Our One Common Country (24 page)

With Maryland in hand, Seward and Chew were escorted to the Naval Academy and boarded the double side-wheeler
River Queen,
already gathering steam. Leased from a private owner, formally under Grant's command, but known as the president's yacht, the
River Queen
reigned over Chesapeake Bay. Less than a year old, she was built to the state of the art; fast and clean in white; her name in black under gold-painted half-moon wheel covers with carved, gilded eagles; her furnishings and accoutrements fit for a head of state. In minutes, her civilian captain and crew had her steaming toward Hampton Roads, a star-­spangled navy-blue pennant snapping from her bow, a grand American flag thrown out to the wind from her stern.

Lincoln's Copperhead friend James Singleton debriefed him that day on his two weeks in Richmond as a guest of the Rebel government, which had cheerfully paid his bill from the Spotswood Hotel, a “miniature world” of politicians, generals, speculators, and spies “as thoroughly identified with Rebellion as the inn at Bethlehem with the gospel.” No less a team of Rebels than Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee had impressed upon Singleton the wisdom of peace talks between Lee and Grant. Singleton told Lincoln that the people of the South were anxious for peace. Reunion could be forged in the space of a sixty-day armistice. The South would insist on the right of each state to govern itself domestically, of course, including its labor system. Reversing its original goals, the Confederacy was prepared to free its slaves to bolster its army, but would consider fair
compensation instead, among other liberal terms. Constitutional amendments would secure Southern rights for the future.

If Singleton had it right, Lincoln could have his three preconditions for peace—reunion, submission to federal authority, and no backward steps on slavery. Indeed, he could have the slaves, as long as they were paid for, which had always seemed reasonable to him.

In a joyful White House ceremony that day, Lincoln signed the House resolution submitting the Thirteenth Amendment to the states. His signature was not necessary. He signed it anyway. Blair's daughter, Lizzie, was there, and so was the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, the celebrated brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe, down from his Brooklyn pulpit for a stern little talk with the president about rumors of peace on earth. Long-haired and smooth-shaven, a heartthrob in his youth, still a magnetic presence at fifty-one, the silver-tongued Beecher believed outspokenly in abolition, women's suffrage, religious liberalism, Darwin's new theory of evolution, and crushing the rebellion mercilessly. Before the war, he had raised cash to buy rifles for Kansans and Nebraskans resisting the spread of slavery. Beecher's Bibles, they were called. When the war broke out, his Congregational Church sent a regiment south to kill rebels. Impatient with the pace of the killing, his editorials in the
Independent,
a voice of the Christian abolition movement, had flailed against Lincoln like “a mowing machine,” as their author recalled. He had heard that Lincoln read them, and they “bore down on him very hard.”

The reverend did not approve of peace talks. “The war had lasted so long, and I was afraid that Lincoln would be anxious for peace, and I was afraid he would accept something that would be of advantage to the South,” two sins to be deplored. En route to Washington City, Beecher had stopped in Baltimore, rousing his fellow Christians with an image of traitors “of the blackest dye” on their way to a righteous gallows. “Who would let these criminals loose?” A voice in the crowd yelled, “Blair, Blair,” and turned the meeting “turbulent.”

After the White House ceremony, Beecher was welcomed to the president's office, where they met alone. Lincoln's hair “was every way for
Sunday,” as Beecher would soon tell friends, like “an abandoned stubble field.” He wore his favorite carpet slippers, his customary footwear at home, “and his vest was what was called ‘going free.' ” He was weary to the bone. When he fell down into his chair, he “looked as though every limb wanted to drop off his body.”

“Mr. Lincoln,” the reverend began, speaking for his circle, “I come to know whether the public interest will permit you to explain to me what this Southern commission means. We are all very much excited over that,” and not in a joyful way. The president went to his pigeonhole desk “and came out and handed me a little card as long as my finger and an inch wide, and on that was written, ‘You will pass the bearer through the lines. A. Lincoln' (or something to that effect).”

“ ‘There,' he said. ‘That is all there is of it. Now Blair thinks something can be done, but I don't.” He had let the old man try, with no authority whatever but to go down to Richmond and see what he could do.

“ ‘Well,' said I, ‘you have lifted a great burden off my mind.' ”

Major Thomas T. Eckert arrived at City Point that day, descended from Washington City like the coming of the Lord. He came in civilian clothes, as always, bearing orders from Stanton instructing Grant to do what Eckert told him. It had been a long time since the General in Chief of the Army had taken direction from a major, let alone a pontifical bureaucrat who had never shed blood—his own, or anyone else's. The novelty was unwelcome.

