Team of Rivals (99 page)

No other cabinet member went to the theater as regularly as Lincoln and Seward. Chase and Bates considered it a foolish waste of time, perhaps even a “Satanic diversion,” while Stanton came only once to Grover’s playhouse, with the sole intention of buttonholing Lincoln about some pressing matter. Seated with Lincoln in his box, Grover had been startled when Stanton arrived a half hour late, sidled up to Lincoln, and engaged him in a long conversation. Lincoln listened attentively but kept his eyes on the stage. Frustrated, Stanton “grasped Mr. Lincoln by the lapel of his coat, slowly pulled him round face to face, and continued the conversation. Mr. Lincoln responded to this brusque act with all the smiling geniality that one might bestow on a similar act from a favorite child, but soon again turned his eyes to the stage.” Finally, Stanton despaired utterly of conducting his business. He “arose, said good night, and withdrew.”

According to Grover, Tad loved the theater as much as his father. John Hay noted that Tad would laugh “enormously whenever he saw his father’s eye twinkle, though not seeing clearly why.” Often escorted to Grover’s by his tutor, Tad “felt at home and frequently came alone to the rehearsals, which he watched with rapt interest. He made the acquaintance of the stage attachés, who liked him and gave him complete liberty of action.” Tad would help them move scenery, and on one occasion, he actually appeared in a play. For the lonely boy, who broke down in tears when the appearance of Julia Taft at a White House reception recalled his happier days with Willie and the Taft boys, the camaraderie of the playhouse must have been immensely comforting.

U
LYSSES
S. G
RANT,
the hero of Vicksburg and Chattanooga, arrived in the nation’s capital on March 8, 1864, to take command of all the Union armies. A grateful Congress had revived the grade of lieutenant general, not held since George Washington, and Lincoln had nominated Grant to receive the honored rank. With Grant’s promotion, Halleck became chief of staff, and Sherman assumed Grant’s old command of the Western armies.

Grant’s entrance into Washington was consistent with his image as an unpretentious man of action, the polar opposite of McClellan. He walked into the Willard Hotel at dusk, accompanied only by his teenage son, Fred. Unrecognized by the desk clerk, he was told that nothing was available except a small room on the top floor. The situation was remedied only when the embarrassed clerk looked at the signature in the register—U. S. Grant and son, Galena, Illinois—and immediately switched the accommodations. After freshening up, Grant took his son to the dining room at the lobby level. His slim build, “stooping shoulders, mild blue eyes, and light brown hair and whiskers” attracted little notice until someone began pointing at his table. Suddenly, “there was a shout of welcome from all present, an immense cheer going up from the crowd,” who banged their fists on the tops of the tables until he finally stood up and took a bow.

After readying his son for bed, Grant walked over to the White House, where a large crowd had gathered for the president’s weekly reception. Horace Porter, a young colonel who would later become Grant’s aide-de-camp, was standing near Lincoln in the Blue Room when “a sudden commotion near the entrance to the room attracted general attention.” The cause was the appearance of General Grant, “walking along modestly with the rest of the crowd toward Mr. Lincoln.” Meeting Grant for the first time, Lincoln’s face lit up with a broad smile. Not waiting for his visitor to reach him, the president “advanced rapidly two or three steps,” taking Grant by the hand. “Why, here is General Grant! Well, this is a great pleasure.”

Porter was struck by the physical contrast between the two men. From his uncommon height, the president “looked down with beaming countenance” upon Grant, who stood eight inches shorter. The collar on Lincoln’s evening dress was “a size too large,” his necktie “awkwardly tied.” He seemed to Porter “more of a Hercules than an Adonis.” Yet Porter noted the “merry twinkle” in his gray eyes and “a tone of familiarity” that instantly set people at ease. Watching the two men together, Welles, who was also present, was slightly disconcerted by Grant’s demeanor, remarking on his lack of soldierly presence, “a degree of awkwardness.”

