3
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LateSince many of our soldiers are fifteen or sixteen years old, I am aware that discipline is wanting, both discipline and stamina. Yet they fight furiously, build bridges, lay rails. They fight with their muzzle-loaders, cannon, mortar, bayonet. Most of them had never heard a gun fired except while out hunting. In a grim sense we are witnessing a youth crusade against injustice. For $13.00 a month they are fighting a man’s war. And dying is a man’s job. Poor children, crawling out of some entrenchment, they fraternize during a lull—swap tobacco for coffee. They soon learn that our hospitals are dangerous places. Tents. Barns. Churches. Sheds.We accepted this war for a worthy objective, and the war will end when that goal has been attained. We must succeed. This war has taken four years! It was begun or accepted to restore national authority over the whole national domain. Yes, we must succeed.The White HouseOfficeThe pigeonholes of my desk contain reports of disgraced militiamen, unfortunate prisoners of war, civilian and military spies, reports that demand that ultimate yes or no. I study these reports, I weigh each one carefully; some two thousand reach me every month. Across the Potomac River, as I write, I hear gunfire, Virginia gunfire. Perhaps this is Butcher Day—our men are facing a Confederate firing squad.I am reprimanded. Officers protest I weaken army morale when I commute a death sentence. Yesterday I pardoned William Scott, Vermonter, Company L, who fell asleep while on sentinel duty at a Potomac bridge. Nineteen years old, a farm boy, he was undoubtedly accustomed to going to bed at dusk. I rode to the Potomac River Camp and found Scott handcuffed in his tent.“Boy,” I said, “I’m going to send you back to Company L.”Boys can do us more good above ground. If a man had more than one life to live, I believe a little hanging would not hurt him too much...but he has one life.Nothing exhausts me more than death sentences, death warrants, death. Young life is priceless. There are thirty million people involved in this war. Youth must be considered, if we are to survive.I want to write something about my old friend, the Virginian, Ward Hill Lamon, of Danville days. Hill is my volunteer guardian, spy, Rabelaisian crony, scribe. Time and again he bundles up and sleeps all night in the hall outside my bedroom door, a derringer at hand. He is constantly alarmed I may be assassinated. He upbraids me when I ride alone in the White House carriage.“That stupid coachman can’t look after you... I want a dozen or half-dozen cavalrymen to attend you.”Evenings, Hill may appear and size me up, and sing a sad little song or a bobtail-nag melody, thrumming his banjo. Husky, courageous, he befriends me every day. Breakfasting together, he has a kernel of advice for me, I’m sure.I have borrowed his hat, borrowed his cloak, but not his boots.“As President, it is incumbent on you to look after your own boots and your own umbrellas,” he says.As warden he has problems with both North and South; it aggravates him when he has to confer with me; he wants to be the little eagle. On our frequent visits to the hospitals he is always sympathetic. “Somebody’s Wallace,” he says, remembering one of my stories. Playing his banjo he will sing “Picayune Butler,” his southern accent warm and beautiful, delighting the sick and wounded.Often, late at night, we talk of Danville, circuit friends, horses; he is adept at driving off my melancholia.“The war is going to end soon,” he prophesizes. “It has to end soon...it’s hard to get hold of new banjo strings.”The White HouseJanuary 5, 1865So, another year has come into being.“Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, waiting for the war to cease...”For days I have been remembering that song. Yesterday, as I rode in the barouche, the melody kept time to the trotting of the horses.Wind and sun helped, as we rode.Alone, I was able to commune with nature, able to consider the Potomac, the trees along its banks, the finished dome of the capitol, the monument to George Washington. For a while I was able to survey the property, measure it, plan a city layout.The barouche horses are bays, a young pair, well-trained, handsomely harnessed. My driver is a stalwart from Rhode Island; he says he used to work in a cotton mill; now, he looks forward to a job in a warmer climate.We talk about the chestnuts and the oaks; for a mill worker he is well-informed about trees; suddenly, our drive is over.LateNightmares occur.I sit up in bed and recall in vivid detail scenes I have never witnessed, men dying under artillery and rifle fire, tent amputations, men struggling across a muddy, swollen river, a firing squad where men are shot down as I sit in a rocking chair.I say nothing to anyone about these dreams but they are a weight to my world.Lately, it is difficult to eat; I forget or refuse my lunch on its tray; coffee helps. I long to get away for a week or ten days.Sunday—windy and cool—A heavy hog to hold, this war.Sometimes people in Kentucky are loyal to the Union; sometimes not; it depends on whether General Lee has lost or won a battle.Men find me lacking as the nation’s attorney. Some demand that I plot the future. I remember that the pilots on our western rivers steer from point to point—as they call it—setting the course of the boat no farther than they can see. That is how I propose to handle some of the problems set before me.I seldom forget that it is a momentous thing to be the instrument for the liberation of a race.I look out of the window, at the statue of Thomas Jefferson on the lawn; it puts me in mind of that lonely bronze figure atop the White House dome, a woman, symbol of liberty, visible for miles—cast by slave labor.Was Jefferson’s statue cast by slaves?Monday—windy and cool—There are something like a thousand deserters every month, Northern men and Southern men. I see them being marched through the city, all kinds, bareheaded, with caps, hats, with bandaged heads, with bandanas, handsome fellows, sickly fellows, wounded men, dirty, most of them in worn-out uniforms—miles of men mixed with leather, steel, horses, guns, wagons, riders, guards.450,000 widows and mothers have lost their men.White HouseJanuary 10, 1865How well some officers understand one another, with a hem and a haw, with a nod or lifted hand. They are masters of military deception, just as politicians are masters of ambiguity. The colonels have their lingo; the majors have theirs.I confront them with a plan of action. They bow over a map. Immediately, I sense that their secret codes are in operation. They guess that I am suspicious; I see that when a lieutenant touches the general’s knee. I decline the general’s offer of a cigar; he has forgotten I do not smoke. The men light up. Smoke hovers over the map. Brady appears. He wants to take some photographs. Some men sit, some stand. All the time the subtle deceptions continue. It is my job, as Commander-in-Chief, to ferret out honesty and promote it.Troops are marching by.Drums.There is no room for humor.The White HouseJanuary 12, 1865Behind a hospital, the other day, I saw a wheelbarrow filled with amputated hands, arms, and legs.I walked up close to the barrow, uncertain what I saw there. A hand reached out for my hand.I held that hand. The stiff fingers were those of a farmer—a man from Tennessee or Illinois, a corn-husker’s hand.I saw a boy’s hand next to the farmer’s.I wanted to put those amputated pieces back in their proper world. All those pieces, the hands, legs, feet, wanted to return to the woods, the prairie, the barns, the canoes, the plantations.As I write down these words my hands are not steady.The White HouseJanuary 20, 1865A month or so ago, I wrote General Grant on behalf of Robert. Now that Robert has graduated from Harvard, he insists on joining the army. I agree. Grant has replied and has given him a captain’s commission, and he is to become a member of Grant’s personal staff. Robert has not