1861 (55 page)

If anything could have flustered the courtly headmaster-major, surely this conversation must have. Cary rode back to the Confederate lines having accomplished none of the aims of his errand. Butler, for his part, returned to Fortress Monroe feeling rather pleased with himself. Still, he knew that vanquishing the rebel officer with case law was only a minor victory, and perhaps a momentary one if his superiors in Washington frowned on what he had done.

The following day, a Saturday, Butler picked up his pen and resumed his twice-interrupted dispatch to General Scott. Certain questions had arisen, he began, “of very considerable importance both in a military and political aspect, and which I beg leave to hereby submit.”

But before this missive could even reach the general-in-chief’s desk up in Washington, matters at Fortress Monroe would become even more complicated. On Sunday morning, eight more fugitives turned up at Union lines outside the fort. On Monday, there were forty-seven, and not just young men now but women, old people, entire families. There was a mother with a three-month-old infant in her arms. There was an ancient Negro who had been born in
the year of America’s independence.
⁴⁵

By Wednesday, a Massachusetts soldier would write home: “Slaves are brought in here hourly.”
⁴⁶

“W
HAT’S TO BE DONE WITH THE BLACKS?”
asked a headline in the
Chicago Tribune.
It was a question that more and more white Americans—in both the North and the South—were starting to pose.
⁴⁷

Before the attack on Sumter, the answer had seemed clear to many. The
Tribune
’s rival paper, the
Chicago Times,
expounded it in no uncertain terms:

For many Northerners, the outbreak of armed hostilities did little to change this—at least initially. In early May, the
New York Herald
praised Lincoln’s “humane war policy”—by which it meant “his respect … for the rights of ‘property’ ” as opposed to the “lawless disorganizers” within his own party who urged “a war policy of extermination and
confiscation against the South.” The paper’s position, in effect, conceded the premises on which the Confederates themselves had gone to war: Law and slavery were on the same side. So were slavery and union. Liberation of the slaves would be a confiscation of Southerners’ rightful property—and would mean the extermination of Southern society, perhaps even quite literally. The North’s struggle was simply one against a treasonous conspiracy, and for
“the integrity of the Union.” In other words, Unionism was still a purely conservative cause.
⁴⁹

Even some of the Northerners who were considered radicals had
deferred to what seemed the necessity of disavowing any abolitionist intentions. “Some people ask if this is to be a crusade of
emancipation,”
Henry Ward Beecher told his congregation. “No, it is not. I hate slavery intensely.… Liberty is the birthright of every man, yet ours is not an army of
liberation. Why? Because the fifteen States of the South are guaranteed security in their property, and we have no right by force to dispossess them of that property.”
⁵⁰

For America’s small community of black intellectuals, the spring of 1861 was a disorienting time. “I have never spent days so restless and anxious,” Frederick Douglass confessed two weeks after Sumter. “Our mornings and evenings have continually oscillated between the dim light of hope, and the gloomy shadow of despair.”
⁵¹

The past few years had been dispiriting and exhausting ones for Douglass, who had never ceased fighting for emancipation since his own escape from slavery in
Maryland more than two decades earlier. In 1855, he closed the second edition of his autobiography with a ringing proclamation:

Of all the Negro abolitionists, Douglass had always been the one to insist, often to the derision of other black leaders, that Africans might one day also be Americans, that the promise of freedom embedded in the Declaration might one day apply to them, too. He remembered when, as a boy clandestinely teaching himself to read, he had pored over a book of political oratory from the Revolution, deciphering the stirring words one letter at a time. He spurned those who
sought an independent black republic in Africa or the
Caribbean.

By 1861, however—after Bleeding Kansas,
Dred Scott,
and
John Brown—even Douglass’s rock-solid faith had been badly shaken. The final blow for him was the
inauguration of the new Republican president. Douglass had campaigned for Lincoln. But the “double-tongued document” of the inaugural address, as he had called it, came as a shocking betrayal. If even such
a leader as Lincoln would sacrifice four million Negroes to appease the South, then clearly all hope was lost. Blacks had no future in America. At the end of March, he booked passage to
Haiti, planning to set sail from New Haven on
April 25 and arrive in Port-au-Prince by May 1. If the island nation lived up to its promise—as a sun-kissed “city set on a hill” for former slaves—Douglass would move down
there for good, and he would urge other black Americans to do the same.
⁵³

But at the last minute, ten days after the attack on Sumter and in the midst of his oscillations between hope and despair, Douglass changed his travel plans, staying behind in the chilly dampness of western New York State. On April 27, as the ship steamed toward Port-au-Prince without him, he gave a lecture at a church in Syracuse. It was one of only a few speeches that Douglass, usually a tireless orator, would deliver in the year ahead. At the most tumultuous moment
of the national crisis, he seemed briefly to find the voice, by turns soaringly prophetic and frankly personal, that had moved audiences ever since his first public address in a Nantucket meetinghouse, many years before. Instead of trying to hide his doubts and uncertainties about the future, Douglass embraced them. “We cannot see the end from the beginning,” he confessed. “Our profoundest calculations may prove erroneous, our best hopes disappointed, and our
worst fears confirmed.” He continued:

“At any rate,” Douglass also wrote that week, “this is no time for us to leave the country.”
⁵⁵

W
ITHIN DAYS AFTER
FRANK BAKER,
Shepard Mallory, and
James Townsend crossed the
James River in a stolen boat, their exploit—and their fate—were being discussed at the White House. Indeed, they were a topic of conversation throughout the entire nation.

