Chapter Fifteen
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed
“When the Hebrews were emancipated they were told to take spoil from the Egyptians. When the serfs of Russia were emancipated, they were given three acres of ground upon which they could live and make a living. But not so when our slaves were emancipated. They were sent away empty-handed, without money, without friends, and without a foot of land to stand upon. Old and young, sick and well were turned loose to the open sky, naked to their enemies.”
Fifteen years later Douglass was to say this to a tense audience, their large eyes, so bright that “freedom morning,” veiled again with pain. If only Lincoln had been spared! How many times in the months and years had they harked back to that towering figure and asked, “Why?”
It is true that Lincoln’s freeing of the slaves was a war measure, but with the enactment of that measure the President steered the Ship of State into uncharted waters. To whom could he turn for counsel? Not to a Cabinet dolefully prophesying disaster; not to a Secretary of War who had considered the occupation of Sumter by United States soldiers a deadly insult to the Southern states; not to a General who vacillated, delayed, quarreled and called his own men “a confused mob, entirely demoralized.”
Lincoln sent for Frederick Douglass. It was proof of how far and how fast he was traveling. He had no precedent. Everything the President read or heard in his day treated all colored peoples as less than human. He was born and nurtured in the church which said fervent prayers of thanks that slavers “tore the savage from the wilds of Africa and brought him to Christianity.” The unquestioned inferiorityof a black man was in the very air that Lincoln breathed. And yet he turned to Douglass.
He did not receive the dark man in the office of the Executive Mansion, but out on the back porch. There were times when the tinted walls, drapes and heavy rugs of the imposing house stifled this “common man” from the West. At such times he chose the porch, with its vista of green.
“Sit down, Mr. Douglass,” he said, motioning to a wide, easy chair. “I want to talk to you.”
Mainly he wished to confer that afternoon about the best means, outside the Army, to induce slaves in the rebel states to come within Federal lines.
“I fear that a peace might be forced upon me which would leave the former slaves in a kind of bondage worse even than that they have known.” Then he added, his voice heavy with disappointment, “They are not coming to us as rapidly and in as large numbers as I had hoped.”
Douglass replied that probably many obstacles were being placed in their path.
The President nodded his head. He was troubled in heart and mind. He said he was being accused of protracting the war beyond its legitimate object and of failing to make peace when he might have done so to advantage. He saw the dangers of premature peace, but mainly he wanted to prepare for what lay ahead when peace did come, early or late.
“Four millions suddenly added to the country’s population!” Lincoln said earnestly. “What can we do, Douglass?” Before Douglass could reply, the President leaned forward, his eyes intent. “I understand you oppose every suggestion for colonization.”
“That is true, Mr. Lincoln. Colonization is not the answer.”
“Why?”
“These people are not Africans. They know nothing about Africa—whatever roots they had have been destroyed. We were born here, in America.”
The President sighed.
“I realize our responsibility, Douglass. We cannot set back the clock. We brought your people here, we made them work for us. We owe them for all these years of labor. But the fact remains that they are alien and apart. Can they ever fit into the life of this country?”
Douglass spoke very gently.
“This is the only land we know, Mr. Lincoln. We have tilled its fields, we have cleared its forests, we have built roads and bridges. This is our home. We are alien and apart only because we have been forced apart.” Then he began to tell the President of Negroes who had been living and working in free states. He told of artisans and skilled craftsmen, of bakers, shoemakers and clockmakers; he told about schoolteachers, doctors, Negroes who, after being educated in Europe, had chosen to return.
Mr. Lincoln listened with growing amazement. Perhaps he thought to himself,If only all of them were like this man Douglass!But being the simple, honest soul he was, it is certain another thought came after,Few men are like this Douglass!
They sat together through the long summer afternoon, and worked out a plan. Other callers were turned away. “The President can see no one,” they were told.
They decided that Douglass would organize a band of colored scouts who would go into the South, beyond the Union Army lines, and bring the slaves together as free workers.
“They will be paid something. I can’t say what.”
“They will come, sir!”
From time to time Douglass scribbled a note of instruction for the President’s aides. Neither noticed the time. They were only concerned in mapping out a clear course of action. At last the President leaned back and the visitor gathered up his papers.
“From here,” Lincoln said, “we’ll move as we must. You will have to—”
His secretary came out on the porch. “Sir!” Lincoln nodded his head. “A courier has just arrived. He brings a communication from General Stephenson.”
Lincoln jerked himself erect.
“Show him out here!”
There was despair in the way the President pressed his hand against his forehead.
“It is bad news,” he explained. “Otherwise they would have wired.”
