The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (45 page)

As Mrs. Warne rode off in a carriage, Pinkerton climbed back up into the sleeper where Lincoln and Lamon lay quietly in their berths. Pinkerton listened intently as rail workers uncoupled the sleeper and hitched it to a team of horses. With a sudden lurch, the car began its slow, creaking progress through the streets of Baltimore toward the Camden Street Station, just over a mile away. “The city was in profound repose as we passed through,” Pinkerton remarked. “Darkness and silence reigned over all.” Lamon would recall that Lincoln “lay close in his berth” during the transfer, while the other passengers, “tucked away on their narrow shelves, dozed on as peacefully as if Mr. Lincoln had never been born.”

Pinkerton’s thoughts raced as the sleeper rolled quietly through the streets he had come to know well. In particular, he brooded on his recent report from Harry Davies, which described the meeting where Cypriano Ferrandini had presided over the drawing of ballots to determine Lincoln’s killer. “Perhaps, at this moment,” he reflected, “the reckless conspirators were astir, perfecting their plans for a tragedy as infamous as any which has ever disgraced a free country—perhaps even now the holders of the
red
ballots were nerving themselves for their part in the dreadful work, or were tossing restlessly upon sleepless couches.” If so, there was no sign of it along Pratt Street as the horses pulled the sleeper past the Light Street Wharf. Apart from the gentle clatter of hooves and the faint squeal of the sleeper car’s wheels, the night remained utterly still.

Pinkerton had calculated that Lincoln would spend only forty-five minutes in Baltimore if all went according to plan. Arriving at the Camden Street Station, however, he found that they would have to endure an unexpected delay, owing to a late-arriving train. For Pinkerton, who feared that even the smallest variable could upset his entire plan, the wait was agonizing. So far, there had been no sign of life in the “great slumbering city,” but with the coming of dawn, the busy terminus would spring to life with the “usual bustle and activity.” With every passing moment, discovery became more likely. Lincoln, at least, seemed perfectly sanguine about the situation. “Mr. Lincoln remained quietly in his berth,” Pinkerton said, “joking with rare good humor.”

After a time, Ward Lamon recalled, the silence was broken by a loud hammering noise, which proved to be the thump of a heavy club against a night watchman’s wooden booth. “It was an Irishman,” said Lamon, “trying to arouse a sleepy ticket-agent, comfortably ensconced within. For twenty minutes the Irishman pounded the box with ever-increasing vigor, and, at each report of his blows, shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Captain! It’s four o’clock! It’s four o’clock!’” This went on for some time, according to Lamon, and even in the strained circumstances, he and Lincoln couldn’t help but laugh. “The Irishman seemed to think that time had ceased to run at four o’clock,” Lamon said, “and, making no allowance for the period consumed by his futile exercises, repeated to the last his original statement that it was four o’clock.” Pinkerton added that Lincoln offered “several witty remarks” on the situation, “showing that he was as full of fun as ever.”

As the wait dragged on, however, Lincoln’s mood darkened briefly. Now and then, Pinkerton said, “snatches of rebel harmony” would reach their ears, sung by passengers waiting at the depot. At the sound of a drunken voice roaring through a chorus of “Dixie,” Lincoln turned to Pinkerton and offered a somber reflection: “No doubt there will be a great time in Dixie by and by.”

As the skies began to brighten with the coming of dawn, Pinkerton peered through the blinds for a sign of the late-arriving train that would carry them the rest of the way to Washington. Unless it came soon, all advantage would be swept away by the rising sun. If Lincoln were to be discovered now, pinned to the spot at Camden Street and cut off from any assistance or reinforcements, he would have only Lamon and Pinkerton to defend him. If a mob should assemble, Pinkerton realized, the prospects would be very bleak indeed.

As the detective weighed his limited options, he caught the sound of a familiar commotion outside. At last, a team of rail workers had arrived to couple the sleeper to a Baltimore and Ohio train for the third and final leg of the long journey. In his later writings about the episode, Pinkerton gave no indication of the relief he must have felt at that moment. “At length the train arrived and we proceeded on our way,” he recorded stoically, perhaps not wishing to suggest that the outcome had ever been in doubt. Ward Lamon was only slightly less reserved: “In due time,” he reported, “the train sped out of the suburbs of Baltimore, and the apprehensions of the President and his friends diminished with each welcome revolution of the wheels.”

