for all, malice toward none,' and above all an absolute
faith in the courage, manliness, and integrity of the armies in the
field. When at rest or listening, his legs and arms seemed to hang
almost lifeless, and his face was careworn and haggard; but the moment
he began to talk his face lightened up, his tall form, as it were,
unfolded, and he was the very impersonation of good humor and
fellowship. The last words I recall as addressed to me were that he
would feel better when I was back at Goldsboro. We parted at the gangway
of the 'River Queen,' about noon of March 28, and I never saw him again.
Of all the men I ever met, he seemed to possess more of the elements of
greatness, combined with goodness, than any other."
A few days after the interview described by General Sherman, the
President changed his quarters to the cabin of the "Malvern," Admiral
Porter's flagship. The Admiral says: "The 'Malvern' was a small vessel
with poor accommodations, and not at all fitted to receive high
personages. She was a captured blockade-runner, and had been given to me
as a flag-ship. I offered the President my bed, but he positively
declined it, and elected to sleep in a small state-room outside of the
cabin occupied by my secretary. It was the smallest kind of a room, six
feet long by four and a half feet wide--a small kind of a room for the
President of the United States to be domiciled in; but Mr. Lincoln
seemed pleased with it. When he came to breakfast the next morning, I
inquired how he had slept: 'I slept well,' he answered, 'but you can't
put a long sword into a short scabbard. I was _too long_ for that
berth.' Then I remembered he was over six feet four inches, while the
berth was only six feet. That day, while we were out of the ship, all
the carpenters were put to work; the state-room was taken down and
increased in size to eight feet by six and a half feet. The mattress was
widened to suit a berth of four feet width, and the entire state-room
remodelled. Nothing was said to the President about the change in his
quarters when he went to bed; but next morning he came out smiling, and
said: 'A miracle happened last night; I shrank six inches in length and
about a foot sideways. I got somebody else's big pillow, and slept in a
better bed than I did on the "River Queen."' He enjoyed it greatly; but
I do think if I had given him two fence-rails to sleep on he would not
have found fault. That was Abraham Lincoln in all things relating to his
own comfort. He would never permit people to put themselves out for him
under any circumstances."
On the 2d of April the stronghold of Petersburg fell into the hands of
the Union troops. Lincoln, accompanied by Admiral Porter, visited the
city. They joined General Grant, and sat with him for nearly two hours
upon the porch of a comfortable little house with a small yard in front.
Crowds of citizens soon gathered at the fence to gaze upon these
remarkable men of whom they had heard so much. The President's heart was
filled with joy, for he felt that this was "the beginning of the end."
Admiral Porter says: "Several regiments passed us _en route_, and they
all seemed to recognize the President at once. 'Three cheers for Uncle
Abe!' passed along among them, and the cheers were given with a vim
which showed the estimation in which he was held by the soldiers. That
evening," continues Admiral Porter, "the sailors and marines were sent
out to guard and escort in some prisoners, who were placed on board a
large transport lying in the stream. There were about a thousand
prisoners, more or less. The President expressed a desire to go on
shore. I ordered the barge and went with him. We had to pass the
transport with the prisoners. They all rushed to the side with eager
curiosity. All wanted to see the Northern President. They were perfectly
content. Every man had a chunk of meat and a piece of bread in his hand,
and was doing his best to dispose of it. 'That's Old Abe,' said one, in
a low voice. 'Give the old fellow three cheers,' said another; while a
third called out, Hello, Abe, your bread and meat's better than
pop-corn!' It was all good-natured, and not meant in unkindness. I could
see no difference between them and our own men, except that they were
ragged and attenuated for want of wholesome food. They were as happy a
set of men as ever I saw. They could see their homes looming up before
them in the distance, and knew that the war was over. 'They will never
shoulder a musket again in anger,' said the President, 'and if Grant is
wise he will leave them their guns to shoot crows with. It would do no
harm.'"
The next day (April 3) the Union advance, under General Weitzel, reached
and occupied Richmond. Lee was in retreat, with Grant in close pursuit.
When the news of the downfall of the Confederate capital reached Lincoln
on board the "Malvern," he exclaimed fervently: "Thank God that I have
lived to see this! It seems to me I have been dreaming a horrid dream
for four years, and now the nightmare is gone. _I want to see
Richmond._"
The vessel started up the river, but found it extremely difficult to
proceed, as the channel was filled with torpedoes and obstructions, and
they were obliged to wait until a passage could be cleared. Admiral
Porter thus describes what followed: "When the channel was reported
clear of torpedoes (a large number of which were taken up), I proceeded
up to Richmond in the 'Malvern,' with President Lincoln. Every vessel
that got through the obstructions wished to be the first one up, and
pushed ahead with all steam; but they grounded, one after another, the
'Malvern' passing them all, until she also took the ground. Not to be
delayed, I took the President in my barge, and with a tug ahead with a
file of marines on board we continued on up to the city. There was a
large bridge across the James about a mile below the landing, and under
this a party in a small steamer were caught and held by the current,
with no prospect of release without assistance. I ordered the tug to
cast off and help them, leaving us in the barge to go on alone. Here we
were in a solitary boat, after having set out with a number of vessels
flying flags at every masthead, hoping to enter the conquered capital in
a manner befitting the rank of the President of the United States, with
a further intention of firing a national salute in honor of the happy
result. Mr. Lincoln was cheerful, and had his 'little story' ready for
the occasion. 'Admiral, this brings to my mind a fellow who once came to
me to ask for an appointment as minister abroad. Finding he could not
get that, he came down to some more modest position. Finally he asked to
be made a tide-waiter. When he saw he could not get that, he asked me
for _an old pair of trousers._ It is sometimes well to be _humble_.'