“I’ll go, sir!” Douglass rose to his feet. Lincoln’s tall form lifted itself. He looked out across the lawn without seeing it.
“Navy guns have been bombarding Fort Wagner for several days. We were planning an attack. Surely—” He stopped as the two men came out on the porch.
The courier was only a boy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform was streaked and spattered. He swayed a little as he bowed and extended a letter.
“General Stephenson sends his greetings, sir.”
Lincoln’s eyes were on the boy as his shaking fingers tore at the envelope.
“Why do you not come from General Strong?”
“General Stephenson is now in command of the two brigades.” He stopped, but the President’s eyes still questioned him and he added, “General Strong and Colonel Putnam have been killed.”
Then Lincoln looked down at the single sprawled sheet. His lips began to move, and some of his words were distinct enough for Douglass to hear.
“On the night of July 18 we moved on Fort Wagner ... the Sixth Connecticut, Forty-eighth Infantry New York, Third New Hampshire, Seventy-sixth Pennsylvania, Ninth Maine....” He read on, then cried out, “Douglass! Listen to this!”
“The honor of leading the charge was given to the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. I must report, sir, that these black soldiers advanced without flinching and held their ground in the face of blasting fire which mowed them down cruelly. Only a remnant of the thousand men can be accounted for. Their commander, Colonel Robert Shaw, is missing. We had counted on aid from the guns of the fleet—troops in the rear could not—” The President stopped.
Douglass’ breath had escaped from his tense body in a groan. Now he gasped.
“I must go—Forgive me. I must go to my wife!”
The President took a step toward him, understanding and concern in his face. “You mean—?”
“Our sons—Lewis and Charles—in the Fifty-fourth.”
Lincoln laid his hand on Douglass’ arm, then spoke quickly to his secretary.
“See that the courier has food and rest. Wire General Stephenson for the list.”
Then he was walking to the door with Douglass, his arm through his.
“Extend to your wife my deepest sympathy. I commend you both to God, who alone can give you strength. Keep me informed. You will hear from me.”
The news of the defeat ran on ahead of him. Anna was standing in the hall, waiting. He took her in his arms, and for a few moments neither spoke. Then she said, “There is no word—yet.”
Days passed, and they told themselves that no news was good news. Gradually names were made public. Horace Greeley hailed the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as the “black phalanx.” Newspapers throughout the North said that the Negro soldier had “proven himself.” Southern papers used different words to tell the story, but they verified the fact that it was black bodies which filled the hastily dug trenches all around Fort Wagner. They had come upon a white body which was identified as the commander. It was said the order had been given to “dump him among his niggers!”
Anna Douglass wrote a letter to Robert Shaw’s mother, who lived in Boston.
“The struggle is now over for your brave son. Take comfort in the thought that he died as he lived, that he lies with those who loved him so devotedly.”
And still no word of Charles and Lewis.
Douglass did not tell Anna about a letter he had written to Abraham Lincoln. But when the reply came, he showed her the enclosed note, which read:
To whom it may concern:The bearer of this, Frederick Douglass, is known to us as a loyal, free man, and is hence entitled to travel unmolested.We trust he will be recognized everywhere as a free man and a gentleman.
To whom it may concern:
The bearer of this, Frederick Douglass, is known to us as a loyal, free man, and is hence entitled to travel unmolested.
We trust he will be recognized everywhere as a free man and a gentleman.
Respectfully,
A. Lincoln,PresidentI. K. Usha, Secretary
August 10, 1863
August 10, 1863
Anna lifted her eyes in a question.
“I’m going to South Carolina.”
She pressed her hand against her shaking lips.
“They’ll kill you—too!” she said. He shook his head.
“Our troops are encamped on the islands in and about Charleston harbor. The regiments are mixed up. There are so many wounded that I can be a real help by straightening out the record. Many homes do not know.” And he kissed her.
She watched him shave off his beard. She gave him a large box of food.
“I’ll find the boys!” His assurance cheered her.
He did find them—each on a different island—among the wounded. Charles thought him simply another figment of his feverish dreams. Lewis had been trying to get word out.
The news ran along the cots and out into the swamps:
“Frederick Douglass is here!”
Their cause was not lost.
There were times that fall when strong hearts quailed. Criticism against Abraham Lincoln mounted. Finally it became clear that Lincoln would not be re-elected by the politicians, the bankers, big business, or the press. The campaign of 1864 was, therefore, waged in country stores, at crossroads, from the backs of carts driving along city streets, in public squares and on church steps.
