CHAPTER 20
JOHN HAY'S DIARY
AUGUST 22, 1861
A long hiatus. The nights have been too busy for jottings. Then I was flat on
my back with bilious fever for a week, and had a gay old delirium the other
day, but am some better now.
Today a couple of Breckinridge's agents from Kentucky, claiming to be all
for the Union but not to the extent of fighting for it, called on the Prsdt
begging for permission of Kentucky's neutrality.
"Professed Unionists give me more trouble than rebels," he told them. He
sees through their plot. Breck and the pro-secesh Kentucky governor want to
put the responsibility of the first blow upon the gov't in Washington. If we
"invade" a neutral Kentucky, it will be easier for Breck & Co. to rally the
undecideds and take the state South. (That is substantially what we did in
provisioning Fort Surnter, challenging the South to fire the first shot, which
they foolishly did, helping us whip up the war spirit here. We know that
trick.)
The Prsdt played what he likes to call "shut-pan" with them, telling them
nothing. After I led them out, he told me why: "I cannot consent to what
they ask, for Kentucky's neutrality won't last long. We want to go through
that state."
He then looked out the window, peered more closely at a group approach-
ing the Mansion, and proceeded to utter the last few words of a joke.
I could tell it was the ending of a story by his tone of voice. When Lincoln
is speaking normally, his voice is slightly louder than that of most of us,
perhaps from the needs of the courtroom, perhaps to make up for the un-
happy fact that he is not blessed with a deep and resonant voice. When he is
on the stump, that high-pitched voice of his carries well, almost rings out
those debates with Douglas lasted for six, seven hours each, and the Lincoln
words could be heard all day by the folks in the far reaches of the crowd.
When he is telling a story, however, the Tycoon's voice develops a kind of
soft Western twang. When I hear that twang, I have no need for him to say
"reminds me of a story," which he must do with strangers. Instead, I recog-
nize the seemingly irrelevant remark as a joke's point, and if I do not ask him
what the story is, he is a disappointed man.
"There comes them same damn three fellers again," was what he said,
looking at the bustling trio of men.
Dutifully, I asked, "What same damn three fellers?"
"In a Kentucky school I attended as a boy," Lincoln said, in his rehearsed,
storytelling twang, "we used to line up and read from the Bible, each in turn.
One day we came to the passage about how the Israelites escaped the fiery
furnace through divine intervention. The boy whose turn it was had to read
the three difficult names, and he stumbled on Shadrach, floundered on Me-
shach, and went all to pieces on Abednego.
"The schoolmaster, kind of a mean man, cuffed the little boy and left him
blubbering. Then we all took our turn reading. When it came his turn again,
the boy looked at the part he had to read and let out a banshee wail: 'Lookie
there, marsterthere comes them same damn three fellers again!' "
I laughed out loud, not so much because it was a good storythough at
least this was one I could relate at the Earneses' in mixed companybut
because the Tycoon was chuckling away and needed company.
Besides, it lifts the heart to see what happens to his face when he laughs.
From its natural, lugubrious, bloodhound-mournful look, it swings to high
glee, especially when somebody joins in and bounces the laughter back and
forth, at which point he winds up wiping his eyes and snuffling like somebody
who has forced himself into a sneezing fit to snap out of a sadness spell.
I went to the window to see who I would be ushering in or blocking out.
Sure enough, the same damn three fellers who show up whenever there is a
whisper abroad of a lack of resolution in smiting the SouthBen Wade,
Henry Wilson, and Tad Stevens, two senators and the smoldering power of
the House. Senator Wade on the left, pounding along like he owned the earth,
jaw jutting out, hands clenched into fists, ready to stop any retreating army
that came his way. Senator Wilson in the middle, rotund, waddling and
puffing, a Massachusetts abolitionist who was given the Military Affairs Com-
mittee when Jeff Davis headed South.
The third man I've never liked. He has the look of a dark cloud unable to
rain. Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvaniaclubfoot, the defender of fugitive
slaves, the leading reb-hater and slavocracy-denouncer of all. In revolution-
ary France, he would have been among the bloodiest of the Jacobins, perhaps
Robespierre himself. Unlike the pugnacious Wade, he does not have the sav-
ing grace of a sense of humor.
The radicalsthat's what they proudly call themselves, and I must not let
them catch me calling them Jacobinshad been enraged earlier this month
by the Crittenden resolution. That was a much-needed expression by a loyal
old Kentuckian in the House to disavow any intention of freeing the slaves,
thereby stealing some of Breck's thunder among slave owners in that border
state. Its ready passage showed how far the mood of the country is from
abolition, though the radical minority swings some weight in the Republican
Party.
To offset the Crittenden resolution, and to lean against the President's
inaugural theme of not striking at slavery where it exists, the same-damn-
three-fellers managed to pass the Confiscation Act. That strips rebels of their
property, including slaves, when used in rebellion against the United States.
They slipped it through as a get-even-with-the-rebels bill rather than an aboli-
tion bill, and the Tycoon reluctantly signed it to keep them on board his ship.
"Mr. President, you're murdering your country by inches," said brother
Wade, in his usual subtle way, as soon as the trio barged in, "by the want of a
distinct policy in regard to slavery. The South has got to pay for bringing on
this war, and the payment is going to be giving up their 'peculiar institu-
tion.' "
Lincoln shook his head, no. "Wherever I go and whatever way I turn, you
gentlemen are on my trail, and still in my heart, I have the deep conviction
that the hour has not yet come."
