The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War (40 page)

As Pinkerton reviewed the details that morning, Judd had grave misgivings. He admitted that the detective’s plan appeared to be “the only feasible one under the circumstances,” but he sorely regretted that it would “doubtless create a great deal of excitement throughout the country.” Pinkerton saw no other option: “I assured Mr. Judd that I fully believed the course I had indicated was the only one to save the country from bloodshed at the present time.”

Pinkerton now realized that he wasn’t alone in this view. “I also learned that morning that General Scott and Mr. Seward had discovered some evidence of a plot to assassinate Mr. Lincoln,” he reported, though he could not resist adding that the New York detectives had not illuminated the matter “as clearly as my own men.” By the time Pinkerton learned of the parallel investigation, however, Frederick Seward had already been sent back to Washington “with just enough information” to prepare for Lincoln’s surreptitious arrival. “I told Mr. Seward,” Judd recalled, “that he could say to his father that all had been arranged, so far as human foresight could predict.”

*   *   *

THE LINCOLN SPECIAL PULLED AWAY
from the Pennsylvania Railroad’s West Philadelphia depot at 9:30 that morning, bound for Harrisburg. John Hay, unaware of what was transpiring behind the scenes, took note of Lincoln’s apparent distraction and reported him to be “so unwell he could hardly be persuaded to show himself.” In fact, Lincoln spent a portion of the long journey sequestered with Judd, who briefed him on the latest report from Pinkerton. The detective himself stayed behind in Philadelphia to complete his arrangements. As the train pushed toward the state capital, Judd’s secret knowledge weighed heavily on him. He told Lincoln that he “felt exceedingly the responsibility, as no member of the party had been informed of anything connected with the matter.”

By this time, an atmosphere of foreboding had settled over the train. Ward Lamon and Colonel Ellsworth could see that “something was on foot,” Judd recalled, “but very judiciously refrained from asking questions.” John Nicolay could not muster the same restraint. “Judd,” he said at one stage, “there is something
up.
What is it, if it is proper that I should know?” “There is no necessity for your knowing,” Judd replied, “and one man can keep a matter better than two.”

As the train neared Harrisburg, Judd’s resolve crumbled. Though he had promised his silence to Pinkerton, he now told Lincoln that the matter was “so important that I felt that it should be communicated to the other gentlemen of the party.” Lincoln concurred. “I reckon they will laugh at us, Judd,” he said, “but you had better get them together.”

Pinkerton would have been horrified at this development, but Judd was resolved. “It was therefore arranged,” he said, “that after the reception at the State House had taken place, and before they sat down to dinner, the matter should be fully laid before the following gentlemen of the party: Judge David Davis, Colonel Sumner, Major David Hunter, Captain John Pope and Ward H. Lamon.” Looking back on Judd’s decision in later years, Pinkerton attempted to strike a diplomatic note. The full weight of the responsibility, he said, had been too much for one man.

Arriving in Harrisburg at 1:30
P.M.
, Lincoln made his way to the city’s capitol building for an address to the Pennsylvania General Assembly. Of all present, only Judd and Lincoln himself knew that it would be the final speech of the long inaugural journey. Once again, Lincoln seized the moment, spinning a deceptively simple anecdote into a masterly statement of national unity and resolve:

This morning I was, for the first time, allowed the privilege of standing in Old Independence Hall. Our friends had provided a magnificent flag of our country, and they had arranged it so that I was given the honor of raising it to the head of its staff, and when it went up I was pleased that it went to its place by the strength of my own feeble arm. When, according to the arrangement, the cord was pulled, and it flaunted gloriously to the wind, without an accident, in the bright glowing sunshine of the morning, I could not help hoping that there was, in the entire success of that beautiful ceremony, at least something of an omen of what is to come. Nor could I help feeling then, as I have often felt, that in the whole of that proceeding I was a very humble instrument. I had not provided the flag. I had not made the arrangement for elevating it to its place. I had applied a very small portion even of my feeble strength in raising it. In the whole transaction I was in the hands of the people who had arranged it. And if I can have the same generous cooperation of the people of this nation, I think the flag of our country may yet be kept flaunting gloriously.

Afterward, traveling to the Jones House hotel with his host, Governor Andrew Curtin, Lincoln made a surprising decision to take Curtin into his confidence, telling the governor that “a conspiracy had been discovered to assassinate him in Baltimore on his way through that city the next day.” Curtin, a Republican who had forged a close alliance with Lincoln during the presidential campaign, pledged his full cooperation. He reported that Lincoln “seemed pained and surprised that a design to take his life existed.” Nevertheless, he remained “very calm, and neither in his conversation or manner exhibited alarm or fear.”

