Lincoln himself seemed indifferent. For the last few days he had been preoccupied with the Virginians, who were holding a convention at Richmond to determine whether or not to secede. More than once, Hay had heard Lincoln pleading with one Virginian after another. Currently, the remaining Southerners in the Congress were particularly exercised by something called the Force Bill, which would give the President the right to call out the militia and accept volunteers into the armed forces. Lincoln had agreed, privately—and, Hay thought, cravenly—to reject the bill if that would satisfy Virginia. On Friday, acting on Lincoln’s instructions, just before the Force Bill was to be voted on, Washburne had asked for an adjournment of the House. With this adjournment, the Thirty-sixth Congress expired. But not before, as a further gesture to the Southerners, Lincoln’s party supported a measure, never, ever, to interfere with the institution of slavery in those states where slavery was legal. On that note of conciliation, the House of Representatives shut up shop on Monday, March 4, the day of Lincoln’s inauguration. The Senate remained in session.
Nicolay and Hay proceeded down the police-lined corridor to Parlor Suite Six. Lincoln sat in his usual place beside the window, the light behind him, his glasses on his nose. Mrs. Lincoln, the three sons, the half-dozen female relations of Mrs. Lincoln quite filled the room.
Hay had never seen Mr. Lincoln so well turned out. He wore a new black suit that still fit him. But Hay knew that by the time that restless, angular body had finished pushing and prodding with knees and elbows, the suit would resemble all his others. For the present, the white of the shirtfront shone like snow, while beside his chair, next to the all-important grip-sack, was a new cane with a large gold knob. Hay could see that Mrs. Lincoln’s expensive taste had prevailed.
“Gentlemen,” Lincoln greeted his secretaries formally. “We are about to be joined by the Marshal-in-chief, who will put us in our carriages, show us our seats, give us our orders …” There was a sound of cheering outside the window. Then a fanfare of trumpets. Lincoln got to his feet; and peered out. “Well, if it’s not the President himself, I’d say it’s a very good likeness.”
Mary had rushed to the window. “It’s Mr. Buchanan! He’s come to fetch you.”
“In a sense.” Lincoln smiled. “Now I shall want a lot of Illinois and”—he nodded to certain of Mrs. Todd’s relatives—“Kentucky dignity.”
With that, the Marshal-in-chief appeared in the doorway. For a moment, Hay feared that Lamon would not let him through. “Mr. Lincoln, the President,” proclaimed the Marshal.
The aged Buchanan, as white of face as of hair, came forward to the center of the room. Lincoln crossed to him. They shook hands warmly. “I am here, sir,” said the President, “to escort you to the Capitol.”
“I am grateful, Mr. President, for your courtesy.”
The two men left the room together. At the door Buchanan gestured for Lincoln to go first; but Lincoln stepped to one side, and the still-reigning President went through the door.
The Marshal-in-chief explained who was to go in what carriage. There would be individual marshals—each with a blue scarf and white rosette—assigned to Mrs. Lincoln, to the sons and to the ladies. Fortunately, Hay and Nicolay were allowed to follow Buchanan and Lincoln down the stairs to the lobby, where the police were holding back a considerable crowd. There was cheering at the sight of Lincoln. “Our applicants!” said Hay to Nicolay.
“Wait till we get outside,” said Nicolay ominously.
Buchanan and Lincoln, now arm-in-arm, stood in Willard’s doorway. A sudden storm of cheering—and of booing—was promptly drowned out by Major Scala’s Marine Band, which struck up “Hail to the Chief” as President and President-elect proceeded to get into their open carriage. A nervous marshal then hustled Hay and Nicolay into a barouche, already filled with Washburne and Lamon.
Hay found Washburne edgy; and Lamon uncharacteristically relaxed. But then Lamon had turned his friend and charge over to the United States Army and if they could not protect him today, no one could. Washburne stared out of the window at the thin crowd along the brick sidewalk on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue. There was no sidewalk or much of anything else on the south side, which, after a few blocks of houses and the Gothic red-brick Smithsonian Institution, turned into a marshland, the result of overflow from the canal that ended in the muddy waters of the Potomac River on whose banks poison ivy and oak grew in wreaths like sinister laurel.
