Team of Rivals (46 page)

Lincoln was not alone in his assessment that the October state elections in Indiana and Pennsylvania would prove critical to the fortunes of the Republican Party. On the eve of the state elections, Judge Davis told his son that “tomorrow is the most important day in the history of the Country.” Lincoln’s camp was elated by the positive results as large Republican majorities piled up in both states. When Judge Davis first heard the exciting news, Ward Lamon reported back to Lincoln, “he was trying an important criminal case, which terminated in his Kicking over the Clerk’s desk, turned a double somersault and adjourned court until after the presidential Election.” If the three-hundred-pound Davis actually performed such a stunt, it was a miracle second only to Lincoln’s nomination. But there was no question that Davis was thrilled. “We are all in the highest glee on acct of the elections,” he wrote his wife, Sarah. “Mr. Lincoln will evidently be the next Pres’t.” That Saturday night, Davis traveled to Springfield to celebrate with the Lincolns, Trumbull, and Governor Corwin. “I never was better entertained,” he rejoiced, though he confessed that Mary was still “not to my liking.” She appears to be “in high feather,” he continued. “I am in hopes that she will not give her husband any trouble.”

Mary reveled in her newfound celebrity. She delighted in the crowds of visitors coming to her house, the artists pleading to paint her husband’s portrait, the prominent politicians waiting for the chance to converse with the presidential nominee. With pride, and perhaps a shade of spite toward the man who had so often bested her husband, she noted that a reception for Stephen Douglas in Springfield had attracted only thirty people when hundreds were expected. “This rather looks as if his greatness had passed away,” she commented to a friend.

Still, Mary remained terribly anxious that ultimate success might once again prove elusive. “You used to be worried, that I took politics so cooly,” she confessed to her friend Hannah Shearer; “you would not do so, were you to see me now. Whenever I
have time,
to think, my mind is sufficiently exercised for my comfort…I scarcely know, how I would bear up, under defeat. I trust that we will not have the trial.”

For weeks, Stephen Douglas had been barnstorming the country, having decided immediately after his nomination to defy custom. Disregarding criticism that his unbecoming behavior diminished the “high office of the presidency…to the level of a county clerkship,” he stumped the country, from the New England states to the Northwest, from the border states to the South, becoming “the first presidential candidate in American history to make a nationwide tour in person.”

Douglas was in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, when he heard the news of the Republican victories in Indiana and Pennsylvania, which destroyed any hope he might have had for victory. “Mr. Lincoln is the next President,” he declared. “We must try to save the Union. I will go South.” It was a courageous move, his “finest hour,” according to Allan Nevins. Exhausted from his nonstop weeks of campaigning, Douglas faced one hostile audience after another as he moved into the Deep South. No longer hoping to gain support for his candidacy, he campaigned for the survival of the Union. “I believe there is a conspiracy on foot to break up this Union,” he warned an audience in Montgomery, Alabama. “It is the duty of every good citizen to frustrate the scheme…if Lincoln is elected, he must be inaugurated.”

Douglas understood what the Republicans failed to see—that Southerners were serious in their threats to secede from the Union if Lincoln won the election. “The cardinal error of the Republicans,” Nevins writes, was their failure to deal candidly with “the now imminent danger of secession.” Their dismissal of the looming possibility of secession was in part, but only in part, a deliberate tactic to ignore the threat so that voters would not be scared away from the Republican ticket. Beyond that, they simply did not believe that the threat was serious. After all, the South had made similar threats intermittently for the past forty years. Charles Francis Adams, Jr., later admitted, “we all dwelt in a fool’s Paradise.” Though Northern Republicans had undoubtedly seen the threatening editorials in Southern newspapers, they continued to believe, as Lincoln told a journalist friend, that the movement was simply “a sort of political game of bluff, gotten up by politicians, and meant solely to frighten the North.”

In mid-August, Lincoln assured one of his supporters, John Fry, that “people of the South have too much of good sense, and good temper, to attempt the ruin of the government.” Many in the South were equally skeptical. A Tennessee editor later admitted that “the cry of disunion had been raised so often that few had taken it seriously during the campaign. Evidently the ‘Northern sectionalists’ had believed it to be ‘all talk’…while most intelligent Southerners had assumed that it was ‘an idle menace, made to sway Northern sentiment.’”