The young Republican party now had to face a completely united Democratic party which came forward with the story that the war was a failure. They chose the dismissed General George B. McClellan as their candidate and wrapped him in the ambiguous mist of an abused hero. But they reckoned without the inspired tactics of his successor, Ulysses S. Grant. The tide turned. “Lincoln’s man” was doing the job. Now Sherman was “marching to the sea,” and the backbone of the Confederacy was broken.
The people returned Abraham Lincoln to the White House.
With Lincoln safe, Douglass took the stump for the strengthening of the Emancipation Proclamation. The next step was to pass the Thirteenth Amendment, abolishing slavery by law.
In October, Douglass and John Langston called a National Convention of Colored Men for a four-day session in Syracuse. People still could not believe that the war would end in complete emancipation of all slaves. Douglass called upon this convention of free artisans, craftsmen and laborers in the free Northern states to take their place inside the governmental framework.
“Events more mighty than men—eternal Providence, all-wide and all-controlling,” he told them, “have placed us in new relations to the government and the government to us. What that government is to us today, and what it will be tomorrow, is made evident by a very few facts. Look at them, colored men. Slavery in the District of Columbia is abolished forever; slavery in all the territories of the United States is abolished forever; the foreign slave trade, with its ten thousandrevolting abominations, is rendered impossible; slavery in ten states of the Union is abolished forever; slavery in the five remaining states is as certain to follow the same fate as the night is to follow the day. The independence of Haiti is recognized; her minister sits beside our “Prime Minister,” Mr. Seward, and dines at his table in Washington, while colored men are excluded from the cars in Philadelphia ... a black man’s complexion in Washington, in the presence of the Federal government, is less offensive than in the City of Brotherly Love. Citizenship is no longer denied us under this government.”
The minutes of the convention were sent to President Lincoln. In December Lincoln laid the Thirteenth Amendment before Congress, and in January, 1865, slavery was forever abolished from any part of the United States “or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”
Tirelessly, ceaselessly, Lincoln weighed every move he made. No harsh words, no condemnation—he recognized human weakness. “Ourresponsibility,” he said. Not the South’s alone, not merely the slaveholder’s. He did not cant of “sins” and “virtues.”
He read the appeal addressed to Governor Shepley by the “free men of color” in New Orleans, asking to be allowed to “register and vote.” They reminded him of their defense of New Orleans against the British under General Jackson, and declared their present loyalty to the Union. In March he wrote the following letter to the newly elected Governor Hahn:
Executive Mansion,WashingtonMarch 13, 1864Honorable Michael HahnMy dear Sir: In congratulating you on having fixed your name in history as the first Free State Governor of Louisiana, now you are about to have a convention which, among other things, will probably define the elective franchise, I barely suggest, for your private consideration, whether some of the colored people may not be let on, as for instance, the very intelligent, and especially those who have fought gallantly in our ranks. They would probably help in some trying time in the future to keep the jewel of Liberty in the family of freedom. But this is only suggestion, not to the public, but to you alone.Truly yours,A. Lincoln[20]
Executive Mansion,WashingtonMarch 13, 1864
Honorable Michael Hahn
My dear Sir: In congratulating you on having fixed your name in history as the first Free State Governor of Louisiana, now you are about to have a convention which, among other things, will probably define the elective franchise, I barely suggest, for your private consideration, whether some of the colored people may not be let on, as for instance, the very intelligent, and especially those who have fought gallantly in our ranks. They would probably help in some trying time in the future to keep the jewel of Liberty in the family of freedom. But this is only suggestion, not to the public, but to you alone.
Truly yours,
A. Lincoln[20]
Long afterward Douglass wondered if it was some awful presentiment that made his heart so heavy on the second Inauguration Day. Abraham Lincoln’s voice lacked the resonance and liquid sweetness with which men stirred vast audiences. He spoke slowly, carefully, as if each word were a gift of himself to them—his last words to his people.
“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
A blackness engulfed Douglass for a time. He was unconscious of having pushed forward. The ceremonies over, there was jostling and movement all around him. Then over the heads of all the crowd, he saw President Lincoln looking at him—he saw his face light up with a smile of welcome. Douglass started toward him when he was stopped by something else. Andrew Johnson, the Vice-President, stood beside Lincoln.
“Mr. Lincoln touched Mr. Johnson and pointed me out to him,” Douglass wrote, describing the incident. “The first expression which came to his face, and which I think was the true index of his heart, was one of bitter contempt and aversion. Seeing that I observed him, he tried to assume a more friendly appearance, but it was too late; it is useless to close the door when all within has been seen. His first glance was the frown of the man; the second was the bland and sickly smile of the demagogue.”[21]
He turned aside, again engulfed in gloom. “Whatever Andrew Johnson may be,” he thought, “he certainly is no friend of my race.”