Whatever they found to say about the episode afterward, all three men would have been glad to put Baltimore behind them that morning. Washington was now only thirty-eight miles away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SOME VERY TALL SWEARING

If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would make no difference.

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN

IT HAD BEEN AN ANXIOUS NIGHT
for Elihu B. Washburne, of Capitol Hill’s “independent committee of safety.” The Illinois congressman was an old ally of Lincoln, bound to him by “the strongest ties of personal and political friendship.” Earlier, Washburne had written to Lincoln, advising a course of “masterly inactivity”; now his concerns were fixed on a safe arrival in Washington. The previous week, Lucius Chittenden, on returning from his nocturnal meeting with the mysterious “Mr. H.” in Baltimore, had roused Washburne from his bed in the middle of the night. After reporting the many threats and theories he had heard that night, the Vermont delegate was assured by Washburne that all was well, as Lincoln “had determined to follow the advice of his friends, and would reach Washington without risk.”

As the date drew nearer, however, Washburne felt less assured of Lincoln’s safety. The previous day, when it was thought that the president-elect would pass the night in Harrisburg, Washburne had shared his concerns with William Seward. The senator, who had already dispatched his son Frederick to warn Lincoln in Philadelphia, could offer little reassurance. Though he’d received a telegram to the effect that steps were being taken, he had been given no details. “Mr. Seward … told me he had no information from his son nor any one else in respect of Mr. Lincoln’s movements,” Washburne said, “and that he could have none, as the wires were all cut.” Even so, Seward thought it probable that Lincoln would arrive in Washington on an earlier train, as he had urged, perhaps on Friday evening’s service from Philadelphia. Seeing the degree of Washburne’s concern, Seward suggested that the two of them go to the station to meet the Philadelphia train. “We were promptly on hand; the train arrived in time, and with strained eyes we watched the descent of the passengers,” Washburne reported. “But there was no Mr. Lincoln among them.”

Both Seward and Washburne were “much disappointed,” but they arranged to meet again the following morning to await the next likely train. “I was on hand in season,” Washburne insisted, “but to my great disappointment Governor Seward did not appear.” In fact, Seward had overslept, leaving Washburne to carry on alone. “I planted myself behind one of the great pillars in the old Washington and Baltimore depot, where I could see and not be observed,” he reported. “Presently the train came rumbling in on time. It was a moment of great anxiety to me.” Washburne looked on “with fear and trembling” as the train emptied and a steady line of passengers made its way past him. Lincoln was nowhere to be seen. In despair, Washburne started to turn away, when he saw three stragglers step down from the sleeping car at the rear of the train. Washburne at once recognized the “long, lank form” of his old friend, although he wore an unfamiliar “soft low-crowned hat” and a thick shawl, and looked more like “a well-to-do farmer” than the president-elect of the United States.

As Washburne recalled the scene, he stepped forward to offer a quick greeting—“How are you, Lincoln?”—while reaching out to grasp his old friend by the hand. Pinkerton, his nerves on edge after the long ordeal, reported the matter differently. “A gentleman looked very sharp at Mr. Lincoln who was on my right,” the detective said, “and as we passed him he caught hold of Mr. Lincoln saying ‘Abe, you can’t play that on me.’” Pinkerton’s instincts took over. “I hit the gentleman a punch with my elbow as he was close to me, staggering him back,” he recalled. “I was beginning to think that we were discovered, and that we
might
have to fight, and drew back clenching my fist.” Before Pinkerton could land another blow, Lincoln took hold of his arm. “Don’t strike him, Allan!” Lincoln cried. “It is Washburne! Don’t you know him?”

*   *   *

THIS WAS A PORTENT OF THINGS
to come. At the very moment when Pinkerton should have basked in the satisfaction of a job well done, and received the thanks of a grateful Lincoln, he instead hauled off and sucker punched a sitting congressman. Lincoln had not yet emerged from the train station, and already Pinkerton’s ham-fisted tactics had caused embarrassment. He watched as Lincoln helped Washburne to his feet and brushed him off, sensing that the operation was slipping out of his grasp. Here in Washington, Pinkerton would have a great deal of trouble telling his friends from his enemies.