Word of Butler’s decision on the three fugitive slaves hit the Northern press on Monday morning, May 27, not long after Scott received his dispatch; almost certainly Butler himself, never one to shy away
from publicity, had leaked it to a correspondent. At first the newspapers played it more or less as a joke. “General Butler appears to be turning his legal education to good account,” a five-line report in
The New York
Times
began. “We think the people of [Virginia] will find the General a match for them in more ways than one.” It was like a comic sketch in a minstrel show: a Yankee shyster outwits a drawling “F.F.V.,” as the
Times
described Major Cary. (This was short for First Families of Virginia, a term of chivalrous pride in the Old Dominion that had become the butt of widespread ridicule in the North.) In fairness, the paper’s readers badly
needed something light that day, on the heels of a mournful weekend: the Butler item was wedged among long columns of type describing every detail of Colonel Ellsworth’s funeral cortege and its passage through the streets of Manhattan.
⁵⁶

Winfield Scott was also inclined at first to take the whole thing as a joke—for he, too, was in dire need of comic relief. The general-in-chief’s gout had flared up even worse than usual, forcing the Hero of Lundy’s Lane to spend his days prostrated on a sofa, his swollen feet propped up on a stack of pillows, as he gestured with a stick at a large wall map, barking commands at his scurrying bevies of secretaries and aides. (This scene of military
grandeur, a correspondent wrote, “was one on which the pencil of a Leutze would dwell lovingly”—the acclaimed painter of
Washington Crossing the Delaware
had just been commissioned to paint a new mural at the Capitol.) On Wednesday morning, Lincoln met with Scott and found the old man chortling delightedly at what he called “Butler’s fugitive slave law.” Afterward, the president told
Montgomery
Blair that “he had not seen old Lundy as merry since he had known him.”

Of course, Scott also expected that Lincoln would instruct him to overrule Butler. And perhaps it was this prospect, even more than the joke itself, that cheered him: this greenhorn president had just been shown what could happen when you slapped a major general’s epaulettes onto the undeserving shoulders of a politician.
⁵⁷

But Lincoln was not so certain. “The President seemed to think it a very important subject,” Blair wrote after their conversation, “and one requiring some thought in view of the numbers of negroes we were likely to have on hand in virtue of this new doctrine.” Lincoln made it known that he would address the matter with his cabinet the following morning.
⁵⁸

By all appearances, nothing in the administration’s slavery policy had changed in the past three months. Lincoln had continued to avow, both publicly and privately, that he had no desire to interfere with the
peculiar institution in either the rebellious or the loyal states. And yet one or two of those closest to him—closer, certainly, than the members of his own cabinet—had begun to notice that his position was slightly less
absolute than his inaugural address would have it. They may even have known that the news from
Fortress Monroe did not catch him entirely off guard.

On May 7,
John Hay had gone into Lincoln’s office to brief him on some of the recent
White House mail. He found the president contorted into a most unusual position: scrunched up in a chair with his boots braced against the windowsill and a large telescope balanced on the tips of his toes. He was apparently surveying some naval steamboats passing on the Potomac.
⁵⁹

Hay told the chief executive that several correspondents were suggesting the administration could quickly kill secession, present and future, by attacking the taproot of the South’s economy: slavery.
Orville Browning, a leading Illinois Republican and a close friend of Lincoln’s for the past thirty years, had sent the most extraordinary letter urging him to “crush all rebel forces” without mercy, and let the
Negroes, after having “avenge[d] the wrongs of ages,” turn the confiscated Cotton Belt into a republic of their own. Perhaps Hay even read some of the letter aloud:

Lincoln chuckled at this. Yes, he told Hay, some of his Northern friends seemed a bit “bewildered and dazzled by the excitement of the hour.” Some of them appeared to think that the war—still less than a month old and practically bloodless—was going to result in the total abolition of slavery. One gentleman had even proposed—in earnest, it seemed—that he should enlist
blacks in the army!

The young secretary persisted. Quite a few people were saying such
things, he told Lincoln. Not just politicians, either, judging by the White House mailbag, but ordinary citizens, too.

Behind his boss’s back, Hay had recently given Lincoln a nickname: “the Tycoon.” This word had entered American slang within just the past year or so, as part of the fad for all things Japanese.
Taikun
was the title of the chief shogun, and suggested—at least to the Western mind—not just a wise and powerful ruler but a figure of deep oriental inscrutability. The Tycoon now made a reply worthy of his name. It impressed Hay so
much that he copied it word for word that night into his diary; thirty years later, he would also copy it verbatim into his biography of Lincoln.

“For my own part,” the president began, “I consider the central idea pervading this struggle is the necessity that is upon us, of proving that popular government is not an absurdity. 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.”