The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (23 page)

Even now, as the rising Confederacy drew up its constitution, many remained convinced that the North would not take up arms. “There will be no invasion of Southern soil,” insisted an editorial in the
New York Times.
“Such a project is as impracticable as it would be unwise—and no one looks to it as a remedy for any of the evils which afflict or threaten the country.” This conviction rested in part on a belief that the border states would continue to act as a buffer, preventing a “hostile collision” between North and South: “It is unquestionably true that, whatever may be their sentiments on the general subject—whatever they may think of the policy of secession, or of the advantages of the Union—neither Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky nor Tennessee would assent to the advance of armies from the North through their borders.” If these states cast their lot with the Confederacy, the
Times
warned, their interests and wishes would be dashed against the “bold and unprincipled ambition” of the movement’s leaders.

*   *   *

THIS WAS PRECISELY THE DILEMMA
that plagued Maryland’s governor Hicks, who continued to engage in stalling maneuvers as his constituents rallied to join the new Southern Confederacy. As frustrations mounted, the Maryland state legislature resolved to sidestep the governor, announcing that a special convention would be held on February 18 to address the matter of Maryland’s secession—with or without Hicks. By that time, Lincoln would be seven days into his inaugural journey, and only five days away from Baltimore.

Allan Pinkerton, posing as the gregarious stockbroker John Hutchinson, had found a way to turn the controversy to his own purposes. At his office on South Street, Pinkerton was engaged in a running debate with a businessman named James H. Luckett, who had been elected as a delegate to the special convention of the legislature. Luckett, who occupied a neighboring office, proudly told Pinkerton that he had won the position on the strength of a speech calling for immediate secession. “Let them call it Treason,” he told Pinkerton, “but let us act.”

Pinkerton nodded vigorously as Luckett spoke, and he went on to express impatience with the obstructive tactics of Governor Hicks. Luckett appeared highly pleased. “I tell you, my friend,” he said fervently, “it will be but a short time until you will find Governor Hicks will have to fly, or he will be hung. He is a traitor to his God and his Country.” Troops were being readied to move on Washington in tandem with Maryland’s secession, he continued, “and then see where General Scott would be.”

Pinkerton, eager to keep his new friend talking, “cordially sympathized” with everything Luckett said. As Luckett became more and more expansive, the detective steered the conversation toward Lincoln’s impending passage through Baltimore, hoping to untangle the threads that Harry Davies had picked up during his revels with Otis Hillard. At the mention of Lincoln’s journey, Luckett turned suddenly cautious. “He may pass through quietly,” Luckett said, “but I doubt it.”

Pinkerton pressed the point, mentioning that the Baltimore police had promised Lincoln safe transit through the city. “Oh,” said Luckett dismissively, “that is easily promised, but may not be so easily done.”

Pinkerton was unnerved by this sudden reticence. Luckett had been eager enough to talk about secession matters and the capture of Washington, but the subject of Lincoln’s travels appeared to be off-limits. Pinkerton felt certain that his companion knew more than he was willing to say. Hoping to force the issue, the detective pulled out his wallet and counted out twenty-five dollars with a dramatic flourish. “I am but a stranger to you” Pinkerton said, “but I have no doubt that money is necessary for the success of this patriotic cause.” Pressing the bills into Luckett’s hand, Pinkerton asked that the donation be used “in the best manner possible for Southern rights.” Shrewdly, Pinkerton offered a piece of advice along with his largesse, seizing on the occasion to warn his new friend to be “cautious in talking with outsiders.” One never knew, Pinkerton said, when Northern agents might be listening.

The ploy worked. Luckett took the warning—along with the money—as proof of Pinkerton’s trustworthy nature. He told the detective that he and his colleagues were “exceedingly cautious as to whom they talked with,” and that only a small handful of men, members of a secret cabal sworn to the strictest oaths of silence, knew the full extent of the plans being laid. Luckett might have stopped there, but Pinkerton’s display of caution had inspired a new level of confidence. Perhaps, Luckett said, Pinkerton might like to meet the “leading man” of the secret organization. Leaning forward, Luckett disclosed in a confidential whisper that the gentleman concerned was a “true friend of the South” who stood ready to give his life for the cause. His name was Capt. Cypriano Ferrandini.