It was in Lincoln’s best interests, now that he was safe in Washington, to put the Baltimore plot behind him quickly and decisively. He had nine days remaining until the inauguration, and he would use the time to repair the damage done by his midnight flight, meeting the charges of cowardice with a forceful display of statesmanship. While the rest of the country picked over the events in Baltimore, as John Hay would write, Lincoln would go about his business in Washington, “leaving the town agog.”

As far as Pinkerton was concerned, however, the operation in Baltimore was still running and his field operatives remained at risk. At the same time, he sincerely believed that Lincoln’s evasive maneuver might spark a reprisal of some kind in Washington. Justified or not, these concerns put Pinkerton at odds with Lincoln, who simply wanted to close this chapter. Now, as Lincoln and Washburne walked arm in arm toward a waiting carriage, the detective could only trail behind, insisting that the congressman must not “do or say aught” to jeopardize matters. So far as Lincoln was concerned, the time for such warnings had passed.

At Willard’s Hotel, the detective managed one last piece of subterfuge. As the carriage rolled along Fourteenth Street, Pinkerton climbed down with Lincoln and Washburne. He sent Lamon around the corner to the front entrance of the hotel to summon Henry Willard, the proprietor. On Pinkerton’s instructions, Willard let the party in at the side door—the ladies’ entrance—and ushered them into a small receiving room.

Willard, like everyone else in Washington, had not expected Lincoln to arrive until late afternoon, and the change of plan left him scrambling. A suite of five elegant rooms overlooking the White House had been set aside for Lincoln’s use, but another guest occupied them at the moment, and it would be some time before the rooms could be cleared. Lincoln seemed untroubled by the delay, and he asked only to borrow a pair of slippers.

“We had not been in the hotel more than two minutes before Governor Seward hurriedly entered, much out of breath, and somewhat chagrined to think he had not been in season to be at the depot on the arrival of the train,” recalled Washburne. Lincoln gave a brief summary of the night’s events, whereupon he received Seward’s assurance that both he and General Scott had approved of the step, though it would doubtless create an uproar. Seward insisted that he possessed “conclusive evidence showing that there was a large organization in Baltimore” intent on preventing Lincoln’s safe passage through the city. He was in no doubt that the president-elect “could not have come through in any other manner without blood-shed.” In fact, Seward maintained, General Scott was so thoroughly convinced of the danger that if Lincoln had not changed his route as advised, Scott would “in all probability” have sent troops to Baltimore to escort Lincoln through the city. Pinkerton was incredulous at the very suggestion of troops entering Baltimore. As he knew full well from the reports of Timothy Webster and others, a military provocation of this type would likely have triggered a disastrous response in Maryland, and perhaps open rebellion. For the moment, Pinkerton contented himself with questioning the accuracy of Seward’s sources. “I informed Governor Seward of the nature of the information I had,” he said, insisting frankly that he knew of no “large organization” posing a credible threat. Seward, swept up in the drama of Lincoln’s arrival, would not be dissuaded. He firmly reiterated that he had conclusive evidence of a large-scale plot.

Pinkerton’s insistence on this point must be counted as one of the most extraordinary features of the entire episode. Soon enough, his efforts as chief of Union intelligence under George B. McClellan would expose him to lasting criticism for his supposed inflations of the size and scope of enemy forces. That day at Willard’s Hotel, however, Pinkerton insisted on calling Seward to account for exaggerating the number of “rebel spirits” in Baltimore. In political terms, Pinkerton would have done better simply to nod and be content with the successful outcome, but he brooked no argument where his detective operations were concerned, not even from the designated secretary of state.

In spite of the disagreement, Seward was eager to hear more about the events of the previous evening. While Lincoln withdrew for a brief rest, having “expressed himself rather tired,” Seward invited Pinkerton and Lamon for a private chat at his residence on F Street, where they once again “talked over this danger of Mr. Lincoln’s coming through Baltimore according to the published programe.” Once Seward’s curiosity had been satisfied, Pinkerton returned to the Willard and registered as “E. J. Allen of New York.” Exhausted, but anxious to return to “the seat of danger” in Baltimore, the detective allowed himself a brief pause to bathe and have breakfast.