written me; perhaps he had learned of his mother’s parental concern and has included me as an obstructionist. Now he is less likely to be bayoneted or blown to shreds while on the General’s staff.Another of Mary’s brothers has been killed in action. Her fears for Robert are understandable.I must impress her that fewer White House levees are in order. I realize it was proper to honor Prince Napoleon but there are few such obligations. I shun ostentation. We have no right to ostentation these war times. That money that goes into ostentation can go into blankets for the soldiers.A calm eveningLate“Devoutly to be wished”...to have a woman, enjoy her physically; yet preserve essential private values.A helpmeet, yes, but it has been my misfortune to never encounter such a woman who was also a woman.Early in life, at East Salem, I learned about the unhappiness of others.Misguided lives are powerful guideposts.In the wilderness I found something mystic, something out of self for self. It taught me to be legally self.In Springfield, I studied its citizens, its girls and women; I found that being an outsider was wise.My wisdom is indeed my misfortune.The White House2/15/65Yesterday a woman came to me, crying, sobbing, pleading for the release of one of her sons from service, since her husband and three sons were in the army.I wrote a discharge for one of her sons and gave her instructions where to go and what to say, to get her lad released.She found the military camp, regiment, company; she found her son wounded, dying in a nearby hospital. After his death she begged:“Mr. President, will you give me the next one of my boys?” Again she produced official papers.“I have just lost a son... I have another,” I managed to say. As she stood beside my chair I wrote a release; as I wrote she placed her hand on my head and smoothed my hair with a mother’s touch.When I gave her the document she ran sobbing, crying her thanks.The White House2/18/65Again I admit that dreams have perplexed me. I also think them significant if we can interpret them properly.Last week I had a dream that has haunted me ever since. After it occurred I opened the Bible. Strange as it may seem, it was at the 28th chapter ofGenesis,which relates the wonderful dream of Jacob. I turned to other passages... I seemed to encounter a vision wherever I looked.I should not have related the dream to Mary but the thing got possession of me, and, like Banquo’s ghost, it would not down.As I told her I felt something grabbing at my throat.About ten days ago I went to bed late. I had been waiting for important dispatches from the front. I was very weary and fell asleep as soon as I lay down. Then I 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 sobbing, but any mourners were invisible. I walked from room to room; every object was familiar. I was puzzled, alarmed. I kept on until I arrived at the East Room. There I met a sickening surprise.Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse, in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers acting as guards. Beyond the soldiers was a crowd.“Who is dead in the White House?” I asked one of the soldiers.“The President,” he replied. “He was killed by an assassin.”An outburst of grief came from the crowd.I woke...Mary was very disturbed by my dream; I gained nothing by telling her; in tears she threw herself on her bed.“Don’t repeat your dream to anyone,” she said.2/21/65How blustery, more like December or January; it will be raining soon.This morning, when it was more pleasant, I visited the Potomac Book Shop where Willie and I used to buy books. Here and there were a few soldiers. I was pleased, especially when one of them asked me if I would recommend a book ofpoetry.On my last visit I bought Pope’sEssayonMan.I noticed a British copy bound in morocco. At the Potomac I have acquired some Emerson, Wordsworth, Longfellow. I picked up a copy ofLeaves of Grass, but it did not appeal to me. The shop reminds me of one in Boston; I told the owner; he laughed: “The shop you mention belongs to my brother... I furnished this one with Boston pieces.”I hope I can get Tad to take an interest in learning to read. Willie’s enthusiasm did not rub off on him.Returning to the White House, one of our horses threw a shoe.February 27, ’65Hill tells me we have imprisoned a Confederate citizen who was delivering a £40,000 draft to the Southern forces. He also jailed a M. Louis de Bedian, who had letters of credit ($39,000), for the Confederate army. He has apprehended Charles Kopperl, Washington resident, who boasts that he killed Union soldiers. Obviously, Washington has strange, determined men.Some countrymen objected to Hill’s political imprisonments, and I am criticized, in turn. Again nepotism ghosts.Billy Herndon has walked into my office. Our get-together seemed as though we were in Springfield, in the old office. I threw out questions about friends; he had the answers. The weather favored us as we rambled around Washington, in the presidential coach. Together we explored the White House—Billy’s highpoint. We had dinner, with Tad at our table.Billy gave Tad a hand-carved pony express rider, in walnut. My books interested Billy. He thought my walnut bed a world’s wonder. “Is it really nine feet long!” The carvings on the headboard amused him, and the wooden nest with its walnut eggs, under my side table. We parted reluctantly.I wish I had ten men of his caliber to work with here. He went away quite shaken by the cost of the war. “How could it be...$2,000,000 every single day... Can our country recover such an outlay?”March 9thThe LibraryWe can not escape history. We, of this administration, will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the last generation.The great books in this room confirm this. The sun in the windows has promise.Spring is with us along the Potomac. Through my open windows I hear it.I wish I could place a sprig of lilacs on my mother’s grave.Tomorrow we will visit Willie’s grave, but we will leave Tad with friends. His new pony is coming in a day or two; that will make him happy. I bought a Shetland, brown and white.Mallards mix with small craft. There’s not a breath of air moving; life is making a turn.WednesdayAfter reviewing troops on Monday I had that dream. I was staring at myself in a mirror, a full length mirror. I was seeing myself double—double vision. This time I seemed to perceive myself as traitor. Traitor to what?Reviewing troops is an experience that shatters satisfaction. How can a man, a thoughtful man, watch men on parade and minimize the fact that some or all of those men will soon be dead or wounded? Or will maim or kill other men?Last Monday the troops slogged past in heavy rain.White HouseMonday morningThe signs look better. Peace does not appear so distant as it did. I hope it will come soon, and come to stay; and so come as to be worth keeping in all future time. It will then have been proved that among free men there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet, and that they who take such appeal are sure to lose their case to pay the cost.And then there will be some black men who can remember that with silent tongue, and clenched teeth, and steady eye, and well-poised bayonet, they have helped mankind on to this great consummation, while I fear there will be some white ones unable to forget that with malignant heart and deceitful speech they strove to hinder it.The White HouseSaturdayAgain I have visited the Patent Office, this time in the evening, after a tedious meeting. I was accompanied by my escort, cavalrymen with rattling sabers, spirited horses. At the Office I was struck by a vivid recollection of how it used to be, before the war, the rows of cabinets and cases, each containing models of inventions.Now cases and cabinets have been pushed aside or removed. Flush along the walls are row after row of wounded, as many as four rows deep, the wounded and their beds and cots reflected in dull glass doors.Lamps and candles gleamed and smoked among the soldiers. I shook hands, passing from row to row. I talked, sat down. Here were signs of resignation, flashes of courage and hope.Patent Office, I thought, you have a patent on suffering and death. As I stood, talking with doctors and nurses, they carried a man away.