The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (14 page)

Old Abe Lincoln

God damn your god damned old Hellfired god damned soul to hell god damn you and goddam your god damned family’s god damned hellfired god damned soul to hell and god damnation god damn them and god damn your god damn friends to hell god damn their god damn families to eternal god damnation god damn souls to hell god damn them and God Alighty God damn Old Hamlin to[o] to hell God damn his god damned soul all over everywhere double damn his God damned soul to hell

Now you God damned old Abolition son of a bitch God damn you I want you to send me God damn you about one dozen good offices Good God Almighty God damn your God damned soul and three or four pretty Gals God damn you

And by doing God damn you you

Will Oblige

Pete Muggins

A second, more succinct letter made a grim prediction for the date of the inauguration in Washington:

Abraham Lincoln Esq

Sir

You will be shot on the 4th of March 1861 by a Louisiana Creole we are decided and our aim is sure.

A young creole.

BEWARE

Other messages, like the one that arrived sometime later from a Mr. A. G. Frick, offered Lincoln a chance at survival if he would agree to resign the presidency:

Mr. Abe Lincoln

If you don’t Resign we are going to put a spider in your dumpling and play the Devil with you you god or mighty god dam sundde of a bith go to hell and buss my Ass suck my prick and call my Bolics your uncle Dick god dam a fool and goddam Abe Lincoln who would like you goddamn you excuse me for using such hard words with you but you need it …

Many of Lincoln’s supporters also urged him to resign, rather than face likely death at the hands of his enemies. Several people warned of potential poisoning, with one correspondent advising the president-elect to “drink hot milk in Large Quantities—in order to frustrate the diabolicol [
sic
] plot.” Another cautioned that there might be poison in the ink Lincoln was using to write his letters. An Iowa chemistry professor offered to outfit the president-elect with a special chain-mail shirt, covered with silk and “plated with gold, so that perspiration shall not affect it.” He added his assurance that “Napoleon III is constantly protected in this way.”

To all outward appearances, the president-elect remained untroubled, if perhaps a little beleaguered by the sheer volume of his correspondence. On one occasion, he was spotted at the post office filling “a good sized market basket” with his latest batch of letters, and then struggling to keep his footing as he navigated the icy streets. Soon, he took on a pair of extra hands to assist with the burden. John Nicolay—a pale, bookish young Bavarian immigrant with thinning hair and a dark goatee—had applied to write Lincoln’s official campaign biography, only to find that the job had already been assigned. “Never mind,” he was told. “You are to be private secretary.”

As he took up his duties, Nicolay was troubled by the growing number of threats that crossed Lincoln’s desk. “His mail was infested with brutal and vulgar menace, and warnings of all sorts came to him from zealous or nervous friends,” Nicolay wrote. “But he had himself so sane a mind, and a heart so kindly, even to his enemies, that it was hard for him to believe in political hatred so deadly as to lead to murder.” From the earliest days, however, it was clear that not all of the warnings could be brushed aside. Even before election returns were in, an unsettling letter had arrived from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas:

Dear Sir:

On a recent visit to the east, I met a lady of high character, who had been spending part of the summer among her friends and relatives in Virginia. She informed me that a number of young men in Virginia had bound themselves, by oaths most solemn, to cause your assassination, should you be elected. Now Sir, you may laugh at this story, and really it does appear too absurd to repeat, but I beg you to recollect, that on “the
institution
” these good people are most certainly demented, and being crazy, they should be taken care of, to prevent their doing harm to themselves or others—Judicious, prompt and energetic action on the part of your Secretary of War, will no doubt secure your own safety, and the peace of the country,

I have the honor to be,

Very Sincerely,

Your mo. ob.

David Hunter

The warning from Hunter, a U.S. Army major, stood apart from the garbled threats of the anonymous “young Creole” and the gloriously profane Pete Muggins. Hunter was clearly no zealot: He was a West Point graduate, whose grandfather had signed the Declaration of Independence. Lincoln sent a prompt reply, indicating that he had heard rumblings of this type from another source within the army. “While I think there are many chances to one that this is a hum-bug, it occurs to me that any real movement of this sort in the army would leak out and become known to you,” Lincoln wrote. “In such case, if it would not be unprofessional, or dishonorable (of which you are to be judge) I shall be much obliged if you will apprise me of it.”

Major Hunter took the president-elect at his word, and he wrote again in December to warn that “careful study of the signs of the times” had inclined him to believe that there was trouble ahead. In particular, Hunter had heard talk of a plot to capture Washington and retain James Buchanan, “the Old Publick Functionary,” as president. It would be a wise precaution, Hunter suggested, to enlist 100,000 Wide Awakes—the uniformed citizens brigade that formed during the election to support the Republican cause—and have them “wend their way quietly to Washington” in advance of the inaugural. “The reins once in your hands, I cannot doubt a triumphant result,” Hunter wrote, “and that you will preserve every star on our flag.”

Hunter’s suggestion could hardly be counted as practical at a time when Lincoln was trying to avoid provocation, nor was it at all clear how a force of 100,000 men might wend its way “quietly” into the capital. Nevertheless, Lincoln took the major’s concerns seriously, and he invited Hunter to join his entourage for the forthcoming trip to Washington. Hunter readily accepted. It was one of the few times before leaving Springfield that Lincoln gave any sign of concern for his safety. He was keenly aware, as he would later admit, of the many warnings of “people who were intending to do me a mischief,” but he chose not to acknowledge these threats. “I never attached much importance to them,” he would say, “never wanted to believe any such thing. So I never would do anything about them, in the way of taking precautions and the like. Some of my friends, though, thought differently.”

