Bloody Crimes (22 page)
His train stopped many times. He gave impromptu, unscripted speeches; greeted delegations of important officials; mingled with ordinary citizens; accepted tributes and well wishes; and participated in public ceremonies. Lincoln presented himself to his fellow citizens as a man of the people elevated temporarily to high office. For Lincoln, his inaugural train symbolized neither personal triumph nor glory, but the simplicity and integrity of the republican form of government established by the Constitution and laws of the United States. This journey represented a living bond between Lincoln and the American people.
Now he was dead. In their grief, Americans had not forgotten the inaugural train of 1861. Telegrams began to pour into the War Department from the cities and towns that had wished him Godspeed on his journey east four years ago, beseeching Stanton to send him back to them. Once the news spread that Lincoln would make the long westward journey home to Illinois, a groundswell of public opinion clamored for the government to re-create Lincoln’s inaugural trip in reverse. Edwin Stanton liked the idea. The assassination of President Lincoln was a national tragedy. But the American people could not come from all over the country and converge on Washington to view the president’s body, attend the funeral, or march in the procession. Why couldn’t Abraham Lincoln go to them?
It was possible. It would require a special train fitted out properly to transport the body, a military escort to guard Lincoln’s corpse around the clock to ensure that the remains were treated with the utmost dignity, coordination between the military railroad and the major commercial lines, cooperation between the War Department and state and local governments, and the resources and will to do it. Stanton believed it could be done. There was only one obstacle—the president’s
grieving, mercurial, and unpredictable widow. Executing this unprecedented plan would be impossible without her explicit consent.
Stanton broached the delicate subject with the first lady. Might she consider assuaging the American people’s profound sadness by consenting to an extended route that would take her husband through the great cities of the Union? From Washington, the War Department could divert the train north through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York State, then make the great turn west, passing through Ohio and Indiana and into northern Illinois, then make a final turn south from Chicago, down through the prairies and home to Springfield. This route would take many days to travel, longer than a fast run to Illinois. The exact duration of the extended trip would depend upon the number of times the train stopped for water, fuel, and public ceremonies along the way. Stanton promised that if she said yes, he and his aides would handle all the details. It would be his final service to the president who once called him his “Mars,” his god of war.
There was one more thing. The people wanted to see their Father Abraham, not just his closed coffin. They wanted to look upon his face. That meant an open casket. Mary had consented to an open coffin at the White House and the U.S. Capitol. But an open coffin at multiple ceremonies, all the way from Washington to Springfield, a distance of more than 1,600 miles? In warm weather, without refrigeration, it would test the limits of the embalmer’s art. Mary thought the idea seemed morbid and ghoulish, but a grand, national funeral pageant that affirmed her husband’s greatness appealed to her. She consented.
This epic train journey symbolized the importance of railroads in Abraham Lincoln’s life. From early in his political career, Lincoln believed the government should invest in “internal improvements” to advance settlement and commerce. In Illinois in the 1830s and early 1840s, that meant navigable waterways. His youthful experi
ences on the Sangamon River, of floating a flatboat down the Mississippi River to New Orleans, and of living in a small river town, New Salem, created in him an enduring fascination with water transportation. Indeed, he even patented a device to raise trapped vessels over shoals. Later, after he became a lawyer, Lincoln represented the Illinois Central and other railroads in a number of cases, earning substantial fees. In one dispute, the Effie Afton case, he had to choose between water and rail. A river vessel had struck and damaged a railroad bridge. Each side blamed the other for the accident. Lincoln represented the railroad. Trains were the future. He knew they were the key to conquering the American continent.
Still, years later, Lincoln retained his sentimental affection for waterways. When Vicksburg and Port Hudson fell to the Union, he rejoiced that “the Father of Waters again goes unvexed to the sea.” He enjoyed riding aboard warships and steam-powered paddleboats—joking to sailors that he was a “fresh water man” with little firsthand knowledge of the sea—and on the last day of his life he inspected ironclads at the Washington Navy Yard. And though in the White House he dreamed of mysterious journeys by sea, Lincoln had made the most important journeys of his life by railroad: to Washington after his election to Congress; to the federal courts in Chicago; east for political speeches in the 1850s; to New York City in 1860 to speak at Cooper Union; to Washington again as president-elect in 1861; to the battlefields of Antietam in 1862 and Gettysburg in 1863. And now, home to Illinois.
At the Treasury Department, George Harrington began adding up the number of people from the government departments, the military, civil organizations, and diplomatic missions who should receive an invitation to the White House state funeral. He divided potential guests by category, then tallied a raw count—630 people. He would worry about the individual names later.
Officials from various cities contacted Harrington and tried to influence the route of the train, or at least obtain White House
funeral tickets. In an April 17 letter from the collector’s office at the U.S. Custom House in Philadelphia, one official reminded Harrington that the president had in that city once vowed to sacrifice his life for liberty. Now he
must
come back: “It is the general desire of the Citizens of Philadelphia that the remains of President Lincoln should pass through this city and remain a day in ‘State’ in Independence Hall, on its way to Illinois. It was in this city and at Independence Hall that he raised the flag of the Union with his own hands, and expressed his willingness to be assassinated on the spot rather than sacrifice the principles of Liberty on which he conceived the government to be based. I trust that the wishes of our people will be gratified. Very Truly Yours Wm. B. Thomas.”
Unsurprisingly, New Yorkers proved quite assertive in announcing their participation. Typical was a telegram dispatched from New York to Harrington on April 17: “A committee of thirteen members of the Union League club on behalf thereof will attend the funeral of the late President. The committee will be in Washington at Willard’s Hotel tomorrow Tuesday by the morning train from this city. / Otis D. Swan / Secty of Union League Club.” And just in case Harrington did not get the message, the Union League dispatched another one to another assistant secretary of the Treasury, Simeon Draper: “You will oblige the Union League Club by notifying Assistant Secretary Harrington that a committee of thirteen members of the club on the behalf thereof will attend the funeral of President Lincoln at Washington Wednesday / Otis D. Swan / Secty of Union League Club.”