"I had never been to Richmond before by that route," continues Admiral
Porter, "and did not know where the landing was; neither did the
cockswain nor any of the barge's crew. We pulled on, hoping to see
someone of whom we could inquire, but no one was in sight. The street
along the river-front was as deserted as if this had been a city of the
dead. The troops had been in possession some hours, but not a soldier
was to be seen. The current was now rushing past us over and among
rocks, on one of which we finally stuck; but I backed out and pointed
for the nearest landing. There was a small house on this landing, and
behind it were some twelve negroes digging with spades. The leader of
them was an old man sixty years of age. He raised himself to an upright
position as we landed, and put his hands up to his eyes. Then he
dropped his spade and sprang forward. 'Bress de Lord,' he said, 'dere is
_de great Messiah_! I knowed him as soon as I seed him. He's bin in my
heart fo' long yeahs, an' he's cum at las' to free his chillun from deir
bondage! Glory, Hallelujah!' And he fell upon his knees before the
President and kissed his feet. The others followed his example, and in a
minute Mr. Lincoln was surrounded by these people, who had treasured up
the recollection of him caught from a photograph, and had looked up to
him for four years as the one who was to lead them out of captivity. It
was a touching sight--that aged negro kneeling at the feet of the tall,
gaunt-looking man who seemed in himself to be bearing all the grief of
the nation, and whose sad face seemed to say, 'I suffer for you all, but
will do all I can to help you.' Mr. Lincoln looked down on the poor
creatures at his feet. He was much embarrassed at his position. 'Don't
kneel to me,' he said, 'that is not right. You must kneel to God only,
and thank Him for the liberty you will hereafter enjoy. I am but God's
humble instrument; but you may rest assured that as long as I live no
one shall put a shackle on your limbs, and you shall have all the rights
which God has given to every other free citizen of this Republic.' It was
a minute or two before I could get the negroes to rise and leave the
President. The scene was so touching that I hated to disturb it, yet we
could not stay there all day; we had to move on; so I requested the
patriarch to withdraw from about the President with his companions, and
let us pass on. 'Yes, Mars,' said the old man, 'but after bein' so many
yeahs in de desert widout water, it's mighty pleasant to be lookin' at
las' on our spring of life. 'Scuse us, sir; we means no disrepec' to
Mars Lincoln; we means all love and gratitude.' And then, joining hands
together in a ring, the negroes sang a hymn, with the melodious and
touching voices possessed only by the negroes of the South. The
President and all of us listened respectfully while the hymn was being
sung. Four minutes at most had passed away since we first landed at a
point where, as far as the eye could reach, the streets were entirely
deserted; but now what a different scene appeared as that hymn went
forth from the negroes' lips! The streets seemed to be suddenly alive
with the colored race. They seemed to spring from the earth. They came
tumbling and shouting, from over the hills and from the water-side,
where no one was seen as we had passed. The crowd immediately became
very oppressive. We needed our marines to keep them off. I ordered
twelve of the boat's crew to fix bayonets to their rifles and surround
the President, all of which was quickly done; but the crowd poured in so
fearfully that I thought we all stood a chance of being crushed to
death. At length the President spoke. He could not move for the mass of
people--he had to do something. 'My poor friends,' he said, 'you are
free--free as air. You can cast off the name of slave and trample upon
it; it will come to you no more. Liberty is your birthright. God gave it
to you as He gave it to others, and it is a sin that you have been
deprived of it for so many years. But you must try to deserve this
priceless boon. Let the world see that you merit it, and are able to
maintain it by your good works. Don't let your joy carry you into
excesses. Learn the laws and obey them; obey God's commandments and
thank Him for giving you liberty, for to Him you owe all things. There,
now, let me pass on; I have but little time to spare. I want to see the
capital, and must return at once to Washington to secure to you that
liberty which you seem to prize so highly.' The crowd shouted and
screeched as if they would split the firmament, though while the
President was speaking you might have heard a pin drop."
Presently the little party was able to move on. "It never struck me,"
says Admiral Porter, "there was anyone in that multitude who would
injure Mr. Lincoln; it seemed to me that he had an army of supporters
there who could and would defend him against all the world. Our progress
was very slow; we did not move a mile an hour, and the crowd was still
increasing. It was a warm day, and the streets were dusty, owing to the
immense gathering which covered every part of them, kicking up the dirt.
The atmosphere was suffocating; but Mr. Lincoln could be seen plainly by
every man, woman, and child, towering head and shoulders above that
crowd; he overtopped every man there. He carried his hat in his hand,
fanning his face, from which the perspiration was pouring. He looked as
if he would have given his Presidency for a glass of water--I would have
given my commission for half that.
"Now came another phase in the procession. As we entered the city every
window flew up, from ground to roof, and every one was filled with
eager, peering faces, which turned one to another, and seemed to ask,
'Is this large man, with soft eyes, and kind, benevolent face, the one
who has been held up to us as the incarnation of wickedness, the
destroyer of the South?' There was nothing like taunt or defiance in the
faces of those who were gazing from the windows or craning their necks
from the sidewalks to catch a view of the President. The look of every
one was that of eager curiosity--nothing more. In a short time we
reached the mansion of Mr. Davis, President of the Confederacy, occupied
after the evacuation as the headquarters of General Weitzel and Shepley.