Bates likewise shrugged off Southern threats as the desperation of belligerent politicians, while Seward openly scorned the taunts of secession: “they cry out that they will tear the Union to pieces…‘Who’s afraid?’ Nobody’s afraid.” His audience echoed: “Nobody!” Among Lincoln’s colleagues, only Frank Blair, Jr., recognized that the distortions of Lincoln’s speeches in the Southern papers and the “misrepresentations” of extremists who intimated the Republicans intended an attack on the South had created “a large and influential class who are even now ready to apply the torch which will light the fires of civil discord.” Still, Blair believed, these extremists would not succeed and “this glorious Union” would not “be sundered in consequence of the triumph of our party.” Even John Breckinridge, the South’s standard-bearer, sought to distance himself from Southern extremists. His sole campaign speech refuted charges that he favored splitting up the Union.

The realization that the “irrepressible conflict” might prove more than rhetoric came too late. The divided house would indeed fall. These phrases, intended by Seward and Lincoln as historical prophecies, were perceived by many in the South as threats—imminent and meant to be answered.

With the October elections, the campaign had gained decisive momentum, but it was not yet over. With four candidates dividing the vote, Lincoln would have to capture New York’s pivotal 35 electoral votes to win an electoral majority and avoid throwing the election into the House. He relied on Thurlow Weed to manage the campaign in New York, but continued to seek other perspectives and intelligence. “I have a good deal of news from New-York,” Lincoln told former congressman John Pettit, “but, of course, it is from
friends,
and is one-sided…. It would seem that assurances to this point could not be better than I have. And yet it
may
be delusive.”

The Empire State posed unique problems for Republicans. New York was home to large numbers of traditionally Democratic Irish immigrants who were unfriendly to the antislavery cause. In addition, New York City contained an influential class of merchants and manufacturers who viewed Republicanism as a threat to their commercial relations with the South. If these groups united against Lincoln, and if, as the Douglas people believed, Seward’s partisans remained unreconciled to Lincoln’s nomination, New York could easily be lost.

Lincoln recognized these complications from the outset, warning Weed in August that “there will be the most extraordinary effort ever made, to carry New-York for Douglas.” He feared that Douglas was “managing the Bell-element with great adroitness,” and might well obtain a fusion of the two forces, thereby keeping the state from the Republicans. Less worried than Lincoln, Weed nonetheless left nothing to chance. He wrote to Seward in late October from the Astor House in New York City: “Can you afford to make a
soothing
speech in this city?…A speech in the spirit that you delivered last in the Senate, showing that it is the business of Republicans and the mission of the Republican Party to preserve the Union…that there is not an aggressive Plank in the Republican Platform…. I think it would finish the work.” Seward agreed to come to New York at once. His speech, even in this Democratic stronghold, was punctuated by wild applause, and when he finished, “the whole audience broke forth into the most tumultuous cheering.”

O
N
E
LECTION
D
AY,
November 6, 1860, the citizens of Springfield were awakened at sunrise by cannonade and rousing band music “to stir whatever sluggish spirits there might be among the populace.” Lincoln spent the morning in his quarters at the State House, receiving and entertaining visitors. Samuel Weed of the
New York Times
long remembered the atmosphere in the room that morning. Lincoln “was chatting with three or four friends as calmly and as amiably as if he had started on a picnic.” Tipping his armchair backward to prop his long legs atop the woodstove, he made such detailed inquiry into all the local races that “one would have concluded that the District Attorneyship of a county of Illinois was of far more importance than the Presidency.”

Lincoln had originally declined to vote himself, believing that “the candidate for a Presidential office ought not to vote for his own electors,” but Herndon insisted that if he cut off the presidential electors at the top, he could still vote for all the state and local offices. Warming to the idea, Lincoln headed over at about three o’clock to the polling place at the courthouse. His appearance drew a large crowd, “who welcomed him with immense cheering, and followed him in dense numbers along the hall and up stairs into the Court room,” where he was hailed with another wild “burst of enthusiasm.”

At five, he headed home to have supper with Mary and the boys, returning to the State House at seven, accompanied by Judge Davis and a few friends. An immense crowd followed him into the Capitol, leading one supporter to suggest that he ask everyone but his closest friends to withdraw. “He said he had never done such a thing in his life, and wouldn’t commence now.” When the polls had closed, the first dispatches began to filter into the telegraph office. A correspondent from the
Missouri Democrat
noted that throughout the evening, “Lincoln was calm and collected as ever in his life, but there was a nervous twitch on his countenance when the messenger from the telegraphic offices entered that revealed an anxiety within that no coolness from without could repress.” The first dispatch, indicating a strong Republican win in Decatur, Illinois, was “borne into the Assembly hall as a trophy of victory, to be read to the crowd,” who responded with great shouts of joy. Though the early returns were incomplete, it was observed that Lincoln “seemed to understand their bearing on the general result in the State and commented upon every return by way of comparison with previous elections.”