“There’s such a shortage of medical supplies,” a beautiful nurse exclaimed. “Isn’t there something you can do to help? Did you know there are 12,000 wounded in and around the city?”Note—Check telegrams at T. Office. See Seward and Blain.The White HouseMarch 20, ’65With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on 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 orphan...to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.That is my prayer.Something resembling peace came as I wrote.7 a.m.OfficeA lieutenant visited my office one afternoon last week, a thin ghost of a man. Sitting in a chair alongside my desk, he seemed to totter, to lean toward the sun coming in the window.He showed me pieces of bone that had been removed from a shoulder wound, laying them on my desk, in the sun.I talked with him for about an hour, questioning about his army experiences, his home...he is mustered out. Back to Albany.A soldier bumped into me on the White House grounds, swearing because he had not been able to get his pay; his crutch poked at the ground, his leg-stump jerked, as he talked to me.“Let me see your papers? Remember, I’ve been a lawyer and maybe I can help.”Jip is dead.March 28th, ’65Someone is singing outside my office, singing that old favorite, “Massa’s in de cole, cole ground.”Memories.I see the newspaper heading:5,000 COTTON BALES BURNED.Baton Rouge, last week bales were piled in the Commons, soaked with alcohol, and burned. At this date, bales are valued at $100.00 per bale.Another item, by the same reporter:Two flatboats, loaded with cotton bales, were floated down the Mississippi, at New Orleans. Soaked with alcohol, they were set afire...My little mulatto brings me my lunch; she bows and says:“Good day, mistaaaaa President...cawnbread...thais cawnbread on my tray...”March 29thI have gone through my desk today, weeding out.I have had a pigeonhole marked: A.That’s for assassination.I think there were about eighty ’nonymous threats in that pigeonhole. I have thrown them into the fireplace. I should have done this long ago. Some of the threats were made by persons who had never been to Washington, whose geographical knowledge would have led them to the stables rather than the White House. Some seemed to think I resided in the Washington monument. One person proposed that he assassinate me on the Presidential yacht. No doubt he felt that would please the press and general public.It is uncommonly chilly this afternoon; I think I will have a fire in the fireplace. We can have some oak logs to burn up the ashes of the assassins.General Grant and I have been on friendly terms for a long while. He likes to talk about his farming days in Missouri. He used to haul wood ten or twelve miles into St. Louis. $10.00 a cord. He is proud of his log cabin, which he designed and built, a two-story.At his HQ we sat under a tent flap and talked. He unfolded a letter from his wife and showed me his baby’s smudge print. Wife and son are two thousand miles away.I talked about my courtship days, and Grant said:“...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled: ‘I’m gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.’ After we crossed I asked her: ‘Would you like to cling to me the rest of your life?’ Or something like that.”We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any other...six foot six inches...then he talked about Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the one I got as booty...silver ornaments...It was good to get away from Washington.When I reviewed Grant’s troops, I rode his Cincinnati, a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits. I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing. They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six cannons, under fire all the time.Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant and I ride along, a woodland around us.After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant’s diary, written at Shiloh.Our General Grant sat on his horse and watched the enemy try to capture a hill. Men fought from tree to tree. A man near me has been shot while aiming his rifle, one eye is closed, one eye is still open. A corporal has been disemboweled by a cannon ball. Riderless horses are running wild. Trees are plugged with lead bullets. I counted sixty bullets in a small tree.I plan to collect personal accounts of the war; men must know.Mary Mitchell, a volunteer nurse, has written:The wounded filled every building and overflowed into the country around, into farm houses, barns, corncribs, cabins. Six churches were full, the Odd Fellows’ Hall, the Freemasons’, the Town Council room, the school. I saw men with cloths about their heads, about their feet, men with arms in slings, men without arms, men in ambulances, carts, wheelbarrows.At the center of this autumn harvest stood the little white Dunker church, where the teaching on Sundays was that war is a sin. There the dead lay in gray and blue. In the fields lay thousands. Corn leaves over some of them were spattered with blood.Grant and I ride. There is mud on the horses. His officers crowd round. Grant helps me dismount. We talk. Grant speaks favorably of yesterday’s battle, speaks with a rasping voice, hand to his throat. Behind his chair lies a muddy saddle. It is cloudy, cold. A private brings a dispatch. Grant reads it and nods. I respect this man.Cabinet members reveal their excitement. Rumors. But the rumors may have solid foundations. Grant, they say. Sherman, he left to rejoin his army. His army will move. My secretaries believe in the rumors. Seward is optimistic. Hill waves his arms. Of course. At the telegraph office the men say “yes.” It is a kind of yes that could mean almost anything. The newspapers are reporting this same news.Mary has spent $2,000 for a gown. She has spent $3,000 for earrings. $5,000 for a lace shawl.She thinks I do not know about these extravagances. My previous efforts at control produce hysteria, hysteria that lasted for days.I remember Ann Rutledge.I order the brougham and drive.The April weather is fine.As the war draws to a close I remember that four million people have been involved in this struggle.I have heard from Robert but he reports that his mother’s letters are unbalanced. He has offered to bring them to the White House when he has leave. He says that her letters have been distraught for months. He is deeply concerned over her condition.EveningDeskDetails are coming in.General William T. Sherman, with his 60,000 men, has cut a swath across insurgent territory, a swath twenty to forty miles wide, and three hundred miles long.All day the news comes.All items confirm the success of his march.Sherman’s men have foraged off the country; their devastation of property has been extreme; miles of railroad track have been ripped up; rolling stock has been captured; his forces advanced ten or twelve miles a day. The Confederate press refers to his march as a scourge.Savannah—that was Sherman’s gift on Christmas.Now, across the nation, a million and a half slaves have been freed.Wednesday we went to Richmond by boat, a party of us, the day clear. Most of Richmond is gutted. Smoke is rising from burned buildings, buildings burned by the retreating Southern army. I walked a main street, holding Tad’s hand, our escort with us. Along both sides of the street were derelict people, blacks and whites, hungry people, uncertain what our presence meant to them.I walked into the capitol building, sat hesitantly at the desk of President Jefferson Davis. Sitting there, the escort nearby, I remembered a pubic statement made by Davis, that blacks are children, that slavery is their training school.In the streets we were met by cheering blacks; they wished to crowd around, realizing we meant no harm.I