There was great cheering going on. Hundreds of civilians--I don't know
who they were--assembled at the front of the house to welcome Mr.
Lincoln. General Shepley made a speech and gave us a lunch, after which
we entered a carriage and visited the State House--the late seat of the
Confederate Congress. It was in dreadful disorder, betokening a sudden
and unexpected flight; members' tables were upset, bales of Confederate
scrip were lying about the floor, and many official documents of some
value were scattered about.
"After this inspection I urged the President to go on board the
'Malvern.' I began to feel more heavily the responsibility resting upon
me through the care of his person. The evening was approaching, and we
were in a carriage open on all sides. He was glad to go; he was tired
out, and wanted the quiet of the flag-ship. I was oppressed with
uneasiness until we got on board and stood on the deck with the
President safe; then there was not a happier man anywhere than myself."
On Sunday, April 9, the President returned to Washington; and there he
heard the thrilling news that Lee, with his whole army, had that day
surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. Lincoln's first visit, after
reaching the capital, was to the house of Secretary Seward, who had met
with a severe accident during his absence, and was a prisoner in a sick
room. Lincoln's heart was full of joy, and he entered immediately upon
an account of his visit to Richmond and the glorious successes of the
Union army; "throwing himself," as Mr. Carpenter says, "in his almost
boyish exultation, at full length across the bed, supporting his head
upon one hand, and in this manner reciting the story of the collapse of
the Rebellion. Concluding, he lifted himself up and said, 'And now for a
day of Thanksgiving!'"
In Washington, as in every city and town in the loyal States, there was
the wildest enthusiasm over the good news from the army. Flags were
flying everywhere, cannon were sounding, business was suspended, and the
people gave themselves up to the impulses of joy and thanksgiving.
Monday afternoon the workmen of the navy-yard marched to the White
House, joining the thousands already there, and with bands playing and a
tumult of rejoicing, called persistently for the President. After some
delay Lincoln appeared at the window above the main entrance, and was
greeted with loud and prolonged cheers and demonstrations of love and
respect. He declined to make a formal speech, saying to the excited
throng beneath:
I am very greatly rejoiced that an occasion has occurred so
pleasurable that the people can't restrain themselves. I suppose
that arrangements are being made for some sort of formal
demonstration, perhaps this evening or to-morrow night. If there
should be such a demonstration, I, of course, shall have to respond
to it, and I shall have nothing to say if I dribble it out before.
I see you have a band. I propose now closing up by requesting you
to play a certain air or tune. I have always thought "Dixie" one of
the best tunes I ever heard. I have heard that our adversaries over
the way have attempted to appropriate it as a national air. I
insisted yesterday that we had fairly captured it. I presented the
question to the Attorney-General, and he gave his opinion that it
is our lawful prize. I ask the band to give us a good turn upon it.
The band did give "a good turn" not only to "Dixie," but to the
whimsical tune of "Yankee Doodle," after which Lincoln proposed three
cheers for General Grant and all under his command; and then "three more
cheers for our gallant navy," at the close of which he bowed and retired
amid the inspiring strains of "Hail Columbia" discoursed with vigor by
the patriotic musicians.
As additional despatches were received from the army, the joyful
excitement in Washington increased. Tuesday evening, April 11, the
President's mansion, the Executive Departments, and many of the business
places and private residences, were illuminated, bonfires were kindled,
and fireworks sent off, in celebration of the great event which stirred
the hearts of the people. A vast mass of citizens crowded about the
White House, as Lincoln appeared at the historic East window and made
his last speech to the American public. It was a somewhat lengthy
address, and had been prepared and written out for the occasion. "We
meet this evening, not in sorrow but in gladness of heart," began the
President. "No part of the honor or praise is mine. To General Grant,
his skilful officers and brave men, all belongs." Mr. Brooks, who was in
the White House during the delivery of this address, gives the following
glimpses behind the scenes: "As Lincoln spoke, the multitude was as
silent as if the court-yard had been deserted. Then, as his speech was
written on loose sheets, and the candles placed for him were too low, he
took a light in his hand and went on with his reading. Soon coming to
the end of a page, he found some difficulty in handling the manuscript
and holding the candlestick. A friend who stood behind the drapery of
the window reached out and took the candle, and held it until the end of
the speech, and the President let the loose pages fall on the floor, one
by one, as fast as he was through with them. Presently Tad, having
refreshed himself at the dinner-table, came back in search of amusement.
He gathered up the scattered sheets of the President's speech, and then
amused himself by chasing the leaves as they fluttered from the
speaker's hand. Growing impatient at his father's delay to drop another
page, Tad whispered, 'Come, give me another!' The President made a queer
motion with his foot toward the boy, but otherwise showed no sign that
he had other thoughts than those which he was dropping to the listeners
beneath. Without was a vast sea of upturned faces, each eye fixed on the
form of the President. Around the tall white pillars of the portico
flowed an undulating surface of human beings, stirred by emotion and
lighted with the fantastic colors of fireworks. At the window, his face
irradiated with patriotic joy, was the much-beloved Lincoln, reading the
speech that was to be his last to the people. Behind him crept back and
forth, on his hands and knees, the boy of the White House, gathering up
his father's carefully written pages, and occasionally lifting up his
eager face waiting for more. It was before and behind the scenes.