“That is a dangerous crowd.” Washburne stared out the window. They were now abreast the Kirkwood House. Thus far, there had been neither cheers nor boos for the two presidents up ahead.
“They’re all secesh in this town,” said Lamon, whose pronounced Virginia accent sounded somewhat incongruous to Hay.
“And spoiling for a fight,” said Washburne.
“Watch the cavalry up ahead.” Lamon pointed to the two rows of horsemen that flanked the presidential carriage. The men rode in such close order that anyone standing on the sidewalk would be unable to get more than a glimpse of the occupants of the carriage.
“Notice how the horses are sort of skittish?” Lamon gave a satisfied smile. “That was my idea. When you get horses pulling this way and that, it’s going to be mighty hard for anyone with a gun to get himself a proper sight.”
David Herold had exactly the same thought. With Annie on his arm, he stood in front of Woodward’s and watched the strangely silent parade. “You can’t see either of them,” he complained.
“Well, we’ll get to see them both pretty clear when they come out on the Capitol steps.”
“And when they do,” David began; but Annie pinched his arm, for silence.
There was only one float, drawn by four white horses; it represented the Republican Association. On top of the float, girls dressed in white represented each of the states in the Union that was no longer. The girls themselves were roundly cheered from the sidewalk; the Union was not.
David and Annie walked beside the float until they came to the plaza in front of the Capitol. Since noon, close to ten thousand people had been gathering. Boys sat in trees. A photographer had built himself a wooden platform where he was busily trying to get his camera in place while fighting off the boys and men who wanted to share the view with him.
Shoving and pushing, David and Annie were soon within a few yards of the speakers’ platform, where a single row of troops held back the crowd. Above the platform, on the steps, the great folk of Washington were being led to their seats by ushers. David stared with awe at the foreign diplomats in uniforms that seemed made of pure gold or silver, while the ladies were resplendent in furs and velvet cloaks. The day had started to turn cold.
“My God,” whispered Annie, “have you ever seen so many soldiers!” Soldiers were indeed everywhere; and under the eye of the commanding general himself, who sat in huge solitary splendor in his carriage on a nearby eminence. Winfield Scott had sworn a mighty oath that this president would take office, no matter what.
There was cheering from the north portico, which they could not see from where they were standing. “They’re going inside the Senate now.”
“I know,” said Annie. “I read the same paper. Did you take the job with Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
“Why?”
“Everyone should work.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m still at the seminary. But I’m going to be a music teacher when I graduate and then … oh, look! The Zouaves!”
In fire-red uniforms, a company of soldiers under the command of their uncommonly beautiful drillmaster, the curly-haired, twenty-three-year-old Elmer E. Ellsworth, a pet of the Lincoln family, began to divert the crowd with an intricate and somewhat eccentric close-order drill. David was ravished at the sight; and filled with a profound envy. Why wasn’t he wearing that extraordinary uniform? And doing those extraordinary tricks? And making Annie and every girl in the crowd gasp with admiration while i
mpressing even the wild boys who were scattered throughout the crowd, ready, as always, for violence, preferably impromptu.
Inside the Senate Chamber, John Hay had not the slightest envy of Hannibal Hamlin, the newly sworn-in Vice-President of the United States. On the other hand, from his seat in the crowded gallery, he quite liked the look of the Senate Chamber. They might never get a proper dome on the Capitol, but Congress had seen to it that the Senate and the House of Representatives were splendidly housed in chambers of marble, decorated in red and gold and bronze, to set off the solemn statesmen in their rusty black, each with his own armchair and desk, snuffbox and shining spittoon.
Hannibal Hamlin spoke well and to the point, and, for a moment, Hay actually looked and listened to the new Vice-President, who was so dark-complexioned that his predecessor sitting beside him on the high dais, John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky, had been quoted as having said that it was highly suitable that a radical government such as that of Mr. Lincoln should have for its Vice-President a mulatto. But mulatto or not, Hamlin was a former Democratic senator from Maine, who had helped found the Republican Party. Before the election, Lincoln and his running-mate Hamlin had never met. Hay was constantly surprised to learn how little these Northern men of state knew one another, as opposed to the Southerners, who seemed all to be brought up in the same crib.