sent men to that hellhole, Libby Prison, where thousands of our men have died of starvation and disease and torture; they are to be freed from that tobacco warehouse cesspool.Riding in a carriage we saw the devastation of the city, ashes and memories. Five years ago today there were three million slaves.Palm Sunday1865In the salon of theRiverQueenI met with my guests as we sailed up the Potomac, the river calm and the air fresh. We talked of the ruins of Richmond, the looters, the burned buildings, the wounded in tent hospitals. I saw a general feeling of sympathy.During the afternoon, a military band played for us—the “Marseillaise” for my special guest, the Marquis de Chambrun; we had “Dixie” and Foster melodies for the congressmen and their wives.As we sailed by Mount Vernon someone asked me about Springfield: did I think of returning after my second term? I thought it proper to say that my home was no Mount Vernon but I looked forward to returning.The meals on our flagship were excellent. Tad was always hungry. Mary did not relish the food, or enjoy some of the guests. All of us know the war is winding down. General Lee has lost 19,000 men, as prisoners to Grant.I can’t remember when I have felt so encouraged.As I lay in my bunk I could see in my mind a tree that reminded me of great trees I saw as a boy, trees with great shadows. It is worth a man’s time to hold communion with trees. The trunk of this tree, seen on the river bank, supported layers of outgoing branches.Next morning I read to guests in the salon. I read fromMacbeth.I always find it relaxing to read aloud, though my glasses sometimes bother me. I explained how Macbeth suffered mentally after becoming king. I helped my listeners visualize the murderer. I read from the quarto, graciously given me by Dr. Bancroft.With Tad sitting at my feet, I read:...After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison,Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothingCan touch him further.The White HouseLibraryHere I attempt to find sanctuary, among the poets.Now I realize that Mary is going insane.Only imbalance could bring about such reactions; no one can forget her insults to Grant, to officers and friends at his headquarters. All this distress centered on an innocent pretty woman.For years I have detected imbalance in Mary. It has come into focus following Willie’s death. Hysteria, illnesses, doctors.I am puzzled why I have persisted in this diary. For a time it seemed fitting to write it for my sons; for a while I considered Mary. As President, I thought of posterity. However posterity should have a solid record, objective, and this record, written at odd moments, emotional, leaves much to be desired.While with Grant at the front lines, seeing men dead in the field, a man without hands dying, after seeing lifeless boys in the woods, I asked and I ask again, why do I add to these pages?For a while it seemed to me I was learning about myself and others through these jottings. With Mary’s decline I find more question marks here, question marks beyond war’s great question marks; these question marks began with Ann Rutledge, resumed in East Salem, continued along the Mississippi and on my legal circuits. For years they lay dormant in Springfield, in the Lincoln house with the green shutters.Executive MansionApril 4, 1865The capitol is decorated from dome to portico.Victory!Flags are everywhere.The weather is fine.The Treasury building has a huge bond picked out in lights. Cooke’s Bank has GLORY TO GOD spelled out in golden stars. Hotels, shops, restaurants are festive, I am told. Bands play “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle,” Irish tunes, Foster’s songs. Fireworks and rockets explode over the Potomac. Cannon boom.Horsemen, carriages, wagons, buggies, pedestrians...there isn’t a quiet corner in Washington!This morning, General Grant shook my hand sadly, hardly a victory gesture. I did not try to penetrate his mood.Tomorrow I am to speak to a crowd in front of the White House. I will try to envision a sane future. Rain is forecast. It will not matter, nothing is going to diminish the enthusiasm.Robert is due here tomorrow.Mary remains in her bedroom.General Lee has surrendered his forces at the McLean House, at Appomattox. Grant has permitted Lee and his men to return to their homes; they may retain their mounts. Lee pointed out that his army was holding a thousand Union prisoners, prisoners who have nothing to eat but parched corn. His own men amply supplied, Grant has turned over 25,000 rations to Lee’s men and fed the Union prisoners.As I write, fire engines roar, whistles blow, church bells ring.This morning there was a salute of a hundred guns.I spoke to a throng in front of the White House. The newspapers will carry my words but I also add them here, thinking to improve the text.Mary is ill...all very unreal.An end like a beginning can have a bitter edge.Let us think as brothers. The great rebellion, which we have endured together, must be forgotten. Now, starting at once, each state must be granted full privileges of the Union as soon as state governments can organize and as soon as 10% of its citizens have taken the oath of allegiance. It is our national goal to offer clemency and pardon as we attain peace, peace for our democracy. I will at once lift the naval blockade. I will urge Congress to appropriate $400,000,000 to assist the South in its economic recovery. Ours is no longer a nation within a nation; ours is a victory for all mankind.April 10, 1865EveningBeautiful sunsetNow that the war is over, Grant thinks we can reduce army expenditures by at least a half a million per day. We can reduce navy costs at the same time; this will bring down our national debt to something like normal proportions.I am cheered by such prospects.Peace is ahead and I will be exploring its possibilities intensively. It will be a pleasure to convene a cabinet meeting, to discuss economic changes, foreign relations, amnesty, rail expansion, and state laws. I find a new amicability in senate and house.In another two or three months it may be possible to have a week or so in the Adirondacks, the three of us.The White HouseSunday—lateMany have come to congratulate me on the cessation of the war, warm praise now that the union is preserved. Telegrams flood the telegraph office. Boys are always seeking me out, with their hands full of messages. I read newspapers with pleasure. Letters are piling up on my desk; my secretaries are complaining happily.Everyone in Washington is celebrating. There are parties in homes, in churches, schools, hospitals and public buildings. The White House has scheduled a gala. I am happier than I have been in years.I look forward to attending a play at Ford’s Theatre.I am told that it is a play full of puns. I am in a mood for something light.I am also told that we are having corn bread at supper.Note—Estimates:North –360,000 killed in actionSouth —260,000 killed in actionThe White HouseApril 14, 1865—rain—Mary invited Laura Keene, the British actress, to tea. She is in her forties—rather pretty. Dressed in dark green velvet she suggested something of quality in the theatre. She has her own playhouse in New York City. Her talk was mostly about her acting days in London where she produced and acted in foreign and American plays.She said that she is a friend of Taylor, the author ofOurAmericanCousin.“He has written over a hundred plays,” she told us.I spun a frontier story or two; she listened rather absently, her hands in her lap; Mary queried her about forthcoming New York productions; very abruptly Miss Keene exclaimed that she hated war; she said that slavery could have been abolished without destroying lives.When Tad bounced in she made over him. He took to her, laughing hilariously over her British accent as she asked him to solve a riddle.“Say it again, pretty lady,” he urged her.“I’ve heard good things aboutOurAmericanCousin,” I said. “I guess you already know that we’ll be seeing the play tomorrow night.”
