CHAPTER 6
I RISE IN OPPOSITION
The best policy for Kentucky, Breckinridge decided, was armed neutrality.
The state would not join the secession, nor join those Union fire-eaters like
the Biairs who pushed Lincoln into warring on the separated states. Ken-
tucky would sit this war out, letting the ardor on both sides burn until it
became obvious that neither side could impose its will.
Mediation at this early stage seemed hopeless, though he would continue to
search for a suitable compromise before the fighting became serious. If some
major battlefield bloodletting did take place, then no mediation could proceed
as the popular demand for vengeance rose, but in time neutral Kentucky, as
the only state that could treat with both powers evenhandedly, might provide
the bridge to bring the parties together. And John Cabell Breckinridge, the
apostle of moderation in the moderate state, would be the most trusted peace-
maker.
Like most other senators, he had defied his coat on the sweltering July day.
In the cloakroom, the Washington humidity was especially oppressive. The
usual lobby agents were not present, since the Senate was considering a mo-
tion to make legal all the unconstitutional acts Lincoln had committed before
calling Congress back into session. That sort of legislation provided benefits
to none and was certain of passage.
John Fomey, sometime newsman, now clerk of the Senate, had called him
out to talk to Anna Carroll before his speech.
"Miss Carroll here thinks you are liable to make a damn fool of yourself
this afternoon," Forney drawled as he brought them together, "and she'd like
to save you from yourself. Like everybody does, even Wade and Baker. Never
saw so many people so worried about one senator's stand."
"He's right," Breckinridge said to the woman he was so glad to see. "I am
quite aware that nothing I can utter here will have the slightest effect."
"Not true," she said, dismissing Forney with a nod and a quick smile. "You
could do great harm to the cause of the Union, Breck, and I know you don't
want to do that."
Two nights before, in her rooms at the Ebbitt House, they had stayed up
through the dawn arguing the details of the President's war power. She had
been prepared for the discussion far better than he; the senator suspected she
had helped the Attorney General help Lincoln prepare his long July 4 mes-
sage to the convening Congress, asking for blanket approval of waging his
undeclared war. They must have gone at the argument for nine or ten hours,
never bothering to eat and stopping only once to make love. She had not
permitted him to bring a bottle of whiskey.
Anna had attempted to persuade him to accept the argument of necessity.
In war, much must be sacrificed to necessity, and he had granted that not all
the legal niceties could be observed near the front, but in this case there was
no necessity for war. A political union, much like the marriage of a man and
woman, had to be based on comity and shared beliefs; a union with one
section forced to belong was tyranny. The terrible acts required to enforce
control of one section by another, he had argued, would infect the rest of the
government and end all hope of democracy. Anna Carroll had refused to see
that an unconstitutional war would corrupt the North and ruin what union
remained. Obstinate woman, irritating in her tenacity, but adorable even
when not adoring, and helpful in putting him through the arguments he
would face on the Senate floor.
"That was not my purpose," she said grimly in the Senate cloakroom,
when he thanked her for preparing him for his speech this day. "I am trying
to save your life in politics."
"There comes a time" he began, squaring his shoulders, but stopped
when she reached up and banged her fist on his upper arm.
"There comes a time in life when a man should learn to shut up," she said.
"This is such a time. If you don't agree on the war powers, abstain. Go have
tea with Lizzie Blair, who loves you more than that silly sailor of hers, or go
pay a secret visit to the Wild Rose, I don't care. Just don't make an ass of
yourself in the Senate on the burning issue of the day."
An auburn tendril had spilled over her forehead; he pushed it back auto-
matically. Men who denied themselves the friendship of older women, it
occurred to him, were missing much in life. He remembered her from ten
years ago, when she was Uncle Bob's wide-eyed spiritual ward, and she had
never been in such full bloom as a publicist or a woman. Lizzie, too, was
more attractive to him now, but he had never had a love affair with Old Man
Biair's daughter; just friends, always the unresolved tensions. It was better to
make love and have that a part of it all, not a distraction because of its
presence or absence. The Wild Rose was a different story; she brought pas-
sions out of men they never knew they possessed, but Rose was a hater, not a
thinker, too relentlessly stimulating to be anybody's companion.
Did all that make him a libertine and a hypocrite? He thought not, al-
though he had to allow for the moral possibility. Mary Cyrene Breckinridge
had never wanted to share the part of his life that centered on the District of
Columbia, preferring to raise the children and be a good companion to him at
home in Lexington. An upright, loyal wifecome to think of it, he could not
recall Mary's opinion about peaceful separation of the states, although she
made no secret she despised slaverydeserving of a loyal, respectful hus-
band, which he was whenever they were together.
