From May to August 1864, Union armies had suffered over 100,000 casualties. The nation was awash in blood and gore after three years of fratricidal conflict, with no end in sight. The November elections approached and many believed that the administration would be ousted at the polls.
The Democratic challenger for president was former Union Maj. Gen. George Brinton McClellan, who ran on a peace platform which called for a negotiated settlement and a formal recognition of the legitimacy of rebellion.
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McClellan...1861 portrait |
President Lincoln was despondent as summer waned, his hopes for victory along with the season, carried away on the winds of war.
But then came Maj. General William T. Sherman and his Army of the Tennessee to the gates of Atlanta. The vital Southern town, a railway and communication hub of the Confederacy, was surrounded and captured, capitulating on September 2, 1864. "Atlanta is ours, and fairly won," the general would telegraph to Washington. It proved to be an announcement which electrified and emboldened the North, boosted morale, and allowed the Union to realize that ultimate triumph was in sight and that the current course must be stayed. The president was comfortably reelected two months later - the war would be waged until absolute, transformative victory had been achieved.
Sherman left a burning Atlanta and began his march to the sea. Georgia would howl as he cut a fifty mile wide swath of destruction through the heartland of the rebellion, arriving in Savannah in time for the Yuletide and the sending of a second celebratory telegraph message, proclaiming the city a Christmas gift, to be offered to a joyous president.
South Carolina, the seat of secession would be next, as Sherman and his troops waged total war against Columbia for Columbia's sake. A city destroyed, along with so much else in terms of men and materiel, yet a nation saved, freedom expanded, and the experience of a spiritual new birth miraculously realized.
Thus, as the president stepped to the lectern on the east portico of the United States Capitol that blustery late winter inauguration day, many in the crowd of thousands noted an occurrence that could have been nothing less than a providential interposition. The morning had been replete with wind and rain, the sky gray and foreboding, representative of the four long years of storm the nation had lately endured. Yet, as the crowd looked on and the president began to speak, the clouds parted and the 'grandest figure on the crowded canvas of the nineteenth century' was bathed in glorious sunlight.
This man, more than any other, had been responsible for guiding the great ship America through the tempest and now, in just over seven hundred words and ten minutes, Abraham Lincoln would bring her safely home. In words, now chiseled in marble upon the temple of her memory, the nation was given by this wise and eloquent servant, a glimpse of the meaning of the storm, the future course for the ship, and the will of the One who would steer her through.
At this second appearing to take the oath of the presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued, seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention, and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself; and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.
On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it--all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war--seeking to dissolve the Union, and divide effects, by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war; but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.
One eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by war; while the government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war, the magnitude, or the duration, which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!" If we shall suppose that American Slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South, this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a Living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope--fervently do we pray--that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether"
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.
Yet, even as the president spoke, dark and malevolent forces flitted above his head and stalked his life. Listening in the crowd that day, having gained an invitation from the daughter of a United States senator, was a man whose heart burned with hatred for the man who spoke. John Wilkes Booth noted later that he had been upon the platform above the president, close enough to kill the captain of the ship in the course of his speech if he had so chosen. He would choose a different venue and bring to action his murderous thoughts forty days hence.
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Exactly one month following the speech, Abraham Lincoln strode through the streets of Richmond, Virginia, the capital of the Confederacy. April 4, 1864 was a momentous day indeed. The president insisted on seeing the fallen city and, despite grave concerns for his safety, he walked, with just a few soldiers to protect him, to the Confederate White House and sat at the desk of Jefferson Davis. On his way, as growing crowds watched and guards failed to conceal their trepidation, a number of newly freed slaves approached the president and showered him with thanks and praise. One such, a gentlemen, fell to his knees before Father Abraham and thanked him for his freedom. The president was much distressed at this happening and urged the man to stand. It was not right, he said, for him to bow before the president in this way. He should bow to God alone, and thank him only for the freedom that he now enjoyed. One wonders how that moment must have impacted all who observed it, including the president's young son Tad, who accompanied him on this extraordinary day.