Late
S
S
ince many of our soldiers are fifteen or sixteen years old, I am aware that discipline is wanting, both discipline and stamina. Yet they fight furiously, build bridges, lay rails. They fight with their muzzle-loaders, cannon, mortar, bayonet. Most of them had never heard a gun fired except while out hunting. In a grim sense we are witnessing a youth crusade against injustice. For $13.00 a month they are fighting a man’s war. And dying is a man’s job. Poor children, crawling out of some entrenchment, they fraternize during a lull—swap tobacco for coffee. They soon learn that our hospitals are dangerous places. Tents. Barns. Churches. Sheds.
We accepted this war for a worthy objective, and the war will end when that goal has been attained. We must succeed. This war has taken four years! It was begun or accepted to restore national authority over the whole national domain. Yes, we must succeed.
The White House
Office
The pigeonholes of my desk contain reports of disgraced militiamen, unfortunate prisoners of war, civilian and military spies, reports that demand that ultimate yes or no. I study these reports, I weigh each one carefully; some two thousand reach me every month. Across the Potomac River, as I write, I hear gunfire, Virginia gunfire. Perhaps this is Butcher Day—our men are facing a Confederate firing squad.
I am reprimanded. Officers protest I weaken army morale when I commute a death sentence. Yesterday I pardoned William Scott, Vermonter, Company L, who fell asleep while on sentinel duty at a Potomac bridge. Nineteen years old, a farm boy, he was undoubtedly accustomed to going to bed at dusk. I rode to the Potomac River Camp and found Scott handcuffed in his tent.
“Boy,” I said, “I’m going to send you back to Company L.”
Boys can do us more good above ground. If a man had more than one life to live, I believe a little hanging would not hurt him too much...but he has one life.
Nothing exhausts me more than death sentences, death warrants, death. Young life is priceless. There are thirty million people involved in this war. Youth must be considered, if we are to survive.
I want to write something about my old friend, the Virginian, Ward Hill Lamon, of Danville days. Hill is my volunteer guardian, spy, Rabelaisian crony, scribe. Time and again he bundles up and sleeps all night in the hall outside my bedroom door, a derringer at hand. He is constantly alarmed I may be assassinated. He upbraids me when I ride alone in the White House carriage.
“That stupid coachman can’t look after you... I want a dozen or half-dozen cavalrymen to attend you.”
Evenings, Hill may appear and size me up, and sing a sad little song or a bobtail-nag melody, thrumming his banjo. Husky, courageous, he befriends me every day. Breakfasting together, he has a kernel of advice for me, I’m sure.
I have borrowed his hat, borrowed his cloak, but not his boots.
“As President, it is incumbent on you to look after your own boots and your own umbrellas,” he says.
As warden he has problems with both North and South; it aggravates him when he has to confer with me; he wants to be the little eagle. On our frequent visits to the hospitals he is always sympathetic. “Somebody’s Wallace,” he says, remembering one of my stories. Playing his banjo he will sing “Picayune Butler,” his southern accent warm and beautiful, delighting the sick and wounded.
Often, late at night, we talk of Danville, circuit friends, horses; he is adept at driving off my melancholia.
“The war is going to end soon,” he prophesizes. “It has to end soon...it’s hard to get hold of new banjo strings.”
The White House
January 5, 1865
So, another year has come into being.
“Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, waiting for the war to cease...”
For days I have been remembering that song. Yesterday, as I rode in the barouche, the melody kept time to the trotting of the horses.
Wind and sun helped, as we rode.
Alone, I was able to commune with nature, able to consider the Potomac, the trees along its banks, the finished dome of the capitol, the monument to George Washington. For a while I was able to survey the property, measure it, plan a city layout.
The barouche horses are bays, a young pair, well-trained, handsomely harnessed. My driver is a stalwart from Rhode Island; he says he used to work in a cotton mill; now, he looks forward to a job in a warmer climate.
We talk about the chestnuts and the oaks; for a mill worker he is well-informed about trees; suddenly, our drive is over.
Late
Nightmares occur.
I sit up in bed and recall in vivid detail scenes I have never witnessed, men dying under artillery and rifle fire, tent amputations, men struggling across a muddy, swollen river, a firing squad where men are shot down as I sit in a rocking chair.
I say nothing to anyone about these dreams but they are a weight to my world.
Lately, it is difficult to eat; I forget or refuse my lunch on its tray; coffee helps. I long to get away for a week or ten days.
Sunday
—windy and cool—
A heavy hog to hold, this war.
Sometimes people in Kentucky are loyal to the Union; sometimes not; it depends on whether General Lee has lost or won a battle.
Men find me lacking as the nation’s attorney. Some demand that I plot the future. I remember that the pilots on our western rivers steer from point to point—as they call it—setting the course of the boat no farther than they can see. That is how I propose to handle some of the problems set before me.
I seldom forget that it is a momentous thing to be the instrument for the liberation of a race.
I look out of the window, at the statue of Thomas Jefferson on the lawn; it puts me in mind of that lonely bronze figure atop the White House dome, a woman, symbol of liberty, visible for miles—cast by slave labor.
Was Jefferson’s statue cast by slaves?
Monday
—windy and cool—
There are something like a thousand deserters every month, Northern men and Southern men. I see them being marched through the city, all kinds, bareheaded, with caps, hats, with bandaged heads, with bandanas, handsome fellows, sickly fellows, wounded men, dirty, most of them in worn-out uniforms—miles of men mixed with leather, steel, horses, guns, wagons, riders, guards.
450,000 widows and mothers have lost their men.
White House
January 10, 1865
How well some officers understand one another, with a hem and a haw, with a nod or lifted hand. They are masters of military deception, just as politicians are masters of ambiguity. The colonels have their lingo; the majors have theirs.
I confront them with a plan of action. They bow over a map. Immediately, I sense that their secret codes are in operation. They guess that I am suspicious; I see that when a lieutenant touches the general’s knee. I decline the general’s offer of a cigar; he has forgotten I do not smoke. The men light up. Smoke hovers over the map. Brady appears. He wants to take some photographs. Some men sit, some stand. All the time the subtle deceptions continue. It is my job, as Commander-in-Chief, to ferret out honesty and promote it.
Troops are marching by.
Drums.
There is no room for humor.
The White House
January 12, 1865
Behind a hospital, the other day, I saw a wheelbarrow filled with amputated hands, arms, and legs.
I walked up close to the barrow, uncertain what I saw there. A hand reached out for my hand.
I held that hand. The stiff fingers were those of a farmer—a man from Tennessee or Illinois, a corn-husker’s hand.
I saw a boy’s hand next to the farmer’s.
I wanted to put those amputated pieces back in their proper world. All those pieces, the hands, legs, feet, wanted to return to the woods, the prairie, the barns, the canoes, the plantations.
As I write down these words my hands are not steady.