Breckinridge knew that his vice, as far as the public was concerned, was
supposed to be a fondness for corn whiskey; he did not think that much of a
vice, especially for a politician from the state that produced the product, and
in an odd way it protected him in a way from talk about womanizing that
might have worried Mary. She did not worry about his drinking because she
knew he could put it aside whenever he had to. She did not worry about other
women because he gave her no reason to worry. His only problem at home
was his son, Cabell, who was sixteen and looked older and liked to talk of
war. Breckinridge did not know where the boy got that from. Mary looked
young to have a boy that age, and was much more innocent in the ways of the
world than the woman who was punching his shoulder again.
"You're not listening. Here is a memorial of the points I made, with cita-
tions from Justice Marshall, and a precis of the nullification debate. It shows
how President Jackson was right and Senator Calhoun didn't understand the
Constitution."
He took the paper and nodded his thanks, assuming she had been told of
the nullification precedent by Old Man Blair, whose hatred of Calhoun never
abated. Her writing, as always, was a hurried scrawl, evidence of her vigor
and haste. It would be a useful checklist, if any senator wanted to argue the
law after his speech. He hoped there would be no debate today. His purpose
was to plant the seed of doubt in some minds already set on war, and angry
ripostes would not advance that aim.
"Senator Baker isn't here today," she told him, "so you won't be provoked.
Ben Wade is, but I've talked to him and told him the best way to handle you
is to ignore you."
Breckinridge frowned at her mothering, the main drawback of older
women. Senator Edward Baker of Oregon, the Eddie Baker from Illinois who
used to be his good friend in the House years ago, was the closest to Lincoln
of any man now in the Senate. Lincoln's first son, who died in infancy, had
been named Edward Baker Lincoln. Now Baker was a colonel in the Union
Army, dividing his time between the Virginia front and the Senate floor. The
Kentuckian knew there had to be a clash in the Senate with Baker, who was
foolishly spoiling for war and was all too ready to vote Lincoln the powers of
a dictator. And Ben Wade, who wanted a war to wipe out slavery, was a man
Breckinridge looked forward to debating one day. But not today, not yet; he
fought down his irritation and was glad that she had arranged for that tempo-
rary protection.
"Wade expects me to make a Confederate speech, doesn't he?"
"You'd damn well better not," she snapped. When he glared back, she
softened: "A great many important people are hoping I'm right about you.
I've told them that you'll suffer in silence, and not let your love of the form of
the Constitution undermine the union cause."
He knew that, all right; she had surely told Ben Wade, probably told the
Biairs, and possibly even Lincoln that she could take him into the pro-union,
pro-war camp. Or at the least, get him to be quiet, enabling the pro-union
Kentuckians to carry the day. By speaking out, he would also damage her
career, he supposed; he regretted that.
They shook hands solemnly. He strode to his desk on the Democratic side
of the aisle. She climbed to the gallery to watch.
Vice President Hannibal Hamlin, presiding, recognized the junior senator
from Kentucky.
"I rise in opposition," Breckinridge said to a full chamber, "to the Republi-
can resolution to grant approval to all the extraordinary acts taken by the
President since his inauguration,"
That caught everyone's attention. Briskly, and without the full-throated
oratorical flourishes he was noted for, the Kentuckian mentioned the raising
of armies without sanction of the legislature, the imposition of a blockade of
Southern ports as an act of war without proper declaration by the Congress,
unlawful searches and seizures, and, most important, Lincoln's usurpation of
Congress's power to suspend the privilege of habeas corpus.
"The fact that the Republicans are eager to pass this resolution," he de-
duced, "is a bald admission that President Lincoln has been operating in
gross violation of the Constitution and the laws he is sworn to execute."
"Fudge," came a loud growl from Benjamin Wade of Ohio. As a mere
ejaculation, without recognition from the Chair, the Wade remark could be
ignored. Breckinridge was not seeking a confrontation; he did not demand
that Wade's word be "taken down" and the offender forced to remain quiet
for the rest of the day. Breckinridge sailed on, unperturbed.
"Moreover, we of the Congress cannot indemnify the illegal actions of
another branch. If we could do that, then we could set aside the Constitution
at will. If we could alter the Constitution by mere passage of a resolution,
then that document is meaningless. As all here know, the power to amend the
Constitution is reserved to the States."
The law was on his side, he knew. It was vital that he stick to the law, in a
quietly judicious tone, to persuade any of his fellow senators to open their
minds to the possibility of temporary, peaceful separation. A little doubt at a
time was all he could sow; not too much in one speech; and always in a spirit
of loyal Democratic opposition, conscious that he was lighting his candles in
a room filled with the spirit of war, where almost all the men were waiting for
him to say something bordering on treason.