By nine o’clock, as tallies were relayed from distant states, Lincoln, Davis, and a few friends gathered at the telegraph office for immediate access to the returns. While Lincoln reclined on a sofa, the telegraph tapped out good news all around. New England, the Northwest, Indiana, and Pennsylvania had all come into the Republican camp. When ten o’clock arrived, however, with no word from New York, Lincoln grew fretful. “The news would come quick enough if it was good,” he told his cohorts that “and if bad, he was not in any hurry to hear it.”

Finally, at 11:30, a message came from New York. “We have made steady gains everywhere throughout the State, but the city returns are not sufficiently forward to make us sure of the result, although we are quite sanguine a great victory has been won.” The dispatch produced tremendous cheers. Minutes later, Lyman Trumbull came running into the room: “Uncle Abe, you’re the next President, and I know it.” Lincoln was still uncertain, for if the Democrats piled up huge majorities in New York City, the Republican votes in the rest of the state could be offset. “Not too fast, my friends,” he said. “Not too fast, it may not be over yet.”

At midnight, Lincoln attended a “victory” supper prepared by the Republican ladies. While everyone else was in high spirits, assured of victory, Lincoln remained anxious about New York. Too often in the past his dreams had collapsed at the last moment. Without New York’s 35 electoral votes, his total of 145 electoral votes would be 7 short of a majority.

Lincoln’s concerns proved groundless, for Thurlow Weed’s unparalleled organization had been at work since dawn, rounding up Republican voters in every precinct. “Don’t wait until the last hour,” Weed had instructed his workers. “Consider every man a ‘delinquent’ who doesn’t vote before 10 o’clock.” He left his organization plenty of time to prod, push, and, if necessary, carry voters to the polls.

Soon after midnight, the returns from New York and Brooklyn came in, revealing that Democratic control of New York City was not enough to counter the Republican vote throughout the state. Celebrations could begin in earnest, for Lincoln’s victory was accomplished.

Church bells began to ring. Cheers for “Old Abe” resounded through the streets. Lincoln was jubilant, admitting that he was “a very happy man…who could help being so under such circumstances?” Pocketing the final dispatch, he headed home to tell Mary, who had been waiting anxiously all day. “Mary, Mary,” he cried out,
“we are elected!”

B
Y THE TIME
L
INCOLN
got to bed, it was two o’clock. He was exhausted but could not sleep. “The excitement which had kept him up through the campaign had passed away,” he later recalled to Gideon Welles, “and he was oppressed with the load of responsibility that was upon him.” Outside his windows, he could hear the citizens of Springfield partying in the streets, laughing, singing, and marching until they could carry on no longer. With the arrival of dawn, they finally dispersed to their homes.

Undoubtedly, Lincoln shared the elation of his neighbors. From his earliest days in politics, he had craved the opportunity to accomplish important deeds that would benefit his fellows. In modern parlance, he wanted to make a difference and now he had the opportunity to do so. Yet, keenly aware of both the fractious nature of the youthful Republican Party and the ominous threats from the South, he understood that his country was entering a most perilous time.

“I began at once to feel that I needed support,” he noted later; “others to share with me the burden.” As the exhausted townsfolk shuffled back to their homes and the city sank “into its usual quietness,” Lincoln began to compose his official family—the core of his administration. “This was on Wednesday morning,” he revealed, “and before the sun went down, I had made up my Cabinet. It was almost the same as I finally selected.”

On a blank card he wrote the names of the seven men he wanted. At the center of his list stood his chief rivals for the nomination—Seward, Chase, and Bates. The list also included Montgomery Blair, Gideon Welles, and Norman Judd, all former Democrats, as well as William Dayton of New Jersey, a former Whig. While several months would pass before the cabinet was assembled, subjecting Lincoln to intense pressures from all sides, he resolved that day to surround himself with the strongest men from every faction of the new Republican Party—former Whigs, Free-Soilers, and antislavery Democrats.

The stillness of this first day that allowed Lincoln to contemplate the formulation of his ideal cabinet proved to be the calm before the storm. Soon, “the mad scramble” for the lesser positions began. With letters of recommendation stuffed in their pockets and fervent hopes in their hearts, hordes of office seekers descended on Springfield. Some arrived with “muddy boots and hickory shirts,” while others were dressed in their finest linen and woolens. All were graciously welcomed by Lincoln.