Sometimes I wonder, when I recall that night, how much of a father's
love and thought of his boy might have been mingled in Lincoln's last
speech to the eager multitude."
The President's speech on this occasion was largely devoted to the
impending problem of Reconstruction in the South. The problem was
complex and difficult, with no recognized principles or precedent for
guidance. Said Lincoln: "Unlike the case of a war between independent
nations, there is no authorized organization for us to treat with. No
one man has authority to give up the rebellion for any other man. We
simply must begin with and mould from disorganized and discordant
elements. Nor is it a small additional embarrassment, that we, the loyal
people, differ amongst ourselves as to the mode, manner, and measure of
reconstruction. Let us all join in doing the acts necessary to restoring
the proper practical relations between these States and the Union." The
problem thus touched upon was one that had long occupied the thoughts
of Lincoln, especially since the downfall of the Confederacy had been
imminent. His practical and far-seeing mind was already addressing
itself to the new issues, duties, and responsibilities, which he saw
opening before him, and which he well knew would demand all of his
wisdom, firmness, and political sagacity. As was to be expected, a great
diversity of views prevailed. A powerful faction in Congress,
sympathized with by some members of the Cabinet, was for "making treason
odious" and dealing with the insurgent States as conquered provinces
that had forfeited all rights once held under the Constitution and were
entitled only to such treatment as the Government chose to give them.
Lincoln's ideas were very different. His mind was occupied with
formulating a policy having for its object the welfare of the Southern
people and the restoration of the rebellious States to the Union. His
broad and statesmanlike views were outlined, the day after the public
address just referred to, in discussing Secretary Welles's plans for
convening the legislature of Virginia. Says Mr. Welles in his Diary:
"His idea was that the members of the legislature, comprising the
prominent and influential men of their respective counties, had better
come together and undo their own work. Civil government must be
reestablished, he said, as soon as possible; there must be courts, and
law and order, or society would be broken up, the disbanded armies would
turn into robber bands and guerillas, which we must strive to prevent.
These were the reasons why he wished prominent Virginians who had the
confidence of the people to come together and turn themselves and their
neighbors into good Union men." Lincoln had no thought of leaving any of
these questions to the military authorities. In March he had directed a
despatch from Stanton to Grant, saying: "The President wishes you to
have no conference with General Lee, unless it be for the capitulation
of his army, or on some other minor and purely military matter. He
instructs me to say that you are not to decide, discuss, or confer upon
any political question. Such questions the President _holds in his own
hands_, and will submit them to no military conferences or conventions."
During his meeting with Grant at Petersburg the President revealed to
the General many of his plans for the rehabilitation of the South, and
it could easily be seen that a spirit of magnanimity was uppermost in
his heart. And at the conference with Grant, Sherman, and Porter, on
board the "River Queen," the same subject was broached. "Though I cannot
attempt to recall the words spoken by any one of the persons present on
that occasion," says General Sherman, "I know we talked generally about
what was to be done when Lee's and Johnston's armies were beaten and
dispersed. On this point Mr. Lincoln was very full. He said that he had
long thought of it, that he hoped this end could be reached without more
bloodshed, but in any event he wanted us to get the men of the Southern
armies disarmed and back to their homes; that he contemplated no
revenge, no harsh measures, but quite the contrary, and that their
suffering and hardships during the war would make them the more
submissive to law." Says Hon. George Bancroft: "It was the nature of Mr.
Lincoln to forgive. When hostilities ceased he who had always sent forth
the flag with every one of its stars in the field was eager to receive
back his returning countrymen."
One of the last stories of personal interviews with President Lincoln
relates to his feeling of clemency for the men lately in rebellion. It
is told by Senator Henderson of Missouri. "About the middle of March,
1865," says Senator Henderson, "I went to the White House to ask the
President to pardon a number of men who had been languishing in Missouri
prisons for various offenses, all political. Some of them had been my
schoolmates, and their mothers and sisters and sweethearts had persisted
in appeals that I should use my influence for their release. Since it
was evident to me that the Confederacy was in its last throes, I felt
that the pardon of most of these prisoners would do more good than harm.
I had separated them, according to the gravity of their offenses, into
three classes; and handing the first list to him, I said, 'Mr.
President, the session of the Senate is closed, and I am about to start
for home. The war is virtually over. Grant is pretty certain to get Lee
and his army, and Sherman is plainly able to take care of Johnston. In
my opinion the best way to prevent guerilla warfare at the end of
organized resistance will be to show clemency to these Southern
sympathizers.' Lincoln shook his head and said, 'Henderson, I am deeply
indebted to you, and I want to show it; but don't ask me at this time to
pardon rebels. I can't do it. People are continually blaming me for
being too lenient. Don't encourage such fellows by inducing me to turn
loose a lot of men who perhaps ought to be hanged.' I answered, 'Mr.
President, these prisoners and their friends tell me that for them the
war is over; and it will surely have a good influence now to let them
go.' He replied, 'Henderson, my conscience tells me that I must not do
it.' But I persisted. 'Mr. President, you _should_ do it. It is
necessary for good feeling in Missouri that these people be released.'