On reaching the Jones House, it was announced that Lincoln had allowed himself a period of rest before dinner. Instead, as the reporters and well-wishers dispersed, he withdrew into a private parlor for Norman Judd’s emergency meeting. One by one, David Davis, Colonel Sumner, Major Hunter, Captain Pope, and Ward Lamon made their way into the room and found seats, all of them aware by this time that there was something very peculiar in the wind. Lincoln sat back and gave control of the meeting to Judd. He said little but listened attentively, as would become his habit in the White House, letting the others debate the matter before he entered the fray himself. “The facts were laid before them by me,” Judd recalled, “together with the details of the proposed plan of action.” Judd gave a tidy précis of the previous day’s meeting with Pinkerton, and revealed that Lincoln had agreed to break away from the inaugural party in Harrisburg and travel through to Washington—ahead of schedule—under the detective’s protection.

As Judd had expected, his fellow travelers were shocked by the revelation of a threat on Lincoln’s life. As the discussion continued, however, they were perhaps even more unsettled by the extreme measures suggested by Pinkerton. “There was a diversity of opinion and some warm discussion,” Judd allowed, “and I was subjected to a very rigid cross-examination.”

As the debate over Pinkerton’s proposal grew more and more heated, Colonel Sumner, the senior military officer in the room, offered a blunt appraisal. “That proceeding,” he said, “will be a damned piece of cowardice.”

Judd had expected this, and there was a note of weary impatience in his response: “I replied to this pointed hit by saying that that view of the case had already been presented to Mr. Lincoln.” Sumner would not be placated. “I’ll get a squad of cavalry, sir,” he said heatedly, “and cut our way to Washington, sir.”

In the circumstances, this struck Judd as empty posturing. Even if it were practical to exercise a military option, he explained with mounting irritation, it would be a time-consuming enterprise, and one that was likely to drag on past inauguration day. “It is important,” he said drily, “that Mr. Lincoln should be in Washington that day.”

As Judd and Sumner glared at each other, Judge Davis stepped in to take charge of the situation, displaying the instincts that would soon carry him to the Supreme Court. Judd would recall that Davis “expressed no opinion but contented himself with asking rather pointed questions,” reviewing the facts in a cool, methodical manner that succeeded in lowering the temperature of the room. At length, when Judd had been made to reiterate all of the salient points, Davis turned to the president-elect and cut to the heart of the issue. “Well, Mr. Lincoln,” he asked, “what is your judgment upon this matter?”

Lincoln sighed and gathered himself to speak for the first time. “I have thought over this matter considerably since I went over the ground with Pinkerton last night,” he began. “The appearance of Mr. Frederick Seward, with warning from another source, confirms my belief in Mr. Pinkerton’s statement. Unless there are some other reasons, besides fear of ridicule, I am disposed to carry out Judd’s plan.”

Davis turned to the others. “That settles the matter, gentlemen,” he said. The room fell silent. There remained one final point to be decided. Pinkerton’s plan allowed for one member of the suite to accompany Lincoln on the journey, along with the detective himself. “Now,” said Judd, “the question was—who should go with him to Washington?” Tempers flared once again as each man present began arguing his own suitability. In Colonel Sumner’s view, there could be no room for debate. Obviously, a military man would be the best choice, and he was the senior officer present.

Significantly, Col. Elmer Ellsworth was not in the room for these discussions. The young officer would undoubtedly have pressed hard for the position, being the only member of the party with any official designation as Lincoln’s bodyguard. As it happened, Lincoln’s train had been met in Harrisburg by a large delegation of Zouave soldiers, of the type made famous by Ellsworth’s own drill team. “The corps of Zouaves elicited special attention,” wrote Hay. “Colonel Ellsworth was in his glory.” Ellsworth may well have been off reviewing the Zouave unit during the conference at the Jones House, or possibly he was fulfilling a second duty that had been pressed on him during the journey—entertaining Tad and Willie Lincoln. In any case, Ellsworth’s fame would have made him a liability for the task ahead. He was nearly as recognizable as Lincoln himself. Captain Hazzard, who had been so prescient about the perils of Baltimore, was also absent from the discussions that afternoon. Although Major Hunter was present, and had spoken in favor of Pinkerton’s plan, he would not have been seriously considered: His arm was still in a sling after the shoulder injury he had sustained in Buffalo.

