The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (27 page)

As Scott rose to take his leave, he reminded Judd of the need to hold the information in strictest confidence, so as not to endanger the operation in Baltimore. Though Judd would later be criticized for his silence, for the moment he chose to honor the request. As Pinkerton explained it, “Mr. Judd did not divulge [the information] to anyone, fearing to occasion undue anxiety or unnecessary alarm, and knowing that I was upon the ground and could be depended upon to act at the proper time.” From Judd’s point of view, this was also a politically expedient course. Although he himself was willing to take Pinkerton’s warning on faith, Lincoln and his other advisers would need proof. He was counting on Pinkerton to provide it before the Lincoln Special reached Baltimore.

*   *   *

AS JUDD WELL KNEW,
Lincoln himself had other concerns pressing on his mind that morning. Wednesday, February 13, was a date Lincoln had awaited with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation throughout the long winter months. At noon, in Washington, a joint session of Congress would convene to witness the formal proceedings of the Electoral College. Even at this late date, as Lincoln had previously admitted to William Seward, there remained a lingering concern that the Electoral College might decline to assemble, or that it would be prevented from doing so by an uprising of some kind. In Washington, conspicuous measures were being taken to calm the public. Along with “other fears,” declared the
New York Times,
“the blowing up of the Capitol was regarded as an event not impossible.” Readers were assured, however, that police were conducting nightly inspections “to be sure that no explosive materials had been there clandestinely deposited for such purpose.” Lincoln made a show of good cheer as he climbed on board the train in Cincinnati, but his thoughts would be focused on Washington that morning.

The Lincoln Special pulled out of the depot at 9:00 sharp, with Pinkerton’s agent William Scott watching from the platform. “The arrangements here throughout were admirable,” John Hay noted. “Cincinnati has honored herself in her manner of honoring the President.” Henry Villard reported that Lincoln, “although somewhat stiffened in his limbs by his handshaking exertion last night,” appeared to be in excellent spirits, though vocal strain and a bad head cold had reduced his speaking voice to a croak. Mrs. Lincoln was reported to be “in her most pleasant mood,” chatting and laughing with guests, while Robert “did not seem to feel any worse from the sparkling Catawba with which the Republican youths of Cincinnati had plied him so liberally the previous evening.” To all outward appearances, the only dark cloud that morning was the discovery that no provision had been made for lunch. The sudden appearance of two baskets of baked goods shortly after noon, said Villard, was therefore “the signal of great rejoicing among the company.”

*   *   *

BY THAT TIME,
the counting of the electoral vote was under way in Washington. It had already been an eventful day on Capitol Hill. The select committee wrapped up its inquiry into “alleged hostile organizations” that morning, having finally completed its examination of Maryland’s governor Hicks. The press issued a reassuring summary of its findings: “The Special Committee are unanimously of the opinion, whatever combination of intents may have existed at any earlier period, that for the last six weeks there has been no appearance or vestige of an organization with a hostile intent on Washington or the public property therein.” Not everyone was reassured. “The air was filled with rumors,” wrote Lucius Chittenden, a Vermont delegate to the ongoing Peace Convention at Willard’s Hotel. “Few Northern men in the city doubted that a conspiracy to seize the government existed … that the force to execute it was organized, armed, and to be furnished by the adjacent states of Maryland and Virginia. Whether any adequate preparations had been made for the defense of the city against such a force, we did not know. There was, consequently, a general feeling of uneasiness; and if a revolution had broken out at any time, it would not have caused much surprise.”

Chittenden was a member of a group of younger Republicans who had taken it upon themselves to act as an “independent committee of safety” to chase down the rumors of attacks on Washington and the threats against Lincoln. In that capacity, Chittenden had called on Gen. Winfield Scott the previous week to see what measures were being taken to ensure the safety of the electoral count. The general had now recovered from his earlier illness and was in a resolute frame of mind: “It is my duty,” he declared, “to suppress insurrection—
my duty!
” General Scott had said much the same thing in a letter to Lincoln the previous month, promising his “utmost exertions” to ensure an orderly transfer of power. Now that the date of the vote had finally arrived, the general made good on his promise with a conspicuous display of artillery, including two batteries of cannon outside the Capitol. “At every entrance to the building stood a guard of civil but inflexible soldiers, sternly barring admission,” wrote Chittenden. “Prayers, bribes, entreaties, oaths, objurgations, were alike unavailing. No one could pass except senators and representatives, and those who had the written ticket of admission signed by the Speaker of the House or the Vice-President. Even members could not pass in their friends. Consequently the amount of profanity launched forth against the guards would have completely annihilated them if words could kill.”