The White House
January 20, 1865
A month or so ago, I wrote General Grant on behalf of Robert. Now that Robert has graduated from Harvard, he insists on joining the army. I agree. Grant has replied and has given him a captain’s commission, and he is to become a member of Grant’s personal staff. Robert has not written me; perhaps he had learned of his mother’s parental concern and has included me as an obstructionist. Now he is less likely to be bayoneted or blown to shreds while on the General’s staff.
Another of Mary’s brothers has been killed in action. Her fears for Robert are understandable.
I must impress her that fewer White House levees are in order. I realize it was proper to honor Prince Napoleon but there are few such obligations. I shun ostentation. We have no right to ostentation these war times. That money that goes into ostentation can go into blankets for the soldiers.
A calm evening
Late
“Devoutly to be wished”...to have a woman, enjoy her physically; yet preserve essential private values.
A helpmeet, yes, but it has been my misfortune to never encounter such a woman who was also a woman.
Early in life, at East Salem, I learned about the unhappiness of others.
Misguided lives are powerful guideposts.
In the wilderness I found something mystic, something out of self for self. It taught me to be legally self.
In Springfield, I studied its citizens, its girls and women; I found that being an outsider was wise.
My wisdom is indeed my misfortune.
The White House
2/15/65
Yesterday a woman came to me, crying, sobbing, pleading for the release of one of her sons from service, since her husband and three sons were in the army.
I wrote a discharge for one of her sons and gave her instructions where to go and what to say, to get her lad released.
She found the military camp, regiment, company; she found her son wounded, dying in a nearby hospital. After his death she begged:
“Mr. President, will you give me the next one of my boys?” Again she produced official papers.
“I have just lost a son... I have another,” I managed to say. As she stood beside my chair I wrote a release; as I wrote she placed her hand on my head and smoothed my hair with a mother’s touch.
When I gave her the document she ran sobbing, crying her thanks.
The White House
2/18/65
Again I admit that dreams have perplexed me. I also think them significant if we can interpret them properly.
Last week I had a dream that has haunted me ever since. After it occurred I opened the Bible. Strange as it may seem, it was at the 28th chapter ofGenesis,which relates the wonderful dream of Jacob. I turned to other passages... I seemed to encounter a vision wherever I looked.
I should not have related the dream to Mary but the thing got possession of me, and, like Banquo’s ghost, it would not down.
As I told her I felt something grabbing at my throat.
About ten days ago I went to bed late. I had been waiting for important dispatches from the front. I was very weary and fell asleep as soon as I lay down. Then I 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 sobbing, but any mourners were invisible. I walked from room to room; every object was familiar. I was puzzled, alarmed. I kept on until I arrived at the East Room. There I met a sickening surprise.
Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse, in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers acting as guards. Beyond the soldiers was a crowd.
“Who is dead in the White House?” I asked one of the soldiers.
“The President,” he replied. “He was killed by an assassin.”
An outburst of grief came from the crowd.
I woke...
Mary was very disturbed by my dream; I gained nothing by telling her; in tears she threw herself on her bed.
“Don’t repeat your dream to anyone,” she said.
2/21/65
How blustery, more like December or January; it will be raining soon.
This morning, when it was more pleasant, I visited the Potomac Book Shop where Willie and I used to buy books. Here and there were a few soldiers. I was pleased, especially when one of them asked me if I would recommend a book ofpoetry.
On my last visit I bought Pope’sEssayonMan.I noticed a British copy bound in morocco. At the Potomac I have acquired some Emerson, Wordsworth, Longfellow. I picked up a copy ofLeaves of Grass, but it did not appeal to me. The shop reminds me of one in Boston; I told the owner; he laughed: “The shop you mention belongs to my brother... I furnished this one with Boston pieces.”
I hope I can get Tad to take an interest in learning to read. Willie’s enthusiasm did not rub off on him.
Returning to the White House, one of our horses threw a shoe.
February 27, ’65
Hill tells me we have imprisoned a Confederate citizen who was delivering a £40,000 draft to the Southern forces. He also jailed a M. Louis de Bedian, who had letters of credit ($39,000), for the Confederate army. He has apprehended Charles Kopperl, Washington resident, who boasts that he killed Union soldiers. Obviously, Washington has strange, determined men.
Some countrymen objected to Hill’s political imprisonments, and I am criticized, in turn. Again nepotism ghosts.
Billy Herndon has walked into my office. Our get-together seemed as though we were in Springfield, in the old office. I threw out questions about friends; he had the answers. The weather favored us as we rambled around Washington, in the presidential coach. Together we explored the White House—Billy’s highpoint. We had dinner, with Tad at our table.
Billy gave Tad a hand-carved pony express rider, in walnut. My books interested Billy. He thought my walnut bed a world’s wonder. “Is it really nine feet long!” The carvings on the headboard amused him, and the wooden nest with its walnut eggs, under my side table. We parted reluctantly.
I wish I had ten men of his caliber to work with here. He went away quite shaken by the cost of the war. “How could it be...$2,000,000 every single day... Can our country recover such an outlay?”
March 9th
The Library
We can not escape history. We, of this administration, will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the last generation.
The great books in this room confirm this. The sun in the windows has promise.
Spring is with us along the Potomac. Through my open windows I hear it.
I wish I could place a sprig of lilacs on my mother’s grave.
Tomorrow we will visit Willie’s grave, but we will leave Tad with friends. His new pony is coming in a day or two; that will make him happy. I bought a Shetland, brown and white.
Mallards mix with small craft. There’s not a breath of air moving; life is making a turn.
Wednesday
After reviewing troops on Monday I had that dream. I was staring at myself in a mirror, a full length mirror. I was seeing myself double—double vision. This time I seemed to perceive myself as traitor. Traitor to what?
Reviewing troops is an experience that shatters satisfaction. How can a man, a thoughtful man, watch men on parade and minimize the fact that some or all of those men will soon be dead or wounded? Or will maim or kill other men?
Last Monday the troops slogged past in heavy rain.
White House
Monday morning
The signs look better. Peace does not appear so distant as it did. I hope it will come soon, and come to stay; and so come as to be worth keeping in all future time. It will then have been proved that among free men there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet, and that they who take such appeal are sure to lose their case to pay the cost.
And then there will be some black men who can remember that with silent tongue, and clenched teeth, and steady eye, and well-poised bayonet, they have helped mankind on to this great consummation, while I fear there will be some white ones unable to forget that with malignant heart and deceitful speech they strove to hinder it.
The White House
Saturday
Again I have visited the Patent Office, this time in the evening, after a tedious meeting. I was accompanied by my escort, cavalrymen with rattling sabers, spirited horses. At the Office I was struck by a vivid recollection of how it used to be, before the war, the rows of cabinets and cases, each containing models of inventions.
Now cases and cabinets have been pushed aside or removed. Flush along the walls are row after row of wounded, as many as four rows deep, the wounded and their beds and cots reflected in dull glass doors.