After the election, Lincoln had invited his Vice-President-to-be in Chicago. They got on well, confounding the old Washington saw: there goes the Vice-President, with nothing on his mind but the President’s health. Hamlin had introduced Lincoln to raw oysters; and Lincoln had said: “Well, I suppose I must deal with these, too.” The two men had got on so well that Lincoln had told Hamlin that as he intended to place only one New Englander in the Cabinet, Hamlin could make the choice, which turned out to be a Connecticut newspaper editor named Gideon Welles. Somewhat reluctantly, Lincoln made him Secretary of the Navy.
Hay looked up at the presidential party. Buchanan and Lincoln were seated side by side in the center of the gallery. Lincoln was as dark as Buchanan was white. For all the talk of Old Abe, most people who met Lincoln were startled to find that, at fifty-two, he had not a gray hair in his black shock, which was, for the moment, contained by the barber’s art and Mary Todd’s firm brushwork. But once out of public view, the long fingers would start to stray through that haystack and, in no time at all, three cowlicks in opposition would make his head look like an Indian warbonnet.
Lincoln seemed distracted, thinking no doubt of his speech—which had been sent, secretly, to the Old Gentleman at Silver Spring, read and admired, and sent back. How close was Lincoln to old Mr. Blair? How close was he to anyone? Hay was still as new to Lincoln’s relations with others as, presumably, they were. But Hay did wonder how on earth Lincoln would meet the present crisis, living in a Southern city, with a government that was more than half Southern, and a Cabinet filled with rivals. Plainly, Lincoln was equally bemused. There were times when he would simply drift off in the middle of a conversation, while the curiously heavy lidded left eye, always the indicator of his mood, would half shut, and he would no longer be present. But the eye was alert today, as far as Hay could tell from his end of the chamber, where the smell of men’s cologne and ladies’ perfume could not quite mask the stale odors of bodies imperfectly bathed. Hay’s nose was sharp; his standards of hygiene high.
Hamlin was finished at last. He shook hands with the somber Breckinridge. Then the two Presidents rose, as the Marshal-in-chief came to escort them to the east portico.
Hay followed the black-robed justices of the Supreme Court onto the Capitol steps; he breathed the fresh air, gratefully. A sharp wind had started up, and Hay was suddenly terrified that Lincoln’s speech would be blown from his hands. If it were, could the Tycoon remember it? No. The speech was so closely argued that if one word should be misplaced, a half-dozen more states would secede.
A justice’s robe flapping in his face, Hay walked down the steps of the Capitol. Half the notables were already seated. The other half had packed the Senate Chamber. Members of the Congress, Supreme Court, Cabinet-to-be, as well as chiefs of foreign missions and high-ranking army and naval officers, each with family, assembled to participate in history. Hay took his seat next to Nicolay, just above the platform.
Nicolay pointed to the crowd. “Mr. Lincoln drew twice as many people as this just in Albany.”
“Well, New York State voted for him,” said Hay, “and these people didn’t. There must be … what? ten thousand out there?”
“See the rifles?” Nicolay pointed to a boardinghouse across the Capitol plaza. Each window contained a man with a rifle.
“All trained on us,” said Hay. He had always found the idea of assassination more exciting than not. But now he realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the March wind that he was seated just a row above the speakers’ platform, with a thousand military rifles all aimed in his direction, not to mention who knew how many plug-uglies with hidden pistols and derringers and knives, ready to commit slaughter. He pulled his hat over his eyes, as if for protection.
The appearance of Lincoln and Buchanan had been greeted with unenthusiastic applause. Neither David nor Annie had so much as clapped a hand when the tall, dark-haired man took his seat behind a low table. David did notice how awkwardly Lincoln handled himself. He was no actor, David thought, scornfully, as he watched Lincoln take off his hat, and then hold it in the same hand as the cane to which he was plainly unused while, with the other hand, he removed his speech from an inside pocket and then was obliged to transfer the speech to the hand that held both hat and cane. Crazy and old as Edwin Forrest was, he could certainly give Lincoln lessons in how to move, thought David; and how to die.