After talking with Grant, Lincoln referred him to Seward, knowing that his gregarious secretary could best help the general navigate the crowds of admirers shouting his name and rapidly descending upon him. So frantic was the cheering throng to draw near the conquering hero that “laces were torn, crinoline mashed, and things were generally much mixed.” Seward rapidly maneuvered Grant into the East Room, where he persuaded the general to stand on a sofa so that everyone could see his face. “He blushed like a girl,” the
New York Herald
correspondent noted. “The handshaking brought streams of perspiration down his forehead and over his face.” Grant later remarked that the reception was “his warmest campaign during the war.”

The president was delighted by the crowd’s embrace of Grant. He willingly ceded to the unassuming general his own customary place of honor, fully aware that the path to victory was wide enough, as Porter phrased it, for the two of them to “walk it abreast.” Lincoln’s reception of Grant might have been more calculated if he had thought the general intended to compete for the presidency, but he had ascertained from a trustworthy source that Grant wanted nothing more than to successfully complete his mission to end the war. “My son, you will never know how gratifying that is to me,” Lincoln had told J. Russell Jones, the emissary who carried a letter from Grant affirming that not only did he have no desire for the presidency but he fully supported “keeping Mr. Lincoln in the presidential chair.”

After mingling with the excited crowd for an hour, the indefatigable Seward and the exhausted general made their way back to Lincoln, who was waiting with Stanton in the drawing room. They talked over the details of the ceremony the next day, when Grant would be given his commission. To help him prepare his response, Lincoln handed the general a copy of the remarks he would deliver before Grant was expected to speak. Returning to his room at the Willard, Grant wrote out his statement in pencil on a half sheet of paper. When the time came the following afternoon to speak, he seemed, according to Nicolay, “quite embarrassed by the occasion, and finding his own writing so very difficult to read,” he stumbled through his speech.

After the ceremony, Lincoln and Grant went upstairs to talk in private. Lincoln explained that while “procrastination on the part of commanders” had led him in the past to issue military orders from the White House, “all he wanted or had ever wanted was some one who would take the responsibility and act,” leaving to him the task of mobilizing “all the power of the government” to provide whatever assistance was needed.

On Thursday, Grant journeyed by rail to the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac to consult with General Meade. Upon Grant’s return, Lincoln informed him that Mrs. Lincoln was planning a dinner in his honor that Saturday. When Grant begged off, arguing that he wanted to get back to the field as soon as possible, Lincoln laughingly said: “But we can’t excuse you. It would be the play of ‘Hamlet’ with
Hamlet
left out.” Still, Grant insisted. “I appreciate fully the honor,” he said, “but—time is very precious just now—and—really, Mr. President, I believe I have had enough of the
‘show’
business!”

Grant’s visit to Washington that March solidified his image as a man of the people. The public had already heard stories of his aversion to what Congressman Elihu Washburne called the “trappings and paraphernalia so common to many military men.” While the bill to establish the new rank of lieutenant general was being debated in Washington, Washburne recounted spending six days on the road with Grant, who “took with him neither a horse nor an orderly nor a servant nor a camp-chest nor an overcoat nor a blanket nor even a clean shirt.” Carrying only a toothbrush, “he fared like the commonest soldier in his command, partaking of his rations and sleeping upon the ground with no covering except the canopy of heaven.” Noting his preference for pork and beans, the
New York Times
speculated that caterers who had previously served “the delicate palates” of officers were “in spasms.” Everything Grant did during his four-day stay in Washington, from his unheralded entrance to his early departure, “was done exactly right,” the historian William McFeely concludes. “He was consummately modest and quietly confident; the image held for the rest of his political career—and beyond, into history.”

T
HE SPRING OF
1864 was “unusually backward,” Bates recorded in his diary. Trees that normally blossomed in early April did not “put out their leaves” until the end of the month. To those waiting anxiously for the army’s spring campaign to begin, it seemed that the “stormy and inclement” weather, which brought “torrents” of rain day after day, was nature’s attempt to forestall the inevitable bloodshed. Stoddard speculated that Grant was detained by the same “old enemy” that had stymied McClellan, obstructed Burnside, and allowed Lee to escape after Gettysburg: “the red mud of the Old Dominion.”