'If I sign this list as a whole, will you be responsible for the future
good behavior of these men?' he asked. 'Yes,' I replied, 'I will.' 'Then
I'll take the risk.' He wrote the word _Pardoned_, signed the order of
release, and returned the paper to me. 'Thank you, Mr. President,' I
said, 'but that is not all. I have another list.' 'You're not going to
make me let loose another lot!' he exclaimed. 'Yes,' I answered, 'and my
argument is the same as before. The guilt of these men is doubtful.
Mercy must be the policy of peace.' With the only words approaching
profanity that I ever heard him utter, he exclaimed, '_I'll be durned if
I don't sign it!_ Now, Henderson,' he said, as he handed me the list,
'remember that you are responsible to me for these men, and if they
don't behave '_I'll put you in prison for their sins._'"
Lincoln's whole feeling toward the vanquished Southern people was one of
peace and magnanimity. While many were clamoring for the execution of
the Southern leaders, and especially Jefferson Davis, Lincoln said, only
a day or two before his death: "This talk about Mr. Davis wearies me. I
hope he will mount a fleet horse, reach the shores of the Gulf of
Mexico, and ride _so far into its waters_ that we shall never see him
again." And then he told a pat story--perhaps his last--of a boy in
Springfield, "who saved up his money and bought a 'coon,' which, after
the novelty wore off, became a great nuisance. He was one day leading
him through the streets, and had his hands full to keep clear of the
little vixen, who had torn his clothes half off him. At length he sat
down on the curb-stone, completely fagged out. A man passing was stopped
by the lad's disconsolate appearance, and asked the matter. 'Oh,' was
the only reply, 'this coon is such a _trouble_ to me!' 'Why don't you
get rid of him, then?' said the gentleman. '_Hush_!' said the boy,
'don't you see he is gnawing his rope off? I am going to let him do it,
and then I will go home and tell the folks _that he got away from me_.'"
At the last Cabinet meeting ever attended by Lincoln, held in the
morning of the day on which he was shot, the subject of Reconstruction
was again uppermost, and various plans were presented and discussed.
Secretary Stanton brought forward a plan or ordinance which he said he
had prepared with much care and after a great deal of reflection. It was
arranged that a copy of this should be furnished to each member of the
Cabinet, for criticism and suggestion. "In the meantime," says Secretary
Welles, "we were requested by the President to deliberate and carefully
consider the proposition. He remarked that this was _the great question_
now before us, and _we must soon begin to act_." What that action would
have been had Lincoln lived--what wrong and misery would have been
spared to the South and shame and dishonor to the North--no one can
doubt who comprehends the fibre of that kindly, just, and indomitable
soul.
CHAPTER XXIX
The Last of Earth--Events of the Last Day of Lincoln's Life--The
Last Cabinet Meeting--The Last Drive with Mrs. Lincoln--Incidents
of the Afternoon--Riddance to Jacob Thompson--A Final Act of
Pardon--The Fatal Evening--The Visit to the Theatre--The Assassin's
Shot--A Scene of Horror--Particulars of the Crime--The Dying
President--A Nation's Grief--Funeral Obsequies--The Return to
Illinois--At Rest in Oak Ridge Cemetery.
It is something to be ever gratefully remembered, that the last day of
Lincoln's life was filled with sunshine. His cares and burdens slipped
from him like a garment, and his spirit was filled with a blessed and
benignant peace.
On the morning of that fatal Friday, the 14th day of April, the
President had a long conversation at breakfast with his son Robert, then
a member of Grant's staff, who had just arrived from the front with
additional particulars of Lee's surrender, of which event he had been a
witness. The President listened with close attention to the interesting
recital; then, taking up a portrait of General Lee, which his son had
brought him, he placed it on the table before him, where he scanned it
long and thoughtfully. Presently he said: "It is a good face. It is the
face of a noble, brave man. I am glad that the war is over at last."
Looking upon Robert, he continued: "Well, my son, you have returned
safely from the front. The war is now closed, and we will soon live in
peace with the brave men who have been fighting against us. I trust that
the era of good feeling has returned, and that henceforth we shall live
in harmony together."
After breakfast the President received Speaker Colfax, spending an hour
or more in discussing his plans regarding the adjustment of matters in
the South. This was followed by an interview with Hon. John P. Hale, the
newly appointed Minister to Spain, and by calls of congratulation from
members of Congress and old friends from Illinois. Afterwards he took a
short drive with General Grant, who had just come to the city to consult
regarding the disbandment of the army and the parole of prisoners. The
people were wild with enthusiasm, and wherever the President and General
Grant appeared they were greeted with cheers, the clapping of hands,
waving of handkerchiefs, and every possible demonstration of delight.
At the Cabinet meeting held at noon the President was accompanied by
General Grant. The meeting is thus described by one who was present,
Secretary Welles: "Congratulations were interchanged, and earnest
inquiry was made whether any information had been received from General
Sherman. General Grant, who was invited to remain, said he was expecting
hourly to hear from Sherman, and had a good deal of anxiety on the
subject. The President remarked that the news would come soon and come
favorably, he had no doubt, for he had last night his usual dream which
had preceded nearly every important event of the war. I inquired the
particulars of this remarkable dream. He said it was in my
department--it related to the water; that he seemed to be in a singular
and indescribable vessel, but always the same, and that he was moving
with great rapidity toward a dark and indefinite shore; that he had had
this singular dream preceding the firing on Sumter, the battles of Bull
Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Stone River, Vicksburg, Wilmington, etc.