David looked at the men in the trees but could not find a familiar face. Surely the National Volunteers had not given up. He would have bet his last penny, which was in his pocket, that they would make their attempt. At the moment he felt the same excitement that he did in the theater when the musical overture, dominated by drums, began.
When all the dignitaries were in place, a distinguished-looking old man rose and came down to the front of the platform; and in a voice that David approved of, full of baritone drama, and even better, with arms outstretched like Edwin Forrest’s when between the acts of whatever play he did nowadays, he would come out and, to the audience’s delight, with wondrous fury attack his wife, the old man proclaimed, “Fellow citizens, I introduce to you Abraham Lincoln, the President-elect of the United States!” Even David felt like applauding the old man, whoever he was. Meanwhile, Lincoln was having trouble with hat, cane, speech. He stood a moment, trying to manipulate the three, until a short, stocky man David recognized as Stephen Douglas, the defeated Democratic candidate, leaned forward and took the hat from Lincoln, who gave him a grateful smile. Lincoln then placed the cane on the table, put on his spectacles, moved to stage right of the table, which looked like a milking stool next to such a tall man, and began to read.
“Look,” whispered Annie, “his hands are shaking.”
“Wouldn’t yours?”
Annie elbowed David in the ribs.
Hay was suffering stage fright for the Tycoon, who had never before sounded so tentative, even quavery of voice. Nevertheless, Hay knew that the high voice could be heard from one end of the plaza to the other. Lincoln was used to vast crowds in the open air. “Fellow citizens of the United States.” The high voice was tremulous. “In compliance with a custom as old as the government itself, I appear before you to address you briefly, and to take, in your presence, the oath prescribed by the Constitution of the United States …” Hay was relieved that at the mention of the Constitution Lincoln’s voice lost its quaver. He was now moving onto his own formidable high ground, as he made the case for the Union.
Back among the senators, Salmon P. Chase could not help but contrast how different his own speech on this day might have been. For one thing, he would never have read out that provision
in the Constitution that slaves be returned to their lawful masters. Chase shuddered as Lincoln elaborated. “It is scarcely questioned that this provision was intended by those who wrote it, for the reclaiming of what we call fugitive slaves; and the intention of the law-giver is the law.”
“Shameful,” Chase muttered to Sumner, who sat very straight behind him. Sumner nodded, listening closely.
“All members of Congress swear their support to the whole Constitution—to this provision as much as to any other.”
Sumner turned to Chase, “What he is doing is giving up the slaves in order to restore the Union.”
“That is immoral.”
“It is worse,” said Sumner. “It is impossible.”
For Mary the speech was the finest that she had ever heard; and she had heard Henry Clay and Judge Douglas; had heard her own husband proclaim that a house divided against itself cannot stand, losing thereby a Senate seat to Douglas while gaining the presidency for himself. She was also pleased that the new suit fitted him so well; and she was looking forward to showing off her own new wardrobe to the ladies of Washington, who had, thus far, refused to call on her because, she had read in the press, they disdained her as some uncouth westerner, unused to Washington’s aristocratic ways. She, Mary Todd of the great Kentucky Todd family, First Lady of Springfield even before she was married, an invitation to whose mansion was the dream of every Illinois lady, if only to observe Mary preside over her witty and elegant court, known, far and wide, as the Coterie. Uncouth!
There was the sharp cracking sound of a gun being fired. Mary gasped. Lincoln stopped in his speech. All Mary could think was—has he been hit? But Lincoln was still standing, if mute. There was a murmur through the crowd. Hay craned forward to see if Lincoln was all right. Apparently, he was; but his face had gone chalk white.
David stood on tiptoe and looked off to the left, where the shot had come from. “Who did it?” whispered Annie. “Can you see?”
“Soldiers, I think.” David watched as six soldiers converged on a tree. Then a soldier held up a thick branch. A dazed-looking man was brushing himself off. There was laughter.