Attorney General James Speed forwarded to Harrington a silly telegram that arrived at the Department of Justice from Louisville on April 17: “A wreath of rare flowers for the bier of our loved & lamented President is sent by Express by the German Gymnastic Association of this city / [Signed] Phillip Speed.” It was absurd, as if the harried assistant secretary had any time to devote to something so trivial as the safe delivery of a particular arrangement of exotic flowers.
The letters and telegrams kept coming: “As chairman of the Com
mittee of colored citizens of Washington, who desire to participate in the funeral ceremonies of our late President and friend Abraham Lincoln I have to solicit the favor of being placed in such a position in the line of procession as you may assign. Hoping an immediate answer I am sir your humble servants, James Wormley, Chairman / G. Snowdin / H. Harris / Committee.”
One correspondent sought to exploit Lincoln’s death for commercial gain, urging Harrington to purchase mourning goods from a recommended source: “Washington, April 17 1865. / Hon. George Harrington, Assistant Sec. of Treas. / My dear sir:/ Allow me to introduce my friend Wm. S. Mitchell Esq. a merchant of this city who is desirous of furnishing articles connected with the funeral ceremonies. He is an honorable gentleman, and the best guarantee of his patriotism is the fact that he is a cherished friend of President Johnson. / I have the honor to be / your humble & obd servt / Daniel R. Goodloe.” The government would spend huge sums on funeral goods, but in the collection of voluminous bills and receipts compiled after the Washington events, the name of the enterprising William S. Mitchell cannot be found.
By nightfall of the seventeenth, Harrington still labored on the details. As soldiers prepared to carry Lincoln down the staircase to lie in the East Room, the War Department had still not finished organizing the funeral procession from the White House to the Capitol. The procession would begin in less than forty hours, and the final order for the line of march had not been printed yet. Officials were still making last-minute changes. Assistant Adjutant General Nichols tried to locate Harrington that night by writing to Maunsell Field, one of the Petersen house visitors, at the Treasury Department: “The Hon. Mr. Harrington directed the publishing of the order of the Funeral Ceremonies. If he is in the Dept. please ask him to cause the names of Messrs George Ashmun & Simon Cameron to be inserted with the names of the Pall bearers—if not in—please request the
Chronicle & Intelligencer to insert their names on the order under the caption of ‘Civilians.’”
While Harrington worked and planned, Abraham Lincoln spent his last night in the White House. He had lived there four years, one month, and nine days. He had reposed there in death for four nights.
CHAPTER SIX
“We Shall See and Know Our
Friends in Heaven”
T
wo days after the president died, the coffin was ready. Soldiers carried it to the second-floor Guest Room and placed it on the floor. They approached the president and lifted him from the table where he had lain since Saturday afternoon. The soldiers carried him to the coffin—it looked too small. The casket appeared no taller than the president. Lincoln was six feet, four inches tall, and the coffin was just two inches taller. They lowered his body into the casket, and it was definitely a snug fit. If they had tried to bury him in his boots, the body would have been too tall. The soldiers lifted the coffin and carried it down the stairs. Gaslights illuminated the silent, eerie journey. Noah Brooks described the scene: “On the night of the seventeenth the remains of Lincoln were laid in the casket prepared for their reception, and were taken from the large guest-chamber of the house to the famous East Room, where so many brilliant receptions and so many important public events had been witnessed; and there they lay in state until the day of the funeral.”
They carried the coffin to the center of the room and rested it upon the catafalque. It was magnificent, more impressive than any coffin Abraham Lincoln had ever seen—finer than the crude one he helped build for his mother when he was a little boy, finer than the simple one that buried the hopes and body of young Ann Rutledge, and finer than the child-size coffins for his sons Eddie and Willie.
In life Abraham had eschewed his wife Mary’s love of frills and finery. He would have never chosen such a stately and expensive coffin for himself. It had cost almost as much as he paid for his house at Eighth and Jackson streets in Springfield. He would have preferred the pine box they put him in at the Petersen house.
And the decorations. Lincoln had always laughed at Mary’s obsession with decorating the White House—as had the newspapers and official Washington. But no one who entered the East Room over the next two days mocked its lavish vestments of death. When the public and press saw it, they were so impressed they named it the “Temple of Death.” Lincoln, claimed one of his friends, had foreseen this tableau in one of his prophetic dreams.
Ward Hill Lamon recalled a small gathering at the White House a few days before the assassination where only he, the president, Mary Lincoln, and two or three other people were present. Lamon observed that Lincoln was in a “melancholy, meditative mood, and had been for some time.” Mary commented on his demeanor. Then the president spoke:
“It seems strange how much there is in the Bible about dreams…If we believe in the Bible, we must accept the fact that in the old days God and his angels came to men in their sleep and made themselves known in dreams. Nowadays dreams are regarded as very foolish, and are seldom told, except by old women and by young men and maidens in love.”
Mary asked her husband if he believed in dreams. “I can’t say that I do, but I had one the other night which has haunted me ever
since…somehow the thing has gotten possession of me, and, like Banquo’s ghost, it will not down.” Lincoln then narrated his troublesome dream:
About ten days ago, I retired very late. I had been up waiting for important dispatches from the front. I could not have been long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to dream. There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. It was light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, some gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. “Who is dead in the White House?” I demanded of one of the soldiers. “The President,” was his answer; “he was killed by an assassin!” Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which awoke me from my dream. I slept no more that night.