Lamps and candles gleamed and smoked among the soldiers. I shook hands, passing from row to row. I talked, sat down. Here were signs of resignation, flashes of courage and hope.
Patent Office, I thought, you have a patent on suffering and death. As I stood, talking with doctors and nurses, they carried a man away.
“There’s such a shortage of medical supplies,” a beautiful nurse exclaimed. “Isn’t there something you can do to help? Did you know there are 12,000 wounded in and around the city?”
Note—
Check telegrams at T. Office. See Seward and Blain.
The White House
March 20, ’65
With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on 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 orphan...to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.
That is my prayer.
Something resembling peace came as I wrote.
7 a.m.
Office
A lieutenant visited my office one afternoon last week, a thin ghost of a man. Sitting in a chair alongside my desk, he seemed to totter, to lean toward the sun coming in the window.
He showed me pieces of bone that had been removed from a shoulder wound, laying them on my desk, in the sun.
I talked with him for about an hour, questioning about his army experiences, his home...he is mustered out. Back to Albany.
A soldier bumped into me on the White House grounds, swearing because he had not been able to get his pay; his crutch poked at the ground, his leg-stump jerked, as he talked to me.
“Let me see your papers? Remember, I’ve been a lawyer and maybe I can help.”
Jip is dead.
March 28th, ’65
Someone is singing outside my office, singing that old favorite, “Massa’s in de cole, cole ground.”
Memories.
I see the newspaper heading:
5,000 COTTON BALES BURNED.
Baton Rouge, last week bales were piled in the Commons, soaked with alcohol, and burned. At this date, bales are valued at $100.00 per bale.
Another item, by the same reporter:
Two flatboats, loaded with cotton bales, were floated down the Mississippi, at New Orleans. Soaked with alcohol, they were set afire...
My little mulatto brings me my lunch; she bows and says:
“Good day, mistaaaaa President...cawnbread...thais cawnbread on my tray...”
March 29th
I have gone through my desk today, weeding out.
I have had a pigeonhole marked: A.
That’s for assassination.
I think there were about eighty ’nonymous threats in that pigeonhole. I have thrown them into the fireplace. I should have done this long ago. Some of the threats were made by persons who had never been to Washington, whose geographical knowledge would have led them to the stables rather than the White House. Some seemed to think I resided in the Washington monument. One person proposed that he assassinate me on the Presidential yacht. No doubt he felt that would please the press and general public.
It is uncommonly chilly this afternoon; I think I will have a fire in the fireplace. We can have some oak logs to burn up the ashes of the assassins.
General Grant and I have been on friendly terms for a long while. He likes to talk about his farming days in Missouri. He used to haul wood ten or twelve miles into St. Louis. $10.00 a cord. He is proud of his log cabin, which he designed and built, a two-story.
At his HQ we sat under a tent flap and talked. He unfolded a letter from his wife and showed me his baby’s smudge print. Wife and son are two thousand miles away.
I talked about my courtship days, and Grant said:
“...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled: ‘I’m gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.’ After we crossed I asked her: ‘Would you like to cling to me the rest of your life?’ Or something like that.”
We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any other...six foot six inches...then he talked about Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the one I got as booty...silver ornaments...
It was good to get away from Washington.
When I reviewed Grant’s troops, I rode his Cincinnati, a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits. I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing. They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six cannons, under fire all the time.
Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant and I ride along, a woodland around us.
After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant’s diary, written at Shiloh.
Our General Grant sat on his horse and watched the enemy try to capture a hill. Men fought from tree to tree. A man near me has been shot while aiming his rifle, one eye is closed, one eye is still open. A corporal has been disemboweled by a cannon ball. Riderless horses are running wild. Trees are plugged with lead bullets. I counted sixty bullets in a small tree.
I plan to collect personal accounts of the war; men must know.
Mary Mitchell, a volunteer nurse, has written:
The wounded filled every building and overflowed into the country around, into farm houses, barns, corncribs, cabins. Six churches were full, the Odd Fellows’ Hall, the Freemasons’, the Town Council room, the school. I saw men with cloths about their heads, about their feet, men with arms in slings, men without arms, men in ambulances, carts, wheelbarrows.
At the center of this autumn harvest stood the little white Dunker church, where the teaching on Sundays was that war is a sin. There the dead lay in gray and blue. In the fields lay thousands. Corn leaves over some of them were spattered with blood.
Grant and I ride. There is mud on the horses. His officers crowd round. Grant helps me dismount. We talk. Grant speaks favorably of yesterday’s battle, speaks with a rasping voice, hand to his throat. Behind his chair lies a muddy saddle. It is cloudy, cold. A private brings a dispatch. Grant reads it and nods. I respect this man.
Cabinet members reveal their excitement. Rumors. But the rumors may have solid foundations. Grant, they say. Sherman, he left to rejoin his army. His army will move. My secretaries believe in the rumors. Seward is optimistic. Hill waves his arms. Of course. At the telegraph office the men say “yes.” It is a kind of yes that could mean almost anything. The newspapers are reporting this same news.
Mary has spent $2,000 for a gown. She has spent $3,000 for earrings. $5,000 for a lace shawl.
She thinks I do not know about these extravagances. My previous efforts at control produce hysteria, hysteria that lasted for days.
I remember Ann Rutledge.
I order the brougham and drive.
The April weather is fine.
As the war draws to a close I remember that four million people have been involved in this struggle.
I have heard from Robert but he reports that his mother’s letters are unbalanced. He has offered to bring them to the White House when he has leave. He says that her letters have been distraught for months. He is deeply concerned over her condition.
Evening
Desk
Details are coming in.
General William T. Sherman, with his 60,000 men, has cut a swath across insurgent territory, a swath twenty to forty miles wide, and three hundred miles long.
All day the news comes.
All items confirm the success of his march.
Sherman’s men have foraged off the country; their devastation of property has been extreme; miles of railroad track have been ripped up; rolling stock has been captured; his forces advanced ten or twelve miles a day. The Confederate press refers to his march as a scourge.
Savannah—that was Sherman’s gift on Christmas.
Now, across the nation, a million and a half slaves have been freed.
Wednesday we went to Richmond by boat, a party of us, the day clear. Most of Richmond is gutted. Smoke is rising from burned buildings, buildings burned by the retreating Southern army. I walked a main street, holding Tad’s hand, our escort with us. Along both sides of the street were derelict people, blacks and whites, hungry people, uncertain what our presence meant to them.
I walked into the capitol building, sat hesitantly at the desk of President Jefferson Davis. Sitting there, the escort nearby, I remembered a pubic statement made by Davis, that blacks are children, that slavery is their training school.
In the streets we were met by cheering blacks; they wished to crowd around, realizing we meant no harm.
I sent men to that hellhole, Libby Prison, where thousands of our men have died of starvation and disease and torture; they are to be freed from that tobacco warehouse cesspool.