He decided to hold two receptions a day, the first in the morning, the second in the late afternoon. The receptions were held in the Governor’s Room in the State House, a chamber far too small for the constant crush of visitors pushing their way through the narrow doorway, guided by Lincoln’s “clear voice and often ringing laughter.”
New York Tribune
correspondent Henry Villard, although initially skeptical of Lincoln’s qualifications to be president, observed that the president-elect “showed remarkable tact” with every caller. Listening patiently to each applicant, Lincoln revealed a quick-witted “adaptation to individual characteristics and peculiarities. He never evaded a proper question, or failed to give a fit answer.” What most impressed Villard was Lincoln’s remarkable ability to tell a humorous story or deliver an appropriate anecdote “to explain a meaning or enforce a point, the aptness of which was always perfect.”

While the opposition papers derided Lincoln’s penchant for telling stories, imagining that he babbled on from the moment he awakened—at mealtimes, on the street, in his office, in stores, even in his sleep (with Mary beside him in her nightcap)—the perceptive Villard understood that the president-elect’s perpetual supply of stories “helped many times to heal wounded feelings and mitigate disappointments.” Everyone Lincoln dealt with, Villard concluded, agreed that “he is the very embodiment of good temper and affability. They will all concede that he has a kind word, an encouraging smile, a humorous remark for nearly everyone that seeks his presence, and that but few, if any, emerge from his reception room without being strongly and favorably impressed with his general disposition.”

At this juncture, Lincoln was sorely in need of a second assistant. Nicolay recommended twenty-two-year-old John Hay, the young journalist and Brown University graduate who had become actively involved in the campaign and had written pro-Lincoln columns for the
Missouri Democrat.
Nicolay had originally met Hay in private school. When Nicolay asked his boyhood friend to help with the overflowing correspondence, the gregarious young man was delighted. Though Hay was preparing for the bar in the Springfield office of his uncle Milton Hay, he was passionate about literature. On Class Day at Brown, he had delivered a poem that was remembered for years afterward. He had hoped quixotically to make his living as a poet upon graduation, but had reluctantly settled for a career in law. He leaped at the chance to work in the White House.

For Mary, Willie, and Tad, it was an exciting time. At night, after the formal receptions were over, visitors, sketch artists, and friends flocked to their home. Mary flourished in her role as hostess, while the boys regaled visitors with laughter and stories of their own. The ardent political conversations of celebrated men surely reminded Mary of childhood evenings when her father entertained congressmen and senators, including Henry Clay, in the parlor of his Kentucky mansion. To be sure, there were unpleasant moments, as when mud was tracked into the house, or when callers would point to Mary and boisterously ask: “Is that the old woman?” But Mary seemed to take it all in stride. Her delight in victory overshadowed such small aggravations.

Even as the Lincolns entertained their colorful parade of callers, the president-elect never lost sight of the intricate task he faced in building a cabinet that would preserve the integrity of the Republican Party in the North, while providing the fairest possible representation from the South. To help with his deliberations, he asked Hannibal Hamlin, his vice president–elect, to meet him in Chicago. Once the arrangements were made, he invited his old friend Joshua Speed to join him, and suggested that he bring his wife, Fanny, to keep Mary company. Traveling by train with a small party of journalists and friends, the Lincolns took up quarters at the Tremont House, which had lodged Davis and Swett six months earlier when they managed the unexpected nomination.

Although Hamlin had been a senator when Lincoln was in the House, this was the first time they would meet. Hamlin recalled listening to a speech Lincoln delivered that “was so full of good humor and sharp points” that the entire chamber “was convulsed with laughter.” Born in Maine the same year as Lincoln, Hamlin was a tall, powerfully built man with a swarthy complexion. He had entered politics as a Jacksonian Democrat at a young age, serving first in the Maine state legislature, then in the U.S. House of Representatives, and finally in the Senate.

The two men began their discussions in Lincoln’s room in the Tremont House, but news of their meeting soon brought “a great throng of visitors,” necessitating a public reception and a round of dinners. The following day, however, their dialogue resumed privately at a friend’s house, where Lincoln made clear his determination to create “a compact body” by drawing his former rivals into “his official household.” Hamlin apparently agreed with this notion, and the conversation turned to selecting a representative from New England. Lincoln’s original choice, Gideon Welles, was mentioned, along with Nathaniel Banks and Charles Francis Adams, Jr. Hamlin objected to Banks but agreed to look into the availability and feasibility of both Adams and Welles.

Amid the flood of political aspirants and tactical discussions, Lincoln must have coveted his time with Speed. He arranged for Fanny to visit with Mary so that he might speak with his old friend in private. Speed later recalled that Lincoln “threw himself on the bed” and said: “Speed what are your pecuniary Conditions—are you rich, or poor.” Understanding the import of the question, Speed replied: “I think I know what you wish. I’ll Speak Candidly to you—My pecuniary Conditions are good—I do not think you have any office within your gift that I can afford to take.” Though Speed’s resolve never wavered, the two friends would maintain contact during the war, and Speed would play an important role in keeping Kentucky in the Union.