Pinkerton’s records give no hint as to whether he had considered Cypriano Ferrandini a credible suspect before this moment. The name was familiar to him—perhaps all too familiar—as that of the barber who plied his trade in the basement of Barnum’s Hotel, the preferred gathering place of the city’s secessionist element. An immigrant from Corsica, Ferrandini was a dark, wiry man with a jet-black chevron mustache and watery eyes that were dimmed by shortsightedness. Ferrandini was a popular figure among the hard-drinking crowd at Barnum’s, and his modest shop drew some of the city’s most prominent citizens. There, as Ferrandini deftly wielded his blades and brushes, his courtly manner drew forth a great many confidences. It was known that the Corsican barber always had the latest gossip, and the shop became a regular stopping place for the city’s “young sports.” Otis Hillard had taken Harry Davies around to the barbershop, but Ferrandini had not been there that day to receive them.

Later, as Pinkerton studied him more closely, he would conclude that the charismatic Ferrandini was involved in more than idle gossip. Ferrandini was said to be an admirer of the Italian revolutionary Felice Orsini, a leader of the secret brotherhood known as the Carbonari. In Baltimore, Pinkerton believed, Ferrandini was channeling the inspiration he drew from Orsini into the Southern cause. Sixteen months earlier, when John Brown seized the federal arsenal at Harper’s Ferry, Ferrandini had signed on with a group of Baltimore militiamen who determined to proceed at once to the “seat of war.” Though the crisis passed before they could mobilize, Ferrandini’s passions had been inflamed. It was also said that he had briefly decamped for Mexico City the previous winter to join the revolutionary forces of Benito Juárez. Upon his return to Baltimore, he rose rapidly through the ranks of the National Volunteers, acquiring the honorary title of captain. Ferrandini’s activities had been conspicuous enough to elicit a summons earlier that month to appear before the select committee in Washington. There, Ferrandini steadfastly denied any knowledge of a plot to interfere with Lincoln or his inauguration, but—like Otis Hillard—he readily acknowledged that Maryland militiamen planned to “prevent northern volunteer companies from passing through” the state. It may have seemed unlikely that Ferrandini—a humble immigrant who plied a simple trade—could be what Luckett had called him, the driving force in a maturing conspiracy, but Pinkerton would not have dismissed it out of hand. Only a few years earlier, he himself had been a humble immigrant plying a simple trade.

Now, sitting in his South Street office, Pinkerton was considering how best to proceed, when James Luckett made an unexpected suggestion. Ferrandini, Luckett said, was very particular about taking strangers into his confidence, but, as it happened, the barber considered Luckett to be “a particular friend” of the cause. “Mr. Luckett said that he was not going home this evening,” Pinkerton reported, “and if I would meet him at Barr’s Saloon on South Street, he would introduce me to Ferrandini.” This sudden impulse of Luckett’s, Pinkerton realized, might well lead to hard evidence of a conspiracy. He gratefully accepted the offer.

As it turned out, Luckett still had more to say. The decision to bring Pinkerton and Ferrandini together, along with the detective’s twenty-five-dollar contribution, appeared to dispel the last of Luckett’s inhibitions about speaking freely. Before returning to his own office, he paused with his hand on the doorknob to offer one further revelation about the barber. Luckett counted himself lucky, he said, to be among the privileged few who were cognizant of Ferrandini’s secret designs, which would soon change the course of history. Pinkerton, being a man of high Southern character and dedication to the cause, would undoubtedly rejoice in knowing the full extent of these grand deeds. Pinkerton nodded vigorously and motioned for his visitor to continue.

Luckett lowered his voice to a reverential hush, as if delivering a benediction. Captain Ferrandini, he said, “had a plan fixed to prevent Lincoln from passing through Baltimore.” He would see to it that Lincoln would never reach Washington, and would never become president. “Every Southern Rights man has confidence in Ferrandini,” Luckett declared. “Before Lincoln should pass through Baltimore, Ferrandini would kill him.” Smiling broadly, Luckett gave a crisp salute and left the room, leaving a stunned Pinkerton to stare after him.

