The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (32 page)

As soon as the hotel room’s door closed behind him, Pinkerton began to speak in a rush. Mrs. Warne was to leave immediately, he told her, in order to rendezvous with Abraham Lincoln’s party in New York. Although Pinkerton had already been in touch with Norman Judd by telegraph and special messenger, the information he now planned to send would require delicate handling to ensure that it arrived safely and received the attention it deserved.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Pinkerton handed over a fresh letter for Norman Judd. It warned that the danger waiting for Lincoln in Baltimore could no longer be ignored, and urged him to take protective measures. It was essential, Pinkerton insisted, that Mrs. Warne place the letter directly into Judd’s hands, and that she bring all of her considerable powers of persuasion to bear as he read it. Above all, she must convince Judd of one essential fact: If Lincoln passed through Baltimore as planned in five day’s time, his safety could not be guaranteed. If necessary, the detective continued, he would arrange to meet with Judd personally to advise on a course of action.

Pinkerton also passed over a letter to be carried to Edward Sanford, the man who had hired him to investigate the Adams Express Robbery three years earlier. Sanford, he explained, was now president of the American Telegraph Company, and he would be able to assist in controlling the flow of crucial information in and out of Baltimore. If Mrs. Warne had trouble making contact with Lincoln’s entourage, Sanford would also be able to assist in getting access to Judd.

Glancing at his pocket watch, Pinkerton began pacing the room. In order to intercept Lincoln’s party, he said, Mrs. Warne would have to take a late train, leaving Baltimore just after five o’clock that evening. There was still much to do in the few hours remaining, but he promised to see her off at the depot with any further information that might come to hand. As Pinkerton turned to take his leave, the strain of the past few days showed in his ashen features and reddened eyes. Mrs. Warne offered no comment; she knew full well that Pinkerton would not rest for more than two or three hours a night until Lincoln had passed safely though Baltimore. Instead, she tucked the letters away and promised to carry out his instructions to the letter.

*   *   *

LEAVING MRS. WARNE TO PREPARE
for her journey, Pinkerton hurried back to his office and dashed off an urgent warning to Samuel Felton, instructing him to tighten the patrols around his bridges and ferries. The railroad president would have needed little persuading. He remained deeply concerned about the militia groups carrying out their training drills alongside his track. “One of these organizations was loyal,” he believed, “but the other two were disloyal, and fully in the plot to destroy the bridges.”

By this time, Felton had received corroboration from a second informant. This unknown “gentleman from Baltimore” had walked five miles out of the city to deliver a warning to one of Felton’s bridge keepers. According to his information, some of the militiamen were secretly preparing “combustible materials” to pour over the wooden bridges, so that they could be more easily destroyed when the time came. In the event that Northern troops were brought by train to reinforce Washington, the militiamen would set fire to the bridges just as the Lincoln Special came within range. “The bridge was then to be burned [and] the train attacked,” the informant claimed, “and Mr. Lincoln to be put out of the way.” Every detail of the scheme had been carefully worked out, Felton’s informant claimed, including the means by which the saboteurs would “disguise themselves as negroes” to avoid detection.

It is fair to wonder if this last detail would have passed entirely unnoticed. If the plan lacked a certain element of plausibility, however, Felton had absolute confidence in his unnamed informant. “I have never been able to ascertain who he was,” Felton wrote in later years, but he “appeared to be a gentleman, and in earnest, and honest in what he said.” The man declined to give his name, he said, because “his life would be in peril were it known that he had given this information.”

Felton’s account jibed with reports coming in from Timothy Webster, the agent Pinkerton had stationed in nearby Perrymansville, where the “loud threats” reported earlier had now taken a more tangible form. In a report dated Tuesday, February 19, Webster detailed the manner in which an ordinary game of “Ten-pins” had erupted into a heated debate over Lincoln’s prospects for survival, with one of the players stating darkly that if any Northern troops dared to show themselves, “Lincoln would never get to Washington.” Another man—a railway worker named Springer—heartily concurred, warning that “he had better not come over this road with any military, for if he did that boat would never make another [trip] across the River.” This was understood to be a reference to the
Maryland,
the small steamer used in the painstaking process of ferrying railcars across the Susquehanna River at Havre de Grace.