As chief of the military telegraph, the officious Major Eckert may have run into Grant before. He ran into him forcefully now as he handed him Stanton's orders. The president had ordered a conference to be held between the commissioners
and Eckert,
“and if, on his return to you, he requests it, pass them through our lines to Fortress Monroe, by such route and under such military precautions as you may deem prudent, giving them protection and comfortable quarters while there, and that you let none of this have any effect upon your movements or plans.”

With the speaking role left to a major and Grant consigned to the wings, the general was not pleased. Eckert would later say that they “came
very near getting into a difficulty that would have forced me to have done something that might have caused a row, because General Grant wanted to be a party to the conference. I told him no.” We can only imagine Grant's face. The major was not finished. “You are the commanding general of the army. If you make a failure or say anything that would be subject to criticism, it would be very bad. If I make a mistake I am nothing but a common businessman, and it will go for naught. I am going to take the responsibility and I advise you not to go to the conference.” According to Eckert, Grant said “decency would compel me to go and see them,” but the major would not have it. “I said that for the purpose of introduction I should be pleased to have him go with me, but not until after I had first met the gentlemen.” Eckert, not Grant, would deal with these Rebels, and he would deal with them alone.

Eckert was eighty-two when he told his tale, forty-two years after the fact. The tone he had taken with the head of all the armies would have sharpened over time as the details faded—for one thing, Grant and the commissioners required no introduction—but the substance rings true, and so does Eckert's report that “Grant was vexed with me because I did not tell him exactly what my mission was.”

One of Grant's staff said he “rarely showed vexation at occurrences great or small, which must have tried him hard. Sometimes, in great emergencies, his lips became set and his mouth rigid, his expression stern; but even then his eye rarely flashed, and his voice betrayed no emotion.” His lips were surely set as the officious Major Eckert, fresh from Edwin Stanton, told the general what he could and could not do. His eye may even have flashed.

Hunter recalled it well. “And now commenced our troubles.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

With Evident Indications of High Gratification

Lincoln had instructed Major Eckert in writing to deliver a letter to the peace commissioners and receive their answer, also in writing, “waiting a reasonable time for it.” If they accepted his terms “without further condition,” the major would pass them through to Hampton Roads, Fort Monroe, and Mr. Seward. If not, he would turn them away. “And this being your whole duty, return and report to me.”

Shortly after four, Grant walked Eckert down the steps to the
Mary Martin
and introduced him to the commissioners in her elegant saloon. The major and Alec Stephens had met before. Two months into the war, Eckert was passing through Atlanta when the authorized agents of a mob who had just hanged a similarly situated Yankee showed up at his hotel to greet him too. Fortuitously, Stephens had roomed with Eckert's cousin George in Congress, and Eckert had seen his name in the hotel register. They were chatting when Eckert's callers arrived. Little Alec interposed his ninety-pound frame between his fellow Georgians and the Yankee. “This man is my guest and friend, and I will be responsible for him. He is all right.”

When they reunited on the
Mary Martin,
Eckert found Stephens pleasant, “more so than the others,” who had not saved his life. Eckert surmised that Hunter was their spokesman, but the major addressed himself to Stephens, “his name being the first on the list of three” and Eckert being nothing if not a stickler for form. “Campbell had the least to say. He was, however, a close listener.”

When the gentlemen took their seats, Stephens asked Eckert to give his best to Cousin George and inquired politely what the major had been doing since their last encounter. Then he asked if they might discuss the subject. Eckert said yes, and asked a silly question if ever there was one. “What is the subject you want to discuss?” Stephens began with a lecture—“We of the South lay great store by our State rights”—until Eckert interrupted him. “Excuse me, but we in the North never think of that, we cannot discuss that subject at all,” and all of their communications must be in writing. Then he handed Stephens a letter. It bore Eckert's signature but Abraham Lincoln had written it.

 

GENTLEMEN: I am instructed by the President of the United States to place this paper in your hands, with the information that, if you pass through the United States military lines, it will be understood that you do so for the purpose of an informal conference, on the basis of the letter, a copy of which is on the reverse side of this sheet [Lincoln's “one common country” letter to Blair], and that, if you choose to pass on such understanding, and so notify me in writing, I will procure the commanding general to pass you through the lines and to Fortress Monroe, under such military precautions as he may deem prudent, and at which place you will be met in due time by some person, or persons, for the purpose of such informal conference; and further, that you shall have protection, safe conduct, and safe return in all events.