While Lincoln was preoccupied with selecting his cabinet, Mary had a splendid time. She visited the scene of her husband’s triumph at the Wigwam, toured the Custom House and the Post Office, and maintained her poise and charm at the large public reception accorded the president-elect and his wife.

Returning home, Lincoln corresponded with a wide range of politicians and listened carefully to their suggestions for his cabinet. In the end, however, he alone would solve what Nicolay’s daughter, Helen, later described as “an intensified crossword puzzle in which party loyalty and service, personal fitness, geographical location and a dozen other factors have to be taken into account and made to harmonize.”

From the start, Lincoln determined to give the highest place to Seward, “in view of his ability, his integrity, and his commanding influence.” The presidency now unavailable, Seward never questioned that he deserved the premier post as secretary of state. Not only had he been the overwhelming favorite for the nomination, but he had vigorously campaigned for Lincoln in the general election and had helped to bring the critical state of New York to Lincoln’s side.

“Of course,
Mr. Lincoln will offer you the chief place in his Cabinet,” Charles Francis Adams wrote Seward. “I trust no considerations will deter you from accepting it…. I know of no such faith existing in the competency of any other person.” From Pennsylvania, Simon Cameron tendered a similar prediction. “You will be offered the State Dept. within a few days and you
must not
refuse it. The whole victory achieved by the labor of so many years, will be lost if you run away now. My whole ambition is to see you in the Presidency.”

Lincoln agreed wholeheartedly with the presumption that Seward deserved first consideration. Seward, however, harbored more elaborate ambitions. While Lincoln desired a cabinet that stitched together the various factions of the Republican Party, Seward believed the cabinet should be dominated by former Whigs like himself. The Whig Party had provided nearly two thirds of Lincoln’s total vote. Lesser posts could be given to the leading representatives of the other factions, but the former Whigs, Seward believed, deserved all the top prizes. Furthermore, Seward intended, with Weed’s help, to have a major role in choosing the remaining cabinet members, thus acquiring a position in the new government more commanding than that of Lincoln himself.

To set this in motion, Thurlow Weed invited Lincoln shortly after the election to join him at Seward’s home in Auburn so the three men might deliberate about the cabinet. As precedent, he invoked the journey of President-elect William Harrison to Lexington, Kentucky, in 1841 to confer with his rival Henry Clay. Lincoln wisely declined. When Weed suggested meeting in a more neutral setting, Lincoln again declined. While more than willing to consult with Weed and Seward on his cabinet selections, Lincoln wanted it known that the ultimate decisions would emanate from Springfield and would be his alone.

Lincoln’s careful maneuvering with Weed did not indicate any hesitation to make Seward his secretary of state. On the contrary, Lincoln responded testily to a warning from a conservative Kentucky judge that “if obnoxious men like Seward, Cassius M. Clay, &c were put in the Cabinet,” the citizens of Kentucky might feel compelled to follow South Carolina in its call for a secession convention. “In what speech,” Lincoln asked, had Seward or any prominent Republican “ever spoken menacingly of the South?” The problem was not what the Republicans said or believed but the manner in which Southerners “persistently bespotted and bespattered every northern man by their misrepresentations to rob them of what strength they might otherwise have.”

In fact, after newspapers had speculated that Seward had no interest in a cabinet post, and that, even if he did, Lincoln did not want to offer him one, Lincoln resolved to act quickly. Early in December, he directed Hamlin to ascertain Seward’s state of mind. When Hamlin approached Seward’s friend Preston King, King suggested that the vice president–elect should deal directly with Seward. Knowing this would be equivalent “to a tender of a place,” Hamlin again sought Lincoln’s instructions.

Lincoln concluded the time had come to make the offer official. In reply to Hamlin, he enclosed two letters for Seward and directed Hamlin, after consulting with Trumbull in Washington, to deliver them to Seward “at once.” On the afternoon of December 10, after the Senate had adjourned, Hamlin caught up with Seward on the street. Reaching the Washington House on the corner of Third Street and Pennsylvania Avenue where Hamlin was staying, the vice president–elect invited Seward in to talk. Asked if he would, in truth, reject the position of secretary of state, Seward was guarded. “If that is what you have come to talk to me about, Hamlin, we might as well stop here,” he replied. “I don’t want the place, and if I did, I have reason to know that I could not get it; therefore let us have no more talk about it.”