Lincoln remained convinced that in Ulysses S. Grant he had finally found the commander he needed. At a White House reception in late March, held in the midst of “the toughest snowstorm” of the year, Benjamin French reported that the president was “as full of fun and story as ever I saw him.” Three weeks later, on another stormy day, Lincoln was still “as pleasant and funny as could be,” entertaining an immense crowd of visitors at his Saturday levee. The following Sunday, he strolled into John Hay’s room, “picked up a paper and read the Richmond Examiners recent attack on Jeff. Davis. It amused him. ‘Why,’ said he ‘the Examiner seems abt. as fond of Jeff as the World is of me.’”

That Jefferson Davis was under attack in his own house was not surprising. In the spring of 1864, the Confederacy was “a beleaguered nation,” in James Randall’s words. “Finances were shaky; currency was unsound; the foreign outlook was never bright.” Though rebel convictions remained remarkably steady, there was “real suffering among the people.” A letter intended to be sent overseas fell into the hands of a
New York Times
correspondent. The writer, a Virginian, acknowledged the harsh impact of the blockade and rampant inflation upon daily life. “Refined and graceful ladies, who have been used to drink Chambertin, and to eat the rich beef and mutton…are reduced to such a state that they know not tea nor coffee, and are glad to put up daily with a slice or two of the coarsest bacon.” Furthermore, the “mass of misery” increased exponentially “as one goes down in the social scale.” Food riots had broken out in Richmond and Atlanta, and clothing was in such short supply that shops were vandalized.

Davis’s health gradually succumbed to the strain; his innate despondency deepened. Friends noticed a withdrawn air about him, and his evening rides were often companionless. Only the company of his wife, Varina, and his family let him truly relax and replenish his energies. Much like Lincoln, he spoiled his children, letting them interrupt grave cabinet meetings and enjoying their games.

Tragedy struck the Davis household on the last day of April 1864. Varina Davis had left five-year-old Joseph and his seven-year-old brother, Jeff Junior, for a few moments while she brought lunch to her husband in his second-floor office. Little Joe had climbed onto the balcony railing and lost his balance. He died when his head hit the brick pavement below. His parents were inconsolable. It was said that Varina’s screams could be heard for hours, while Davis isolated himself on the top floor. The “tramp” of his feet pacing up and down, recalled the diarist Mary Chesnut, wife of Confederate general James Chesnut, produced an eerie echo in the drawing room below. The relentless pace of the war allowed little time for mourning, for Davis understood, as did Lincoln, that it was only a matter of days before the spring campaign would begin.

By the first week of May, William Stoddard observed, Washington was filled with an “oppressive sense of something coming,” almost like the “pause and hush before the coming of the hurricane.” Although the trees were finally “full of buds and blossoms” and “a few adventurous birds” had begun to sing, “the day had no spring sunshine in it, nor any temptations to make music,” for everyone knew that ominous events were imminent. While confidence in Grant remained high, many people, Nicolay conceded, were “beginning to feel superstitious” about his prospects, since previous spring campaigns had “so generally been failures.”

Aware that communications would be sporadic once Lieutenant General Grant launched his assault on Lee, Lincoln wrote him a letter that Hay described as “full of kindness & dignity at once.” He conveyed his “entire satisfaction with what you have done,” and promised that “if there is anything wanting which is within my power to give,” it would be provided. Grant graciously replied that he had thus far “been astonished at the readiness with which every thing asked for has been yielded.” The final line of Grant’s letter illustrated the profound difference between his character and McClellan’s. “Should my success be less than I desire, and expect, the least I can say is, the fault is not with you.”

Lincoln had heartily approved Grant’s plan to move in three directions at once: the Army of the Potomac would strike Lee head-on, forcing him to retreat south toward Richmond; Sherman would move through Georgia from west to east, with the aim of capturing Atlanta; Butler, meanwhile, would move northeast against Richmond from the James River. “This concerted movement,” Lincoln reminded Hay, was what he had wanted all along, “so as to bring into action to our advantage our great superiority in numbers.” Still, on the eve of battle, Lincoln felt great “solicitude” for his lieutenant general, telling Browning that while he had complete confidence in Grant, he feared that “Lee would select his own ground, and await an attack, which would give him great advantages.”