General Grant remarked, with some emphasis and asperity, that Stone
River was no victory--that a few such victories would have ruined the
country, and he knew of no important results from it. The President said
that perhaps he should not altogether agree with him, but whatever might
be the facts his singular dream preceded that fight. Victory did not
always follow his dream, but the event and results were important. He
had no doubt that a battle had taken place or was about being fought,
'and Johnston will be beaten, for I had this strange dream again last
night. It must relate to Sherman; my thoughts are in that direction, and
_I know of no other very important event which is likely just now to
occur_.'" "Great events," adds Mr. Welles in his Diary, "did indeed
follow; for within a few hours the good and gentle as well as truly
great man who narrated his dream closed forever his earthly career."
After the Cabinet meeting the President took a drive with Mrs. Lincoln,
expressing a wish that no one should accompany them. His heart was
filled with a solemn joy, which awoke memories of the past to mingle
with hopes for the future; and in this subdued moment he desired to be
alone with the one who stood nearest to him in human relationship. In
the course of their talk together, he said: "Mary, we have had a hard
time of it since we came to Washington; but the war is over, and with
God's blessing we may hope for four years of peace and happiness, and
then we will go back to Illinois and pass the rest of our lives in
quiet." He spoke, says Mr. Arnold, "of his old Springfield home; and
recollections of his early days, his little brown cottage, the law
office, the court room, the green bag for his briefs and law papers, his
adventures when riding the circuit, came thronging back to him. The
tension under which he had for so long been kept was removed, and he was
like a boy out of school. 'We have laid by,' said he to his wife, 'some
money, and during this term we will try and save up more, but shall not
have enough to support us. We will go back to Illinois, and I will open
a law office at Springfield or Chicago, and practise law, and at least
do enough to help give us a livelihood.' Such were the dreams, the
day-dreams of Lincoln, on the last day of his earthly life."
Mr. Neill, the President's private secretary, states that between three
and four o'clock of this day he had occasion to seek the President to
procure his signature to a paper. "I found," says Mr. Neill, "that he
had retired to the private parlor of the house for lunch. While I was
looking over the papers on his table, to see if I could find the desired
commission, he came back, eating an apple. I told him what I was looking
for, and as I talked he placed his hand upon the bell-pull. I said: 'For
whom are you going to ring?' Placing his hand upon my coat, he spoke but
two words: 'Andrew Johnson.' 'Then,' I said, 'I will come in again.' As
I was leaving the room, the Vice-President had been ushered in, and the
President advanced and took him by the hand."
Charles A. Dana, the Assistant Secretary of War, says that his last
recollections of President Lincoln are indelibly associated with the
seditious Jacob Thompson. "Late in the afternoon," says Mr. Dana, "a
despatch was received at the War Department from the provost marshal of
Portland, Maine, saying that he had received information that Jacob
Thompson would arrive in Portland during that night, in order to take
there the Canadian steamer which was to sail for Liverpool. On reading
this despatch to Mr. Stanton, the latter said, 'Order him to be
arrested--but no; you had better take it over to the President.' I found
Mr. Lincoln in the inner room of his business office at the White House,
with his coat off, washing his hands preparatory to a drive. 'Hello,'
said he, 'what is it?' Listening to the despatch, he asked, 'What does
Stanton say?' 'He thinks he ought to be arrested,' I replied. 'Well,' he
continued, drawling his words, 'I rather guess not. When you have an
elephant on your hands, and he wants to run away, better let him run.'"
During the afternoon the President signed a pardon for a soldier
sentenced to be shot for desertion; remarking, as he did so, "Well, I
think the boy can do us more good above ground than under ground." He
also approved an application for the discharge, on taking the oath of
allegiance, of a Southern prisoner, on whose petition he wrote, "_Let it
be done_." This act of mercy was his last official order.
It had been decided early in the day that the President and Mrs. Lincoln
would attend Ford's Theatre in the evening, to witness the play of "The
American Cousin." Lincoln had invited General Grant to accompany his
party to the theatre, saying that the people would expect to see him and
should not be disappointed. But the General had declined, as Mrs. Grant
was anxious to start that afternoon to visit their children, who were at
school in Burlington, New Jersey.
As the hour approached for leaving for the theatre, the President was
engaged in a conversation with two friends--Speaker Colfax and Hon.
George Ashmun of Massachusetts. The business on which they had met not
being concluded, the President gave Mr. Ashmun a card on which he had
written these words: "Allow Mr. Ashmun and friend to come in at 9 A.M.
to-morrow--A. Lincoln." He then turned to Mr. Colfax, saying, "You are
going with Mrs. Lincoln and me to the theatre, I hope." Mr. Colfax
pleaded other engagements, when Lincoln remarked: "Mr. Sumner has the
gavel of the Confederate Congress, which he got at Richmond to hand to
the Secretary of War. But I insisted then that he must give it to you;
and you tell him for me to hand it over." He then rose, but seemed
reluctant to go, expressing a half-determination to delay a while
longer. It was undoubtedly to avoid disappointing the audience, to whom
his presence had been promised, that he went to the play-house that
night. At the door he stopped and said to Speaker Colfax, who was about
to leave for the Pacific coast, "Colfax, do not forget to tell the
people in the mining regions, as you pass through, what I told you this
morning about the development when peace comes. I will telegraph you at
San Francisco."