*   *   *

EVEN NOW, PINKERTON
had heard nothing that rose to the level of definitive proof of danger, but Luckett’s revelations marked a turning point. Pinkerton had come to Baltimore to protect Samuel Felton’s railroad. Now, with Lincoln’s train already under way, he found himself forced to consider the possibility that Lincoln himself was the target.

Luckett had handed him an opportunity to assess for himself whether Ferrandini was a credible threat and, if so, to lay plans to foil his scheme. “This was unexpected to me,” Pinkerton admitted, “but I determined to take the chances.” Whatever the outcome of this meeting, it was clear to Pinkerton that a warning must be sent. He knew that any communication made directly to Lincoln could not be kept private, as it would pass through the hands of any number of secretaries and advisers. For the present, in order to be effective, Pinkerton remained determined to protect the secrecy of his operation. He would have to find another point of contact.

Years before, during his early days in Chicago, Pinkerton had often crossed paths with Norman Judd, the former Illinois state senator who had been instrumental in Lincoln’s election. Judd, Pinkerton knew, was now aboard the special train as a member of the president-elect’s “suite.” Snatching up a newspaper, Pinkerton consulted an account of Lincoln’s travels and decided that the best chance of intercepting the train would be in Indianapolis, at the president-elect’s first overnight stop. Tossing the paper aside, Pinkerton reached for a telegraph form. Addressing his dispatch to Judd, “in company with Abraham Lincoln,” Pinkerton fired off a terse message:

I have a message of importance for you—Where can it reach you by special Messenger.—Allan Pinkerton

The telegram would put Judd on notice. In the meantime, Pinkerton sat down to compose a longer message. If all went well, he would be able to fill in the missing details in a few short hours.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IF I ALONE MUST DO IT

Such crowds … blessing Old Abe, swinging hats, banners, handkerchiefs, and every possible variety of festival bunting, and standing with open mouths as the train, relentlessly punctual, moved away. The history of one is the history of all; depots in waves, as if the multitudinous seas had been let loose, and its billows transformed into patriots, clinging along roofs and balconies and pillars, fringing long embankments, swarming upon adjacent trains of motionless cars, shouting, bellowing, shrieking, howling, all were boisterous; all bubbling with patriotism.

—JOHN HAY, in the
New York World
, February 1861

WARD HILL LAMON,
Lincoln’s “particular friend” and self-appointed bodyguard, was known to enjoy the balm of alcohol now and then. “Hill,” as Lincoln called him, could toss back a staggering quantity of rye whiskey without showing any ill effects. After a session of particularly hard drinking, he would draw himself up—resplendent in his swallow-tailed coat and thick ruffled shirt, a heavy gold watch chain cresting his stomach—and demonstrate his sobriety with a tongue twister that left all others sputtering: “She stood at the gate welcoming him in.” Lamon also had a reputation as a lively banjo player. “Sing me a little song,” Lincoln would say during their days on the legal circuit, and Lamon would oblige with a spirited rendition of “Camptown Races” or “Oh! Susanna.” “Abe was fond of music,” Lamon would recall, “but was himself wholly unable to produce three harmonious notes together.”

Both Lamon’s banjo and his capacity for drink were very much in evidence as the Lincoln Special pushed toward the Indiana border on the first leg of its journey. Lamon probably took advantage of the temporary absence of Mrs. Lincoln and her younger sons to trot out a few of the off-color verses for which he was notorious, though journalist Henry Villard recalled only that he “amused us with negro songs,” such as “The Blue Tail Fly.” After the solemnity of the departure from Springfield, Lamon’s spirited playing ushered in a more festive mood, as did the tinkling of whiskey glasses. “Refreshments for the thirsty are on board,” Villard reported. “The cheers are always for Lincoln and the Constitution.” Robert Lincoln, Villard noted, “adheres closely to the refreshment saloon, the gayest of the gay.”