Chittenden, a Vermont state senator, managed to secure a seat in the gallery of the House chambers. Although there were many disgruntled faces among the Southern electors, Chittenden observed few expressions of open dissent, even from the many secessionists present. “To one who knew nothing of the hot treason which was seething beneath the quiet exterior,” he wrote, “the exercises would have appeared to be tame and uninteresting.” General Scott had let it be known that disruptions would not be tolerated and that any man who attempted to interfere with the count risked being “lashed to the muzzle of a twelve-pounder and fired out of a window of the Capitol.” Furthermore, Scott promised, “I would manure the hills of Arlington with fragments of his body.”

As it happened, the hills of Arlington received no fresh manure that day. At the appointed hour, Vice President Breckinridge, in his role as president of the Senate, stepped forward to tally the official election certificates from each state, which had been in his custody since the election. This duty can only have been a bitter one for Breckinridge, a future Confederate general and secretary of war. As vice president under Buchanan, he had contended for the presidential nomination himself after the split within the Democratic party, finishing second in the electoral tally, well ahead of Stephen Douglas. On this day, however, Breckinridge conducted himself with “marked dignity and courtesy,” according to the
New York Times,
having repeatedly declared that he would perform the duties of his office under the sanction of his oath until the end of his term. “If he could be remembered only for his services on that day, Vice President Breckinridge would fill a high place in the gallery of American statesmen,” said Chittenden. “[H]e had determined that the result of the count should be declared, and his purpose was manifested in every word and gesture. Jupiter never ruled a council on Olympus with a firmer hand. It was gloved, but there was iron beneath the glove.”

Under Breckinridge’s resolute gaze, each of the ballot envelopes was opened and its contents read aloud. As the results were tallied, an “absolutely profound” silence settled over the chamber. The vice president rapped his gavel and declared that “Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois, having received a majority of the whole number of electoral votes, is duly elected President of the United States for the four years beginning on the fourth day of March, 1861.”

Their duty completed, the members of the Senate rose and silently filed out of the chamber. Then, according to Chittenden, chaos erupted. “A dozen angry, disappointed men were on their feet before the door had closed upon the last senator, clamoring for recognition by the speaker,” he recalled. “For a few minutes the tumult was so great that it was impossible to restore order.… There were jeers for the ‘rail-splitter,’ sharp and fierce shouts for ‘cheers for Jeff Davis,’ and ‘cheers for South Carolina.’ But hard names and curses for ‘Old Scott’ broke out everywhere on the floor and in the gallery of the crowded hall. The quiet spectators seemed in a moment turned to madmen. ‘Superannuated old dotard!’ ‘Traitor to the state of his birth!’ ‘Coward!’ ‘Free-state pimp!’ and any number of similar epithets were showered upon him.”

If such a scene occurred, it escaped the notice of the journalists in the room. “There were no manifestations of applause, disapprobation or uneasiness,” insisted the
New York Times.
“The vast audience, satisfied that the interesting event was consummated in peace, arose silently and withdrew in an orderly manner from the chamber.”

In either case, all parties agreed that any signs of discord—both in and outside of the Capitol—were short-lived. “Thus has vanished one of the supposed points of danger to the public peace,” the
Times
concluded, “and the public pulse beats freer. There really has been so much apprehension that many families left town. Such fears are now dissipated, and people are flocking to town in crowds. True, we hear occasional foolish rumors of plots to take the city, blow up the public buildings, and prevent the inauguration of Lincoln, but they disturb nobody.”