"In raising an army and navy, in blockading ports, in imprisoning loyal
Americans who dared only to disagree publicly with his policies," the Ken-
tuckian argued, "Mr. Lincoln has drawn to himself not only his own execu-
tive powers, but those of the Congress and the Supreme Court. The President
decides who is to be arrested and who is to be jailed. In every age of the
world, this has been the very definition of despotism."
Should he have used the word "despotism"? He was testing the outer
perimeter of loyalty, but nobody else in this chamber was saying what had to
be said. The tension after the word "despotism" was palpable. With the
Senate expecting him to defend the Confederacy, it was time to back away a
little.
"I do not deny the authority of this body, together with the Executive, to
wage war to preserve the Union under the Constitution. But let us be certain
that we do so in a strictly constitutional manner, as we have waged other
wars. Let us take care not to use this war as an occasion to change the nature
of our government."
He thought of Edward Baker's pernicious suggestion to wipe out all state
divisions entirely, replacing the identity of Pennsylvanians and Virginians
with a new national consciousness as Americans. He thought, too, of Baker's
proposal to subjugate the Southern states and treat them later as territories.
Not now; the time was not ripe to take that on. Not with Baker in the field,
in uniform; the time would come to debate these extreme notions after they
had been shown to be the logical extension of today's rubber-stamp resolu-
tion.
He moved to safer ground. "Another resolution before the Senate is 'a bill
to suppress the slaveholder's rebellion.' I submit to you that this bill is in
effect a scheme to emancipate all slaves in those states in rebellion." He
looked toward Wade and the other Republican radicals, a distinct minority
within their own party in favor of outright abolition. "This resolution even
implies that we should employ these freed slaves in our army, a suggestion
that will repel many of our Northern countrymen. It is an open invitation to
servile rebellion, to rapine and murder throughout the South. Its passage
would foment hatred here at home for the next century, and would be seen as
a monstrous act before the world."
He had the black Republicans there; only a handful of senators were
bloody-minded enough to follow Wade, Chandler, Baker, and Sumner into
the morass of inciting a slave rebellion. "If Congress could legislate this
unconstitutional seizure, and if Congress could make legal the murder of
masters by slaves, then Congress would have the absolute power to overthrow
all our rights, personal and political."
By linking the two resolutions, he made the point that a vote to ratify
Lincoln's illegal acts on such as habeas corpus would surely lead all the way
to abolition of all slave property everywhere, including that in loyal states.
The majority of Republicans could, with Lincoln, reasonably oppose the ex-
tension of slavery into the West, but only a few firebrands insisted on seizing
slave property and turning the freed slaves on their masters.
The speech, as he had hoped, left the Senate distinctly uncomfortable.
Conservative Lincoln Republicans called for recognition to make clear that
the resolution to make legal the President's emergency acts, which had wide
support, was in no way associated with the emancipation resolution, which
was not supported by the President.
The vote on the resolution to ratify the President's war actions passed
overwhelmingly, as Breckinridge fully expected. He had registered his protest
in a rational manner; he had troubled a few consciences. When the moment
came for mediation and moderation, Breckinridge would be available.
He looked up to the gallery. Anna Carroll, looking intense and angry, was
walking out. Nobody came around to talk to him after the speech. On the
way out, John Forney came up to him, shaking his head. "Sophistry, John.
Your friends down South fired on Surnter and started a war. The Congress
could not abandon the President in fighting back."
Breckinridge shrugged. "You think anyone will pay attention to my dis-
sent?"
"Sure. Miss Carroll did, made notes like crazy, and will probably start
writing to all the newspapers. She was sore as a bear. I told her you were
making your point of principle, and now you had it out of your system, you
could sit tight. Was I right?"
Breckinridge shrugged, feeling bad about Anna, who now had to hurry to
protect her own interests. Forney's mention of the press reminded him of an
important item about his speech. "Did the Associated Press send a copy to all
the newspapers that asked for it? Especially in Kentucky and Maryland?"
"The reporter undoubtedly intended to," Fomey replied ruefully. "But the
War Department refuses to send your speech over the telegraph wires."
"But that was a speech by a duly elected senator, on the Senate floor.
Nobody could impute disloyalty to that dissent. Where does the Secretary of
War get the right to decide what the people can read about?"
It was Forney's turn to shrug. "War power, I guess. Don't get the idea you
can talk over the Administration's head to the people, Senator. You're lucky
to be able to talk to the men in that room,"