Later that day, Springer expanded on his remarks, telling Webster that he had heard talk from Baltimore of “about one thousand men, well organized and ready for anything.” When Lincoln arrived in the city, Springer explained, there would be calls for him to step out from his train to give a speech. If Lincoln complied, Springer said, he “would not be surprised if they killed him.” Webster pressed for details about the leaders of this plot, but, as he reported to Pinkerton, “I could not learn from him any of their names.”

In a later account, Pinkerton claimed that the men of Perrymansville saw themselves as key figures in a larger web of conspiracy. In their view, as Pinkerton reported it, little good would be accomplished by Lincoln’s assassination alone. His death would only “hasten a disaster they were anxious to avoid,” because the forces of the Union “would rise as one man to avenge the death of their leader.” That being the case, it would be necessary to work in concert with the Baltimore plotters to hamper and perhaps prevent Northern retaliation. “As soon as the deed had been accomplished in Baltimore,” Pinkerton reported, “the news was to be telegraphed along the line of the road, and immediately upon the reception of this intelligence the telegraph wires were to be cut, the railroad bridges destroyed and the tracks torn up, in order to prevent for some time any information being conveyed to the cities of the North, or the passage of any Northern men.” In this way, the Union would be unable to bring its forces south with any speed or efficiency.

Pinkerton readily acknowledged that the scheme was “wild” and “reckless,” but Webster’s reports left him in no doubt that an attack on Samuel Felton’s railroad was imminent. He advised Felton to assemble a force of men “to guard the various bridges and ferries, who could be warned in time to resist attack should such be made.” Felton raised a group of some two hundred workers, who were “drilled secretly” for the task ahead. Felton was anxious to tread lightly, for fear that a conspicuous display of force would draw a violent response. Accordingly, he sent out his forces in the guise of work crews assigned to whitewash the bridges, as if sprucing up the line in advance of Lincoln’s arrival. In the course of this seemingly innocent labor, Felton’s men coated the vulnerable crossings with a flame-retardant solution of salt and alum, designed to render the wood nearly fireproof. Felton’s crews worked with extraordinary speed, he reported, and managed in some places to cover the bridges with six or seven layers of protective material. The whitewashing was “so extensive in its application,” Felton recalled, that it “became the nine-days wonder of the neighborhood.”

*   *   *

IN BUFFALO, AFTER THE RELATIVE DAY
of quiet on Sunday, William Wood’s ambitious itinerary resumed with a vengeance. On Monday, February 18, the “peculiar exigence of time tables” required the travelers to rise at 4:00
A.M.
“At that hour the waking human heart yearneth to behold its enemy,” grumbled John Hay, adding that the cluster of men gloomily assembled in the dim corridors of the hotel “thirsted for the blood of Wood, as the hart thirsteth for the running brooks.” Lincoln and his family were spared to some extent, as Wood had provided them with a sleeper car at the rear of the departing train.

Complaints aside, the morning unfolded smoothly, thanks to well-run trains and straight stretches of track, allowing the Lincoln Special to attain speeds of nearly sixty miles per hour. John Hay declared that the “vital history” of the day amounted to three words: “Crowds, cannon, and cheers.” Lincoln’s speeches, too, appeared to be running more smoothly, or at least drawing better notice in the press. He had now recast his poorly received remark about the “artificial crisis,” clarifying his intent of stating that there had been an unhealthy degree of panic over the situation. “I do not mean to say that this artificial panic has not done harm,” he insisted. “That it has done much harm I do not deny.” Having admitted this much, however, Lincoln went on to assure his audiences that he would “take such grounds as I shall deem best calculated to restore peace, harmony and prosperity to the country.” The
New York Times
approved: “There is not the slightest doubt that, in its origin and its political aspect, the present crisis is what Mr. Lincoln styled it, an artificial one, got up by demagogues for selfish and partisan purposes.”

Lincoln had also become more adept at turning aside the calls to address the crowds at every stop. If he could not avoid speaking altogether, he devised artful explanations for the brevity of his remarks. In Hudson, New York, he declined to mount a nearby speaker’s platform, but joked with his audience that he did not intend to make a habit of it: “You must not on this account draw the inference that I have any intention to desert any platform I have a legitimate right to stand on.”