*   *   *

AS WASHINGTON’S JITTERS SUBSIDED,
tempers flared in Maryland. Until that moment, many in Baltimore had expected that Southern lawmakers would seize upon the electoral vote to thwart Lincoln’s inauguration and bring the secession crisis to its boiling point. Now that the occasion had passed without incident, the more vocal contingent of Baltimore agitators—including Cypriano Ferrandini and his followers—believed that it now fell to them to secure the rights of the South. Even the normally ambivalent Otis K. Hillard, from whom Pinkerton’s Harry Davies was still trying to extract information, appeared hardened in his resolve. “What a pity,” he told Davies, “that this glorious Union must be destroyed all on account of that monster Lincoln.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A RABID REBEL

The President-elect will need no armed escort in passing through or sojourning within the limits of this city or State, and, in my view, the provision of any such at this time would be ill-judged. The insult offered to President Buchanan in the streets of this city on the eve of his inauguration, to which reference has been made as the ground for apprehending a similar indignity to the President-elect, it is well known, was the act of two or three members of one of the fanatical clubs of his political opponents which at that time infested our city, but which have long since been numbered among the things that were.

—GEORGE PROCTOR KANE, marshal of the Baltimore police, January 16, 1861

LINCOLN HAD NOT YET
heard the news of the electoral results when his train rolled into Columbus at two o’clock on the afternoon of February 13. Eager to carry on with business as usual, he kept to a now-familiar round of processions, speeches, and receptions. Republican governor William Dennison, Jr., led him on a tour of the newly completed state capitol, where Lincoln offered a few remarks to the legislature, touching on the subject of his so-called “masterly inactivity” in Springfield. “I have not maintained silence from any want of real anxiety,” Lincoln told the Ohio lawmakers. “It is a good thing that there is no more than anxiety, for there is nothing going wrong. It is a consoling circumstance that when we look out there is nothing that really hurts anybody. We entertain different views upon political questions, but nobody is suffering anything … all we want is time, patience, and a reliance on that God who has never forsaken this people.”

Once again, in attempting to strike a reassuring note, Lincoln had misfired. Though he intended to suggest that the crisis had not yet advanced to the point where it could not be resolved peaceably, his comments gave the impression that he was out of step with the nation’s concerns. “Nothing going wrong?” asked the
New York Herald
. “Why, sir, we may more truly say there is nothing going right.”

Adding to the cares of the day was another pointed reminder of safety concerns. “At Columbus,” wrote John Nicolay, “Mr. Lincoln’s friends had a chance to observe how necessary it was to look carefully to his personal surroundings at every moment.” The trouble arose at a public reception in the state capitol, where plans had been laid for a receiving line that would cross in a straight line through the spacious rotunda, allowing an orderly progression of guests from the entrance on one side to the exit at the opposite end. As Nicolay related, however, “an inadequate police force” had been detailed to guard the building’s other entrances, with the result that eager visitors began swarming in from all directions. Soon, to Nicolay’s dismay, Lincoln was at the center of a swirling mass of admirers, “which threatened to crush him and those about him.” It fell to Ward Lamon to rescue the situation: “Fortunately Colonel Lamon, a man of extraordinary size and Herculean strength, was able to place himself before him and by formidable exertion to hold back the advancing pressure until Mr. Lincoln could be hurried to a more secure place.” It would not be the only time that Lamon quite literally pulled Lincoln out of a tight spot.

Even casual observers could see that the hectic pace of the inaugural trip was taking a toll on Lincoln. “For his own sake, it is to be regretted that this excursion is being made,” wrote Joseph Howard in the
New York Times.
“His original plan, which was to proceed directly and quietly to Washington, was much better, and it was with great reluctance that he acceded to the desires of his friends, who are now thoughtlessly and foolishly wearying him, and wearing the life out of him by inches.” Howard may have been wrong about Lincoln’s own wishes in the matter, but he was sincere in his belief that the tumultuous journey had placed an unnecessary strain on the new president. “Mr. Lincoln submits with pleasure to the infliction,” he wrote, “but it is a terrible ordeal through which to pass, when bound as he is not to a place of rest and easeful quiet, but to a scene of discord, trouble and possible danger.”