His hint that the hour would one day comea hint that he vouchsafed
only to ultrasdid not mollify Congressman Stevens. "Nothing approaching
your present policy will subdue the rebels," the clubfoot growled. "You must
gain the moral courage to treat this as a radical revolution. It will involve the
desolation of the South as well as emancipation, and a repeopling of half the
continent. I know this startles you, Lincoln."
It did. "You would upset our applecart altogether if you had your way,"
the Prsdt countered. "We'll fetch 'em; just give us a little time." That, of
course, was not what Lincoln was telling our border-state friends or the War
Democrats, but in politics everyone must be given some reason to hope his
dream will come true, or so I am coming to understand.
Not fast enough for Wade. "I don't think you could be inspired to take
action with a galvanic battery, Lincoln."
"We didn't go to war to put down slavery, but to put the flag back," the
Tycoon replied evenly. "To act differently at this moment would not only
weaken our cause, but smack of bad faith." He had been promising he would
not strike at slavery at all, but the terrible trio refused to consider such
pledges to the majority of the people of the North to be any kind of promise
at all.
"Perhaps we could strengthen the Confiscation Act next session," Henry
Wilson offered. He seemed more ill at ease than the others, but was at least
being reasonable.
The Prsdt, who could not afford to associate himself with such abolition
talk, also could not afford to shut the door on the radical wing of his party.
"That thunderbolt will keep."
"Your damnable silk-glove treatment of the South will not work," Stevens
pressed. "Unless you commit yourself to arming the free blacks, and freeing
the slaves of the South to rise and rampage, I believe you are on the road to
ignominious surrender."
"A president has not only to mean well," Wade instructed, "he must have
force of character. You are surrounded by old fogies, more than half of whom
are downright traitors and the other half sympathize with the South."
"Not so," said Lincoln. How can he put up with this? And yet he does. He
cannot kick out the Congress.
"You must enlist slaves in the army, as a first step," Stevens insisted,
glowering more darkly than ever. The man strikes me as almost a bit de-
ranged on the subject. "You have to show some grasp of the revolution in
store."
"You are inclined to think that this war is to result in the entire abolition of
slavery," Lincoln said.
Wade exploded. "Inclined! My God, man, that's exactly what we do think,
and that's what this war is about!"
"For my own part," the Prsdt went on doggedly, not mollifying anymore,
"I consider the central idea pervading this struggle is the necessity to prove
that popular government is not an absurdity." He made that same point in his
talks with Breckinridge; he has this central idea quite clear in his mind. "We
must settle this question now, whether in a free government, the minority
have the right to break up the government whenever they choose. If we fail, it
will go far to prove the incapability of the people to govern themselves."
Wade looked at his associates as if they were faced with a crazy theoreti-
cian in an ivory tower rather than a commander in chief in the Executive
Mansion. I have to admit, our central idea lacks fire, and would not by itself
rally many to the Union flag. Perhaps the Tycoon will find other ways to put
it, or disguise it, or overlay his somewhat bookish notion with a more popular
cause. Certainly the avoidance of absurdity did nothing for the same-damn-
three.
"And while we're here," said Stevens, apparently too disgusted to pursue
the President's central idea, "there's the matter of your Secretary of War." It
is common knowledge that Thaddeus Stevens and Simon Cameron, both
Pennsylvanians, despise each other.
"What about him?"
"He's a thief."
Lincoln glared hard at Stevens. "If you have proof of that charge, present
it. If you do not, retract it." We have all heard rumors about Cameron and
the contractors, but not a shred of evidence of wrongdoing had been pre-
sented. Honesty, personal financial honesty, is a very big thing with the Ty-
coon, and unfounded charges about it infuriate him.
"Perhaps Senator Wilson's Military Committee should exercise its power,"
Wade interjected, "to look into charges of corruption in the conduct of the
war."
"Just send along whatever evidence you have," Lincoln came right back,
"and we'll look into it right here."
Stevens spun around and, limping, started out. Lincoln evidently had sec-
ond thoughts about offending them by being so abrupt, and called after Ste-
vens, "You don't mean to say you think Cameron would actually steal?"
Stevens paused long enough to say dryly, "No, I don't think he would steal
a red-hot stove." Wade roared with laughter and pounded Stevens on the
arm. Lincoln thought that was pretty good, especially from Stevens.
I showed them out past the anteroom and found the bowler-halted Mr.
Pinkerton, the detective who works for General McClellan, sitting there pa-
tiently. On second look, I could see he was wet, soaked clear through, and a
small puddle had formed on the floor under his chair. Only the cigar lodged
permanently in the middle of his mouth was dry.
When I told the little detective the President was occupied with affairs of
state, he refused to leave until he saw what he called "higher authority" than
me. I could only pry out of him that he wanted to talk about a confidential
matter concerning the loyalty and discretion of a member of Congress.
I carried his message to the Tycoon, suggesting that Plums let Nuts bolt, or
whatever the silly detective code was. The Prsdt, looking out the window,
said he was worried about that last remark of Wade's: could be this visit was a
trap. Could be the Jacobins wanted a device to interfere with his conduct of
the war.
What about spending some time with friend Pinkerton? The Ancient was
inclined at first to see him, but on second thought decided it might be unwise
to get directly involved on a matter about the discretion of a Congressman,
especially if it turned out to be a supporter.
"Send him to Seward," he said, and I started out. He stopped me. "No,
Seward is on the severe side, send him to Judge Blair." He stopped me again.
"Might be a good idea to keep it unofficial. Send him to Old Man Blair." That
choice seemed apt: Francis Preston Blair, the keeper of the secrets of the wild
and woolly Andrew Jackson private life, would know how to use the sort of
embarrassing information a Pinkerton would unearth.