Riding in a carriage we saw the devastation of the city, ashes and memories. Five years ago today there were three million slaves.
Palm Sunday
1865
In the salon of theRiverQueenI met with my guests as we sailed up the Potomac, the river calm and the air fresh. We talked of the ruins of Richmond, the looters, the burned buildings, the wounded in tent hospitals. I saw a general feeling of sympathy.
During the afternoon, a military band played for us—the “Marseillaise” for my special guest, the Marquis de Chambrun; we had “Dixie” and Foster melodies for the congressmen and their wives.
As we sailed by Mount Vernon someone asked me about Springfield: did I think of returning after my second term? I thought it proper to say that my home was no Mount Vernon but I looked forward to returning.
The meals on our flagship were excellent. Tad was always hungry. Mary did not relish the food, or enjoy some of the guests. All of us know the war is winding down. General Lee has lost 19,000 men, as prisoners to Grant.
I can’t remember when I have felt so encouraged.
As I lay in my bunk I could see in my mind a tree that reminded me of great trees I saw as a boy, trees with great shadows. It is worth a man’s time to hold communion with trees. The trunk of this tree, seen on the river bank, supported layers of outgoing branches.
Next morning I read to guests in the salon. I read fromMacbeth.I always find it relaxing to read aloud, though my glasses sometimes bother me. I explained how Macbeth suffered mentally after becoming king. I helped my listeners visualize the murderer. I read from the quarto, graciously given me by Dr. Bancroft.
With Tad sitting at my feet, I read:
...After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further.
The White House
Library
Here I attempt to find sanctuary, among the poets.
Now I realize that Mary is going insane.
Only imbalance could bring about such reactions; no one can forget her insults to Grant, to officers and friends at his headquarters. All this distress centered on an innocent pretty woman.
For years I have detected imbalance in Mary. It has come into focus following Willie’s death. Hysteria, illnesses, doctors.
I am puzzled why I have persisted in this diary. For a time it seemed fitting to write it for my sons; for a while I considered Mary. As President, I thought of posterity. However posterity should have a solid record, objective, and this record, written at odd moments, emotional, leaves much to be desired.
While with Grant at the front lines, seeing men dead in the field, a man without hands dying, after seeing lifeless boys in the woods, I asked and I ask again, why do I add to these pages?
For a while it seemed to me I was learning about myself and others through these jottings. With Mary’s decline I find more question marks here, question marks beyond war’s great question marks; these question marks began with Ann Rutledge, resumed in East Salem, continued along the Mississippi and on my legal circuits. For years they lay dormant in Springfield, in the Lincoln house with the green shutters.
Executive Mansion
April 4, 1865
The capitol is decorated from dome to portico.
Victory!
Flags are everywhere.
The weather is fine.
The Treasury building has a huge bond picked out in lights. Cooke’s Bank has GLORY TO GOD spelled out in golden stars. Hotels, shops, restaurants are festive, I am told. Bands play “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle,” Irish tunes, Foster’s songs. Fireworks and rockets explode over the Potomac. Cannon boom.
Horsemen, carriages, wagons, buggies, pedestrians...there isn’t a quiet corner in Washington!
This morning, General Grant shook my hand sadly, hardly a victory gesture. I did not try to penetrate his mood.
Tomorrow I am to speak to a crowd in front of the White House. I will try to envision a sane future. Rain is forecast. It will not matter, nothing is going to diminish the enthusiasm.
Robert is due here tomorrow.
Mary remains in her bedroom.
General Lee has surrendered his forces at the McLean House, at Appomattox. Grant has permitted Lee and his men to return to their homes; they may retain their mounts. Lee pointed out that his army was holding a thousand Union prisoners, prisoners who have nothing to eat but parched corn. His own men amply supplied, Grant has turned over 25,000 rations to Lee’s men and fed the Union prisoners.
As I write, fire engines roar, whistles blow, church bells ring.
This morning there was a salute of a hundred guns.
I spoke to a throng in front of the White House. The newspapers will carry my words but I also add them here, thinking to improve the text.
Mary is ill...all very unreal.
An end like a beginning can have a bitter edge.
Let us think as brothers. The great rebellion, which we have endured together, must be forgotten. Now, starting at once, each state must be granted full privileges of the Union as soon as state governments can organize and as soon as 10% of its citizens have taken the oath of allegiance. It is our national goal to offer clemency and pardon as we attain peace, peace for our democracy. I will at once lift the naval blockade. I will urge Congress to appropriate $400,000,000 to assist the South in its economic recovery. Ours is no longer a nation within a nation; ours is a victory for all mankind.
April 10, 1865
Evening
Beautiful sunset
Now that the war is over, Grant thinks we can reduce army expenditures by at least a half a million per day. We can reduce navy costs at the same time; this will bring down our national debt to something like normal proportions.
I am cheered by such prospects.
Peace is ahead and I will be exploring its possibilities intensively. It will be a pleasure to convene a cabinet meeting, to discuss economic changes, foreign relations, amnesty, rail expansion, and state laws. I find a new amicability in senate and house.
In another two or three months it may be possible to have a week or so in the Adirondacks, the three of us.
The White House
Sunday—late
Many have come to congratulate me on the cessation of the war, warm praise now that the union is preserved. Telegrams flood the telegraph office. Boys are always seeking me out, with their hands full of messages. I read newspapers with pleasure. Letters are piling up on my desk; my secretaries are complaining happily.
Everyone in Washington is celebrating. There are parties in homes, in churches, schools, hospitals and public buildings. The White House has scheduled a gala. I am happier than I have been in years.
I look forward to attending a play at Ford’s Theatre.I am told that it is a play full of puns. I am in a mood for something light.
I am also told that we are having corn bread at supper.
Note—
Estimates:
North –
360,000 killed in action
South —
260,000 killed in action
The White House
April 14, 1865
—rain—
Mary invited Laura Keene, the British actress, to tea. She is in her forties—rather pretty. Dressed in dark green velvet she suggested something of quality in the theatre. She has her own playhouse in New York City. Her talk was mostly about her acting days in London where she produced and acted in foreign and American plays.
She said that she is a friend of Taylor, the author ofOurAmericanCousin.“He has written over a hundred plays,” she told us.
I spun a frontier story or two; she listened rather absently, her hands in her lap; Mary queried her about forthcoming New York productions; very abruptly Miss Keene exclaimed that she hated war; she said that slavery could have been abolished without destroying lives.
When Tad bounced in she made over him. He took to her, laughing hilariously over her British accent as she asked him to solve a riddle.
“Say it again, pretty lady,” he urged her.
“I’ve heard good things aboutOurAmericanCousin,” I said. “I guess you already know that we’ll be seeing the play tomorrow night.”