The same evening in the spacious East Room, at such an affair as he had never in his own country been privileged to attend before, he tried to put aside his misgivings. He simply ignored the startled glances turned in his direction. His card of admission was beyond question.
Even in this most brilliant of gatherings, Frederick Douglass was an impressive figure. He was faultlessly groomed. His magnificent head towered over any crowd, and he moved with poise and dignity. It is no wonder that the President saw him standing in line among the others.
“Ah! Here comes my friend Douglass,” Lincoln said playfully.
Taking Douglass by the hand he said, “I saw you in the crowd today, listening to my speech. Did you like it?”
Douglass smiled, a little embarrassed. He had no desire to hold up the line.
“Mr. Lincoln, I mustn’t detain you with my opinions,” he almost whispered. “There are a thousand people waiting to shake hands with you.”
Lincoln was in an almost jovial mood that evening. He laughed softly.
“Nonsense,” he said, “stop a little, Douglass. There’s no man in the country whose opinion I value more than yours. I really want to know what you thought of it.”
Douglass tried to tell him. In the years to come he wished he had found better words.
“Mr. Lincoln, your words today were sacred,” he said. “They will never die.”
Lincoln seemed satisfied. His face lit up.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
Douglass rejoiced that Lincoln had his hour—an hour when he was bathed in joyful tears of gratitude. It happened on a soft, spring day in Richmond. General Weitzel had taken the city a few days before, with the Twenty-ninth Connecticut Colored Regiment at his back. Now on this April morning, the battered city was very still. White people who could leave had fled. The others shut themselves inside, behind closed doors and drawn shades. But lilacs were blooming in their yards.
It was a Negro soldier who saw the little rowboat pull up at the dock and a tall gaunt man, leading a little boy, step out. He waved back the sailors, who moved to follow him.
“We’ll go alone,” he said. Taking the little boy by the hand, he started up the embankment to the street.
“Which way to our headquarters?” he asked the soldier. The soldier had never seen Abraham Lincoln, but he recognized him. He saluted smartly.
“I’ll direct you, sir,” he offered. He was trembling. The President smiled and shook his head.
“Just tell me.”
It was straight ahead up the street—Jefferson Davis’ mansion. He couldn’t miss it. The soldier watched him go. He wanted to shout.He wanted to run—to spread the news—but he could not leave his post.
No conquering hero he—just a tired man, walking down the street, his deeply lined, sad face lifted to the few trees showing their spring leaves. All around him lay the ravages of war. Suddenly a black boy turned into the way and stared.
“Glory! Hit’s Mistah Lincoln!” he yelled.
And then they came from all the by-streets and the lanes. They came shouting his name, flinging their hats into the air, waving their hands. The empty streets thronged with black folks. They stretched their hands and called out:
“Gawd bless yo’, Mistah Lincolm!”
“T’ank yo’ kin’ly, Mistah Lincolm!”
“T’ank yo’! Praise de Lawd!”
An old man dropped upon his knees and kissed his hand.
They saw the tears streaming down Lincoln’s face, and a hush fell over those nearest him as he laid his hand upon the bowed white head, then stooped and helped the old man to his feet.
“God bless you—God keep you all!” Lincoln could say no more at the moment. They allowed him to move along his way, but by the time he had reached his destination as far as he could see the streets were black.
They waited while he went inside—waiting, cheering, and singing at intervals. When he came out he stood on the high steps and lifted his hands for silence. Many of them dropped on their knees and all listened, their faces turned to him as to the sun. He spoke simply, sharing their joy. He accepted their devotion, but he said, “God has made you free.” They knew he had come from God.
“Although you have been deprived of your God-given rights by your so-called masters, you are now as free as I am; and if those that claim to be your superiors do not know that you are free, take the sword and bayonet and teach them that you are—for God created all men free, giving to each the same rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
He went away with their voices in his ears. A few days later came Appomattox; and Lincoln, his face flushed, his eyes bright, his strength renewed by secret wells of energy, covered his desk with plans for reconstruction. Not a day to lose, not a moment. The wounds must be healed, a better, stronger nation rise.
The President called his Cabinet together for April 14, then senta wire off to William Lloyd Garrison asking him to go to Fort Sumter for the raising of the Stars and Stripes there. Garrison joyfully obeyed. With him were Henry Ward Beecher and George Thompson, antislavery men who could now rejoice.
The flag was raised, and singing filled the air; the waters were covered with flowers, and the guns fired their triumphant salute. They were on the steamer headed farther south when, at Beaufort, they were handed a telegram.
Abraham Lincoln was dead!
“I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.”