Henry Villard observed that Lincoln had also developed a relaxed manner with the “impertinent individuals” who spoke up during his speeches, answering their “rough courtesies” with good-natured humor, which invariably drew cheers and laughter. By now, Lincoln’s trackside pleasantries had been honed to a tidy formula, a fact that greatly pleased the clock-watching Wood. “Short-hand would express it thus,” wrote Joseph Howard in the
Times.
“Crowds—enthusiasm—little speech—little bow—kissed little girl—God-blessed old man—recognized old friend—much affected.”

This crisp routine fell to pieces as the Lincoln Special reached Albany at 2:30 that afternoon. A company of soldiers had been summoned to maintain order, but when these men failed to appear, the crowd swelled to unmanageable proportions, resulting in yet another ugly scene. An overmatched squad of policemen was swept aside, reported Villard, as “little boys and big men climbed under and over the train, only to be kicked and thrown back.” Lincoln remained safely inside his train compartment, awaiting the late arrival of the soldiers as his fellow travelers watched the brawl outside, commenting on the “relative muscle of the policemen and the crowd.” At last, the reinforcements appeared and quickly fell upon the “enthusiasts,” using clubbed muskets to clear a path from the train. Even so, as Lincoln climbed into a waiting carriage for his trip to the capitol, a few determined supporters slipped through the cordon. A man named Fennessey, “being more or less influenced by liquor,” pushed his way forward and pumped Lincoln’s hand until police ushered him away. “All was confusion, hurry, disorder, mud, riot and discomfort,” remarked a disgusted Villard.

Arriving at last at the capitol’s rotunda, Lincoln received a warm welcome from Governor Edwin Morgan, the influential chairman of the Republican National Committee. In response, Lincoln expressed a hesitation to speak in such an august setting, as he felt himself to be “the humblest of all individuals” ever elected to the White House. At the insistence of his hosts, Lincoln managed a few brief words, but he took pains to avoid a detailed discussion of “our present difficulties” until he had “enjoyed every opportunity to take correct and true ground.”

Lincoln would elaborate on this theme the following day, answering critics who continued to call for an elaboration of future policy. “I have not kept silent since the Presidential election from any party wantonness,” he declared, “or from any indifference to the anxiety that pervades the minds of men about the aspect of the political affairs of this country. I have kept silent for the reason that I supposed it was peculiarly proper that I should do so until the time came when, according to the customs of the country, I should speak officially.” In other words, Lincoln remained determined to keep his powder dry for the inaugural address in Washington, allowing for any further “shifting of the scenes” in the interim, and giving his best and most fully considered statement of intent only when he had officially ascended to the presidency.

Several observers in Albany would remark that Lincoln seemed “much wearied” as he was rushed through his paces. One reporter went so far as to say that he looked like a man who had recently awakened from a nap. If Lincoln appeared more careworn than usual that day, he had good reason. At the capitol, Governor Morgan had handed him a disturbing letter from Worthington G. Snethen, one of his few supporters in Baltimore. Earlier, Snethen had written to report on a torchlight parade of Lincoln men, who conducted themselves “nobly” even when pelted by eggs and brickbats. Now, however, Snethen appeared to be waffling on whether he and his colleagues would be able to mount a similar procession for Lincoln’s arrival. Although he did not report as much to Lincoln, he had now learned that George Kane, Baltimore’s marshal of police, would not provide any police protection, which placed Snethen and his “gallant little band” of supporters in a very delicate position.

“On consultation with some of our leading Republican friends,” Snethen wrote, “it has been deemed inadvisable, in the present state of things, to attempt any organized public display on our part.” Instead, Snethen proposed that he and a few others should go to Philadelphia or Harrisburg and return with Lincoln to the city, so as to escort him quietly to his planned lunch at the Eutaw House hotel. He added, significantly, that they would be pleased to offer this service “should you decide to stop in Baltimore.” If Lincoln chose instead merely to change trains in the city, Snethen continued, he and his group would convey him from one depot to the next. Snethen went on to express hope, even at this late date, that the city’s officials might yet come forward to provide Lincoln with a formal welcome to Baltimore, complete with “the necessary conveyances and escort,” as had been done at all of the previous stops on his journey. He admitted, however, that so far there had been “no intimations” of this kind. “The city authorities are all opposed to us,” he said, “and some of them are even hostile.”