It was nine o'clock when the Presidential party reached the theatre. The
place was crowded; "many ladies in rich and gay costumes, officers in
their uniforms, many well-known citizens, young folks, the usual
clusters of gaslights, the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful,
with perfumes, music of violins and flutes--and over all, and saturating
all, that vast, vague wonder, Victory, the Nation's victory, the triumph
of the Union, filling the air, the thought, the sense, with exhilaration
more than all perfumes." As the President entered he was greeted with
tremendous cheers, to which he responded with genial courtesy. The box
reserved for him, at the right of the stage, a little above the floor,
was draped and festooned with flags. As the party were seated, the
daughter of Senator Harris of New York occupied the corner nearest the
stage; next her was Mrs. Lincoln; and behind them sat the President and
Major Rathbone, the former being nearest the door.
In his quiet chair he sate,
Pure of malice or guile,
Stainless of fear or hate;
And there played a pleasant smile
On the rough and careworn face,--
For his heart was all the while
On means of mercy and grace.
The brave old flag drooped o'er him,--
A fold in the hard hand lay;
He looked perchance on the play,--
But the scene was a shadow before him,
For his thoughts were far away.
It was half-past ten o'clock, and the audience was absorbed in the
progress of the play, when suddenly a pistol shot, loud and sharp, rang
through the theatre. All eyes were instantly directed toward the
President's box, whence the report proceeded. A moment later, the figure
of a man, holding a smoking pistol in one hand and a dagger in the
other, appeared at the front of the President's box, and sprang to the
stage, some eight or ten feet below, shouting as he did so, "_Sic semper
tyrannis!_" He fell as he struck the stage; but quickly recovering
himself, sprang through the side-wings and escaped from the theatre by a
rear door.
At the moment of the assassination a single actor, Mr. Hawk, was on the
stage. In his account of the tragical event he says: "When I heard the
shot fired, I turned, looked up at the President's box, heard the man
exclaim, '_Sic semper tyrannis_!' saw him jump from the box, seize the
flag on the staff, and drop to the stage. He slipped when he struck the
stage, but got upon his feet in a moment, brandished a large knife,
crying, 'The South shall be free,' turned his face in the direction
where I stood, and I recognized him as John Wilkes Booth. He ran towards
me, and I, seeing the knife, thought I was the one he was after, and ran
off the stage and up a flight of stairs. He made his escape out of a
door directly in the rear of the theatre, mounted a horse, and rode off.
The above all occurred in the space of a quarter of a minute, and at the
time I did not know the President was shot."
Scarcely had the horror-stricken audience witnessed the leap and flight
of the asassin when a woman's shriek pierced through the theatre,
recalling all eyes to the President's box. The scene that ensued is
described with singular vividness by the poet Walt Whitman, who was
present: "A moment's hush--a scream--the cry of murder--Mrs. Lincoln
leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks and lips, with involuntary cry,
pointing to the retreating figure, '_He has killed the President!_' And
still a moment's strange, incredulous suspense--and then the
deluge!--then that mixture of horror, noises, uncertainty--(the sound,
somewhere back, of a horse's hoofs clattering with speed)--the people
burst through chairs and railing, and break them up--that noise adds to
the queerness of the scene--there is inextricable confusion and
terror--women faint--feeble persons fall and are trampled on--many cries
of agony are heard--the broad stage suddenly fills to suffocation with a
dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival--the audience rush
generally upon it--at least the strong men do--the actors and actresses
are there in their play costumes and painted faces, with mortal fright
showing through the rouge--some trembling, some in tears--the screams
and calls, confused talk--redoubled, trebled--two or three manage to
pass up water from the stage to the President's box--others try to
clamber up. Amidst all this, a party of soldiers, two hundred or more,
hearing what is done, suddenly appear; they storm the house, inflamed
with fury, literally charging the audience with fixed bayonets, muskets,
and pistols, shouting, 'Clear out! clear out!'.... And in the midst of
that pandemonium of senseless haste--the infuriated soldiers, the
audience, the stage, its actors and actresses, its paints and spangles
and gaslights,--the life blood from those veins, the best and sweetest
of the land, drips slowly down, and death's ooze already begins its
little bubbles on the lips."
It appears that Booth, the assassin, had long been plotting the murder
of the President, and was awaiting a favorable moment for its execution.
He had visited the theatre at half-past eleven on the morning of the
14th, and learned that a box had been taken for the President that
evening. He engaged a fleet horse for a saddle-ride in the afternoon,
and left it at a convenient place. In the evening he rode to the
theatre, and, leaving the animal in charge of an accomplice, entered the
house. Making his way to the door of the President's box, and taking a
small Derringer pistol in one hand and a double-edged dagger in the
other, he thrust his arm into the entrance, where the President, sitting
in an arm-chair, presented to his view the back and side of his head. A
flash, a sharp report, a puff of smoke, and the fatal bullet had entered
the President's brain.
Major Rathbone, who occupied a seat in the President's box, testifies
that he was sitting with his back toward the door, when he heard the
discharge of a pistol behind him, and looking around saw through the
smoke a man between the door and the President. Major Rathbone instantly
sprang toward him and seized him; the man wrested himself from his
grasp, and made a violent thrust at the Major's breast with a large
knife. The Major parried the blow by striking it up, and received a
wound in his left arm. The man rushed to the front of the box, and the
Major endeavored to seize him again, but only caught his clothes as he
was leaping over the railing of the box. Major Rathbone then turned to
the President. His position was not changed; his head was slightly bent
forward, and his eyes were closed.