 

When the Southerners had read it, Eckert asked them point blank if they accepted it. Lincoln's “one common country” letter was nothing new to them. Davis had given them copies. They had read it, reread it, and discussed it ever since. They had probably dreamed about it. Now they played for time. They would like to consider it, they said. Lincoln's instructions having anticipated this, Eckert followed them to the letter. He would come back soon for a written reply.

The commissioners concluded that the only written answer they could give was Davis's mandate to secure “peace to the two countries.” Regrettably, the time had come to reveal it. They softened it as best they could with a cover note of their own, which included this:

 

The substantial object to be obtained by the informal conference is to ascertain upon what terms the existing war can be terminated honorably. Our instructions contemplate a personal interview between President Lincoln and ourselves at Washington City, but with this explanation we are ready to meet any person or persons that President Lincoln may appoint, at such place as he may designate. Our earnest desire is that a just and honorable peace may be agreed upon, and we are prepared to receive or to submit propositions which may possibly lead to the attainment of that end. Very respectfully yours, Alexander H. Stephens, R. M. T. Hunter, John A. Campbell

 

At about six o'clock, Eckert walked back to the
Martin
with General Grant. If he tried to keep Grant away, he failed. Night had fallen, and the five men gathered in the steamer's saloon by lamplight. The commissioners presented Davis's letter, accompanied by their own, and played their hand as best they could. It was not good enough. Eckert had no bend in him, and his orders allowed none. Stripped of the gloss that his negotiators had put on it, Jefferson Davis's position was clear: Far from accepting reunion, he insisted on two countries. Eckert told his envoys they could not proceed.

The Southerners did not give up. They wanted peace, they said, and to learn how it could be had. What could be lost by finding out? Stephens tried to dodge the fatal impact of both presidents' letters, Lincoln's
and
Davis's, one country or two. “Neither letter was accurate,” he said, for thirty-six countries were involved. Why not disregard the last few words of both letters? Eckert was unmoved. Since the commissioners crossed the siege line, thousands of Northern soldiers and dozens of Northern officers had been urging them on to Lincoln, but their lawyerly wits got them nowhere with Major Eckert, and their regional charm fell flat. Their position was “not satisfactory.”

As the major had feared they would, they tried to go over his head to the General in Chief of the Army. Hunter said to Grant, “We do not seem to get on very rapidly with Major Eckert. We are very anxious to go to Washington, and Mr. Lincoln has promised to see us there.” As Eckert later told it, he interrupted Grant when the general tried to answer.
“ ‘Excuse me, General Grant, you are not permitted to say anything officially at this time,' and I stopped him right there. I added, ‘If you will read the instructions under which I am acting you will see that I am right.' ” We can only imagine the general's face. As Eckert would have it, Grant stayed and listened for a while, then abruptly got up and left.

Alec Stephens had a more plausible recollection, recorded three decades earlier than Eckert's. When the major declared the commissioners' position unsatisfactory, Grant seemed deeply disappointed. “Mr. Stephens,” he said, “can't you modify the language of your reply to Major Eckert, and put it in acceptable shape?” Stephens wrote out a note:

 

To Lieutenant General Grant

 

Sir: We desire to go to Washington City to confer informally with the President personally, in reference to the matters mentioned in his letter to Mr. Blair of the 18th of January ultimo [1865], without any personal compromise on any question in the letter. We have the permission to do so from the authorities in Richmond.

 

Very respectfully yours, etc.

 

The first few words simply asked for a meeting with Lincoln on the subject of his letter, echoing Judah Benjamin, but what did “personal compromise” mean, and was it Lincoln or the commissioners who would not be making any? Alec Stephens was a careful lawyer. He did not draft ambiguities unintentionally. He was searching for a way past Eckert.

Stephens handed the note to Grant after he and his colleagues had signed it. The general seemed pleased. “That will do,” he said. It was meant as a command. The major did not obey it. He beckoned to Grant, and they left for several minutes. Grant surely argued that the gentlemen had dropped Davis's demand for two countries, even if they had not accepted one. What harm could a meeting do? Eckert no doubt replied that the gentlemen were to be sent packing unless they accepted reunion unconditionally, and this they had failed to do. With all due respect, the general had no say in the matter.