Judd attempted to quiet the debate by proposing Ward Lamon as a compromise candidate. The others made to object, Judd said, but “Lincoln agreed with me, or I should have been kicked out of court.” The burly, powerful Lamon, who had already done so much to protect Lincoln from the crush of unruly crowds along the way, never doubted that he would be chosen. There had already been discussions to that effect between Judd and Lincoln, he later reported, and “I had been selected as the proper person.” In Lincoln’s view, his wife would insist on Lamon, a man she knew and trusted.

Even now, Colonel Sumner would not be dissuaded. “It is against my judgment,” he said of the planned subterfuge, “but I have undertaken to go to Washington with Mr. Lincoln, and I shall do it.” The sixty-four-year-old Sumner, a veteran of the Black Hawk and Mexican-American wars, was perhaps not the most vigorous member of the party, but he was easily the most stubborn. His nickname of “Bullhead,” according to legend, arose from the fact that a musket ball had once bounced off his head with little ill effect. Such men are not easily deterred. “I tried to convince him that any additional person added to the risk,” Judd reported, “but the spirit of the gallant old soldier was up, and debate was useless.” As the meeting came to a close, both Sumner and Lamon expected to travel with Lincoln to the capital.

*   *   *

AT FIVE O’CLOCK THAT EVENING,
Lincoln sat down to dinner at the Jones House with Governor Curtin and several other prominent Pennsylvanians. Norman Judd was not at the table. He was said to be “giving personal attention to Mrs. Lincoln,” who had now been notified of her husband’s change of itinerary. Earlier, Lincoln had told Pinkerton that he would not be able to avoid bringing his wife in on the scheme. “This he said he could not avoid,” Pinkerton reported, “as otherwise she would be very much excited at his absence.” It appears that she was very much excited in any case. Though Judd and the other gentleman present that night declined to give any detail, it is clear that Mrs. Lincoln signaled her displeasure in no uncertain terms, and at such high volume that it threatened to give the game away. According to state senator Alexander K. McClure, one of the dinner guests that evening, “she narrowly escaped attracting attention to the movements which required utmost secrecy.”

At about 5:45, having delivered the unhappy news to Mrs. Lincoln, Judd stepped into the dining room and tapped her husband on the shoulder. Lincoln had already shrugged off one or two similar signals, as if reluctant to acknowledge the necessity of his departure. McClure would later claim that Lincoln had expressed reservations at the table that night. He recalled, perhaps fancifully, that Lincoln spoke with “impressive earnestness” on the subject: “What would the nation think of its President stealing into the Capital like a thief in the night?” Be that as it may, Lincoln now rose from the table and excused himself, pleading fatigue for the benefit of any onlookers. Taking Governor Curtin by the arm, Lincoln strolled from the room without drawing any particular notice.

Upstairs in his room, Lincoln gathered a few articles of clothing for the journey. “In New York some friend had given me a new beaver hat in a box, and in it had placed a soft wool hat,” he later commented. “I had never worn one of the latter in my life. I had this box in my room. Having informed a very few friends of the secret of my new movements, and the cause, I put on an old overcoat that I had with me, and putting the soft hat in my pocket, I walked out of the house at a back door, bareheaded, without exciting any special curiosity. Then I put on the soft hat and joined my friends without being recognized by strangers, for I was not the same man.”

A “vast throng” had gathered at the front of the Jones House, perhaps hoping to hear one of Lincoln’s balcony speeches. Governor Curtin, anxious to quiet any rumors if Lincoln were spotted leaving the hotel, called out orders to a carriage driver that the president-elect was to be taken to the Executive Mansion. If the departure drew any notice, he reasoned, it would be assumed that Lincoln was simply paying a visit to the governor’s residence. As Curtin made his way back inside, he was joined by Ward Lamon and Colonel Sumner, the latter in full uniform, both waiting to depart with Lincoln. Drawing Lamon aside, Curtin asked if he was armed. Lamon “at once uncovered a small arsenal of deadly weapons, showing that he was literally armed to the teeth. In addition to a pair of heavy revolvers, he had a slung-shot and brass knuckles and a huge knife nestled under his vest.” The slung-shot, a crude street weapon involving a weight tied to a wrist strap, was popular at that time among street gangs.