As soon as the surgeons who had been summoned completed their hasty
examination, the unconscious form of the President was borne from the
theatre to a house across the street, and laid upon his death-bed.
Around him were gathered Surgeon-General Barnes, Vice-President Johnson,
Senator Sumner, Secretaries Stanton and Welles, Generals Halleck and
Meigs, Attorney-General Speed, Postmaster-General Dennison, Mr.
McCulloch, Speaker Colfax, and other intimate friends who had been
hastily summoned. Mrs. Lincoln sat in an adjoining room, prostrate and
overwhelmed, with her son Robert. The examination of the surgeons had
left no room for hope. The watchers remained through the night by the
bedside of the stricken man, who showed no signs of consciousness; and a
little after seven o'clock in the morning--Saturday the 15th of
April--he breathed his last.
A vivid account of the death-bed scene, together with particulars of the
attacks upon Secretary Seward and his son Frederick a half-hour later
than the attack upon the President, is furnished in the contemporaneous
record of Secretary Welles, a singularly cool observer and clear
narrator. "I had retired to bed about half-past ten on the evening of
the 14th of April," writes Mr. Welles, "and was just getting asleep when
Mrs. Welles, my wife, said some one was at our door.... I arose at once
and raised a window, when my messenger, James Smith, called to me that
Mr. Lincoln, the President, had been shot; and said Secretary Seward and
his son, Assistant Secretary Frederick Seward, were assassinated.... I
immediately dressed myself, and, against the earnest remonstrance and
appeals of my wife, went directly to Mr. Seward's, whose residence was
on the east side of the square, mine being on the north.... Entering the
house, I found the lower hall and office full of persons, and among them
most of the foreign legations, all anxiously inquiring what truth there
was in the horrible rumors afloat.... At the head of the first stairs I
met the elder Mrs. Seward, who was scarcely able to speak, but desired
me to proceed up to Mr. Seward's room.... As I entered, I met Miss Fanny
Seward, with whom I exchanged a single word, and proceeded to the foot
of the bed. Dr. Verdi, and, I think, two others, were there. The bed was
saturated with blood. The Secretary was lying on his back, the upper
part of his head covered by a cloth, which extended down over his eyes.
His mouth was open, the lower jaw dropping down. I exchanged a few
whispered words with Dr. Verdi. Secretary Stanton, who came after but
almost simultaneously with me, made inquiries in a louder tone till
admonished by a word from one of the physicians. We almost immediately
withdrew and went into the adjoining front room, where lay Frederick
Seward. His eyes were open, but he did not move them, nor a limb, nor
did he speak. Doctor White, who was in attendance, told me he was
unconscious and more dangerously injured than his father.... As we
descended the stairs, I asked Stanton what he had heard in regard to the
President that was reliable. He said the President was shot at Ford's
Theatre, that he had seen a man who was present and witnessed the
occurrence. I said I would go immediately to the White House. Stanton
told me the President was not there but was at the theatre. 'Then,' said
I, 'let us go immediately there.' ... The President had been carried
across the street from the theatre, to the house of a Mr. Peterson. We
entered by ascending a flight of steps above the basement and passing
through a long hall to the rear, where the President lay extended on a
bed, breathing heavily. Several surgeons were present, at least six, I
should think more. Among them I was glad to observe Dr. Hall, who,
however, soon left. I inquired of Dr. H., as I entered, the true
condition of the President. He replied the President was dead to all
intents, although he might live three hours or perhaps longer.... The
giant sufferer lay extended diagonally across the bed, which was not
long enough for him. He had been stripped of his clothes. His large
arms, which were occasionally exposed, were of a size which one would
scarce have expected from his spare appearance. His slow, full
respiration lifted the clothes with each breath that he took. His
features were calm and striking. I had never seen them appear to better
advantage than for the first hour, perhaps, that I was there. After
that, his right eye began to swell and that part of his face became
discolored ... Senator Sumner was there, I think, when I entered. If
not, he came in soon after, as did Speaker Colfax, Mr. Secretary
McCulloch, and the other members of the Cabinet, with the exception of
Mr. Seward. A double guard was stationed at the door and on the
sidewalk, to repress the crowd, which was of course highly excited and
anxious. The room was small and overcrowded. The surgeons and members of
the Cabinet were as many as should have been in the room, but there were
many more, and the hall and other rooms in the front or main house were
full. One of these rooms was occupied by Mrs. Lincoln and her
attendants, with Miss Harris. Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Kinney came to her
about twelve o'clock. About once an hour Mrs. Lincoln would repair to
the bedside of her dying husband and with lamentations and tears remain
until overcome by emotion.... A door which opened upon a porch or
gallery, and also the windows, were kept open for fresh air. The night
was dark, cloudy, and damp, and about six it began to rain. I remained
in the room until then without sitting or leaving it, when, there being
a vacant chair which some one left at the foot of the bed, I occupied it
for nearly two hours, listening to the heavy groans, and witnessing the
wasting life of the good and great man who was expiring before me.... A
little before seven in the morning I re-entered the room where the dying
President was rapidly drawing near the closing moments. His wife soon
after made her last visit to him. The death-struggle had begun. Robert,
his son, stood with several others at the head of the bed. The
respiration of the President became suspended at intervals, and at last
entirely ceased at twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock." |
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