“He was angry with me for years afterward,” Eckert said much later, conceding that the army's greatest general since Washington himself had “some reason for chagrin” when “a mere major” overruled him in the face of the enemy. “But at the time I gave no thought to this feature of the case, remembering only my explicit orders, written and oral, from the President.”

When Eckert and Grant returned, Eckert told the Southerners that their mission was done unless they accepted President Lincoln's terms. If they changed their minds, they could tell General Grant. It was the last time they saw Major Eckert.

As Eckert left the
Mary Martin,
Seward was approaching Hampton Roads on the
River Queen,
not knowing whether the major had sent the Southerners through or not. When he disembarked at Fort Monroe, he sent a wire to Lincoln: “Arrived at 10 this evening. Richmond party not here. I remain here.” He wired Grant too: “I arrived at 10 o'clock this evening, and shall remain here to meet the persons from Richmond. Send Major Eckert here, if he is with you.” The Secretary of State was plainly expecting the peace commissioners, which would have emboldened Grant had he needed emboldening.

After telling the commissioners that their mission was over,
Eckert composed a wire to the president, which the City Point telegrapher sent:

 

I have the honor to report the delivery of your communication and my letter at 4:15 this afternoon, to which I received a reply at 6 p.m., but not satisfactory. At 8:00 p.m. the following note addressed to General Grant was received: [The commissioners' “without any personal compromise” note was inserted] At 9:30 p.m. I notified them that they could not proceed further unless they complied with the terms expressed in my letter. The point of meeting designated in the above note [Washington City] would not, in my opinion, be insisted upon. Think Fort Monroe would be acceptable. Having complied with my instructions, I will return tomorrow unless otherwise ordered.

 

Because Eckert's report barred any meeting at all, his assessment that the commissioners would meet at Fort Monroe was curious. He had seen how eager they were, and may have thought it worth noting. Then he wrote a second message, this one addressed to Stanton, twice as detailed as his wire to Lincoln:

 

In reply to the letters delivered by me to Messrs. Stephens, Campbell, and Hunter, they give a copy of their instructions from Jefferson Davis, which I think is a verbatim copy of that now in the President's possession. Am positive about the last two words [“two countries”], which differ from the ending of copy delivered by me [“our one common country”], and to which the President called my particular attention. After giving object of conference they add: “Our instructions contemplate a personal interview with President Lincoln in Washington, but with this explanation we are ready to meet any person or persons that President Lincoln may appoint at such place as he may designate. Our earnest desire is that a just and honorable peace may be agreed upon, and we are prepared to receive or to submit propositions which may possibly lead to the attainment of that end.” They say the ending of letter I delivered to them is the only objectionable point, and one that, in their opinion, should be left out of both the letter they bring and the one they received, adding, if they accept the latter, and terms are not agreed upon, it would be an acknowledgment that might prejudice the interests of the people they represent.

 

After writing his message to the war god, Eckert tried to send it. And now commenced
his
troubles. The telegraph line was down, so the major was told. Bad luck indeed. The line “was occasionally broken,” one of Grant's staff officers said, but “generally well maintained and made to perform excellent service.” The odds that it went down just when Eckert tried to use it seem small, let alone that it popped back up again when Grant sent a carefully crafted message of his own to the Secretary of War.

As the general well knew, Lincoln monitored his telegrams to Stanton religiously. He sent this one at ten-thirty, moments after Eckert was told that the wire was down:

 

Now that the interview between Major Eckert, under his written instructions, and Mr. Stephens and his party has ended, I will state confidentially but not officially, to become a matter of record, that I am convinced, upon conversation with Messrs. Stephens and Hunter, that their intentions are good and their desire sincere to restore peace and union. I have not felt myself at liberty to express even views of my own or to account for my reticence. This has placed me in an awkward position, which I could have avoided by not seeing them in the first instance. I fear now their going back without any expression from any one in authority will have a bad influence. At the same time I recognize the difficulties in the way of receiving these informal commissioners at this time, and do not know what to recommend. I am sorry, however, that Mr. Lincoln cannot have an interview with the two named in this dispatch [Campbell having fallen ill], if not all three now within our lines. Their letter to me was all that the President's instructions contemplated, to secure their safe conduct, if they had used the same language to Major Eckert.