April 1865 was truly a remarkable month, perhaps the most significant and fascinating thirty day's in the nation's history. The fall of Richmond, Lincoln's visit, the surrender of Robert E. Lee's army at Appomattox Court House, the celebrations and illuminations of victory, the night of horror at Ford's and the death of a martyred president. The great man died at 7:22 a.m., Saturday April 15, 1865. Throughout the night, a continuous throng waited in the rain, taking part in the slow, laborious death watch. A multitude of the powerful came and went, to see for themselves that the tragedy was true and to view the nation's savior one last time in life. When the end came, those within the room saw the chest heave one last time to catch one last breath, then sink to rise no more. Dr. Phineas D. Gurley, the president's pastor was at the bedside of the stricken leader and said that, after Mr. Lincoln died, "that for four or five minutes there was not the slightest noise or movement in that awful presence. We all stood transfixed in our positions, speechless, breathless, around the dead body of that great and good man. At length the Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton, who was standing at my left, broke the silence, and said, 'Doctor, will you say anything?' I replied, 'I will speak to God.' Said he, 'Do it just now.' And there, by the side of our fallen chief, God put into my heart to utter this petition, that from that hour we and the whole nation might become more than ever united in our devotion to the cause of our beloved, imperiled country." After Dr. Gurley again offered his prayer, there was a chorus of "amen" before a despondent Secretary Stanton spoke, uttering words, through a veil of tears, that have proven immortal in weight and in truth: 'Now, he belongs to the ages." The crowd outside was hushed and awed when a simple wagon made it's way to the scene, and a simple wooden coffin was lifted, carried, filled, closed, secured, and carried again, into their presence. The president, at last, was at rest. The extraordinary happenings of that first full month of spring culminated in the desperate manhunt for the killer and, simultaneously, the long, mournful goodbye to liberty's greatest champion, defender, and friend.
Twenty days after it had begun, the massive funeral procession of Abraham Lincoln, personally witnessed by seven million Americans, roughly twenty percent of the population of the nation, ended in Springfield Illinois on May 4, 1865.
The president, this simple, yet profoundly wise and great man, had finally come home. His home going reminds one of the word's he spoke as he boarded a train four year prior, for a journey to Washington D.C. and the fulfillment of his God ordained destiny. They are words of humility and strength, tinged with prophetic weight:
My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when, or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of the Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell.
Two months before that farewell speech, the president elect experienced a chilling vision, one which perhaps was a providential warning of things to come:
On election night 1860, Abraham Lincoln returned home after receiving good news concerning election results. the nation had entrusted with him the task of saving it from permanent rending. Exhausted, he collapsed on a sofa, and, upon awakening, he had a strange vision which would constantly return to his mind.
One of his staff recounted Lincoln's telling of the strange phenomenon in an article published in Harper's Monthly magazine a few months after Lincoln's death:
Lincoln recalled glancing across the room at a looking glass on a bureau. "Looking in that glass, I saw myself reflected, nearly at full length; but my face, I noticed, had two separate and distinct images, the tip of the nose of one being about three inches from the tip of the other. I was a little bothered, perhaps startled, and got up and looked in the glass, but the illusion vanished.
"On lying down again, I saw it a second time -- plainer, it possible, than before; and then I noticed that one of the faces was a little paler, say five shades, than the other. I got up and the thing melted away, and I went off and, in the excitement of the hour, forgot all about it -- nearly, but not quite, for the thing would once in a while come up, and give me a little pang, as though something uncomfortable had happened."
Lincoln tried to repeat the "optical illusion," but was unable to replicate it. According to people who worked with Lincoln during his presidency, the weird vision stuck in his mind to the point where he tried to reproduce the circumstances in the White House, but couldn't.
When Lincoln told his wife about the weird thing he'd seen in the mirror, Mary Lincoln had a dire interpretation. As Lincoln told the story, "She thought it was 'a sign' that I was to be elected to a second term of office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an omen that I should not see life through the last term."
The image of Abraham Lincoln endures, not blurred or confused by mysterious reflections, but in clear and radiant focus because of the transcendent goodness of the man and the brilliance of his soul. His words and deeds mirror the truth of his convictions and reveal to all the world the clarity of his vision, leaving for his fellow man an enduring model of the eternal principle that right makes might. He stood as a bulwark against tyranny and a pillar of freedom - it is why we love him so. In the rhythmic simplicity of poetic verse, Walt Whitman aptly spoke the sentiments of his fellow countrymen upon the passing of their president - his words are hauntingly beautiful in their expression of sorrow and admiration for a man so deserving of both. May we never forget the extraordinary life, words, and deeds of Abraham Lincoln, the servant and savior of liberty. May he forever rest secure, in the eternal peace of heaven, in God's everlasting freedom, and in the grateful hearts of his people.
When Lilacs Last In The Door-Yard Bloom’d
Walt Whitman
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When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
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O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!
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In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.
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In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat!
Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)
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Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.
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Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.
Hush’d Be The Camps To-Day
Walt Whitman
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Hush’d be the camps to-day;
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;
And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate,
Our dear commander’s death.
No more for him life’s stormy conflicts;
Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time’s dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
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But sing, poet, in our name;
Sing of the love we bore him—because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.
As they invault the coffin there;
Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him
O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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