Even as the hate mail piled up, Lincoln continued to maintain an open-door policy at the State House. Soon enough, disgruntled Southerners began to appear. December saw the arrival of a “genuine secessionist” named D. E. Ray, who had traveled all the way from Yazoo, Mississippi, to air his views. Fortified with “divers doses of whiskey,” Ray made his way into the governor’s reception room, where Lincoln was receiving visitors, as usual. “He walked in with a sullen air,” reported journalist Henry Villard, “and plunged into a corner of the sofa, where he reposed for at least a quarter of an hour, without uttering a word.” Ray occupied the time by making repeated adjustments to the angle of his hat, so that Lincoln would get an eyeful of his blue cockade—a knot of hanging ribbons that had been adopted throughout the South as the symbol of disunion.

Presently, some of the others in the room engaged the “scowling Southron” in conversation, which soon turned to the subject of secession. Pressed for his views, Ray allowed that the people of his state were not afraid of Lincoln himself, but of the Republicans who had elected him. At this
,
Lincoln himself entered the debate. “You will find that the only difference between you and me is that I think slavery wrong and you think it right,” he declared, “that I am opposed to its extension, while you advocate it.” Even so, Lincoln insisted, he would decline to interfere with slavery “where it existed,” so that slaveholding states would remain “as secure from encroachments” as they had been under Buchanan.

Lincoln had said much the same thing many times before, but hearing the words from the incoming president’s own lips appeared to mollify the secessionist, who “softened down under the influence of these peaceful declarations.” As Ray made his way to the exit, Lincoln stopped him and handed over a collection of transcripts of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, recently published in book form. Smiling, Lincoln expressed a hope that having such a book in his possession wouldn’t cause trouble for Ray when he got back to Mississippi.

Not all secessionists could be turned aside so amicably. The following day—December 20, 1860—South Carolina became the first state to secede from the Union, with the
Charleston Mercury
issuing a broadside that declared “The Union Is Dissolved.” Attention soon focused on South Carolina’s claims upon the three federal garrisons strategically located at Charleston Harbor—Fort Sumter, Fort Moultrie, and Castle Pinckney. It now became clear, as John Nicolay reported, that the South Carolinians “intended somehow to get possession of these fortifications, as it was the only means by which they could make any serious resistance to the federal government.”

Fort Moultrie, a poorly engineered structure originally built of palmetto logs, was almost impossible to defend, and a rumor reached Lincoln’s ears that President Buchanan had instructed its commander, Maj. Robert Anderson, to surrender if attacked. Lincoln wished to maintain his public silence, but he was outraged by Buchanan’s posture of submission. “If that is true,” he told Nicolay, “they ought to hang him.” The president-elect sent a message to Lt. Gen. Winfield Scott, the “Grand Old Man of the Army,” urging him to be prepared, by the time of the inauguration, “to either
hold,
or
retake,
the forts, as the case may require.”

On the night of December 26, Major Anderson, acting on his own initiative, moved his small garrison from Fort Moultrie across the harbor to the more defensible Fort Sumter. The following day, South Carolina took possession of the abandoned Fort Moultrie, as well as Castle Pinckney. The action threw the capital into turmoil as President Buchanan deliberated over a possible response, and fresh rumors surfaced of an armed insurrection against Washington.

William Seward, Lincoln’s former rival for the Republican nomination, sensed a growing mood of panic in the halls of government. Writing from the capital on December 28, he advised Lincoln to make his way east without further delay:

There is a feverish excitement here which awakens all kind of apprehensions of popular disturbance and disorders, connected with your assumption of the government. I do not entertain these apprehensions myself, but is it worth consideration in our peculiar circumstances that accidents elsewhere may aggravate opinion here. Habit has accustomed the public to anticipate the arrival of the President-elect in this city about the middle of February, and evil-minded persons would expect to organize their demonstrations for that time. I beg leave to suggest whether it would not be well for you keeping your own counsel to be prepared to drop into the city a week or ten days earlier. The effect would probably be reassuring and soothing.

The following day, Seward wrote again, this time with even greater urgency, sounding very much like a man reporting from behind enemy lines. “It pains me to learn that things there are even worse than is understood,” he declared, referring to the possibility that President Buchanan might recall Major Anderson and allow Fort Sumter to fall. Worse yet, he insisted, there was now an unmistakable threat of armed resistance to Lincoln’s inauguration, with the support of men in high places. “A plot is forming to seize the Capitol on or before the 4th of March—and this too has its accomplices in the public councils,” Seward declared. “I could tell you more particularly than I dare write. But you must not imagine that I am giving you suspicions and rumors—Believe that I know what I write—in point of fact the responsibilities of your administration must begin before the time arrives—I therefore revive the suggestion of your coming here earlier than you otherwise would—and coming in by surprise—without announcement.” Seward was so concerned that this letter might be intercepted that he sent it without his signature—“which for prudence is omitted,” he explained. In a letter to his son Frederick, Seward was even more blunt about conditions in the capital: “Come when you can,” he urged. “It is revolutionary times here.”

Seward’s messages demanded a delicate response. Lincoln would later claim that he gave no credence to the rumors, but he knew that Seward’s warnings would have to be taken seriously, all the more so because he was trying to persuade the senator to join his cabinet as secretary of state. “Yours without signature was received last night,” Lincoln replied. “I have been considering your suggestions as to my reaching Washington somewhat earlier than is usual.” Lincoln acknowledged the gravity of Seward’s concern, but then he swiftly turned to a matter he considered to be of even greater importance. Technically, the election was not yet official; the Electoral College would not assemble in Washington to ratify the victory until February. Lincoln was keenly aware that he had failed to achieve a majority in the popular vote; his total amounted to not quite 40 percent. In the current climate, there was ample reason to fear that the Electoral College might decline to assemble or—in the event of an uprising—be unable do its duty. He told Seward: