Team Of Rivals Part 31

CHAPTER 14

"I DO NOT INTEND TO BE SACRIFICED"

"NOTHING BUT A PATENT PILL was ever so suddenly famous," it was said of George B. McClellan when he arrived in Washington on July 27, 1861, to take command of the Army of the Potomac. "That dear old domestic bird, the Public," an essayist later wrote, "was sure she had brooded out an eagle-chick at last." Among the Union's youngest generals at thirty-four, the handsome, athletic McClellan seemed to warrant the acclaim and great expectation. He was the scion of a distinguished Philadelphia family. His father graduated from Yale College and the University of Pennsylvania Medical School. His mother was elegant and genteel. Educated in excellent schools, including West Point, McClellan had served on the staff of General Scott in the Mexican War. Most important, to a public looking for deliverance, he had recently defeated a guerrilla band in western Virginia, handing the North its only victory, albeit a small one.

To the nerve-worn residents of Washington, McClellan seemed "the man on horseback," just the leader to mold the disorganized Union troops into a disciplined army capable of returning to Mana.s.sas and defeating the enemy. Within days of his arrival, one diarist noted, Washington itself had a.s.sumed "a more martial look." Hotel bars no longer overflowed with drunken soldiers, nor did troops wander the city late at night in search of lodgings. The young general seemed able to mystically project his own self-confidence onto the demoralized troops, restoring their faith in themselves and their hope for the future. "You have no idea how the men brighten up now, when I go among them-I can see every eye glisten," he wrote proudly to his wife, Mary Ellen. "Yesterday they nearly pulled me to pieces in one regt. You never heard such yelling."

Lincoln hoped that between Scott's seasoned wisdom as general-in-chief and McClellan's vitality and force, he would finally have a powerfully effective team. From the start, however, McClellan viewed Scott as "the great obstacle" to both his own ambition for sole authority and to his larger strategy in the war. Less than two weeks after a.s.suming command of the Army of the Potomac, McClellan questioned Scott's belief that the rush of reinforcements to Washington had secured the capital. In a letter to General Scott, which he copied to the president, he argued that his army was "entirely insufficient for the emergency," for "the enemy has at least 100,000 men in our front." Scott was furious that his judgment had been called into question, correctly insisting that McClellan was grossly exaggerating the opposition forces. It would not be the last of the imperious general's miscalculations.

Lincoln temporarily defused the animosity by asking McClellan to withdraw his offending letter, but the discord between the two generals continued to escalate. Scott wanted to employ "concentric pressure" on the rebels in different theaters of war. McClellan declared that only with an overwhelming force concentrated on Virginia could he put an end to hostilities. All other engagements he considered secondary, dispersing resources needed to "crush the rebels in one campaign."

In his almost daily letters to his wife, McClellan recognized that his disagreements with Scott might "result in a mortal enmity on his part against me." Justifying his unwillingness to make peace with Scott, he referred frequently to his sense of destiny. It was his conviction that "G.o.d has placed a great work in my hands." He felt that "by some strange operation of magic" he had "become the power of the land" and if "the people call upon me to save the country-I must save it & cannot respect anything that is in the way." McClellan told her that he received "letter after letter" begging him to a.s.sume the presidency or become a dictator. While he would eschew the presidency, he would "cheerfully take the Dictatorship & agree to lay down my life when the country is saved."

Frustrated by the lack of response to his constant calls for more troops and equipment, McClellan insisted that Scott was "a perfect imbecile," a "dotard," even possibly "a traitor." Refusing to acknowledge that the dispute represented an honest clash of opinions, McClellan insisted that the root of contention with Scott was the veteran's "eternal jealousy of all who acquire any distinction."

As the row between the two men intensified, McClellan decided to ignore Scott's communications, though the chain of command required that he inform his superior officer of his position and the number of troops at his disposal. Scott was indignant. "The remedy by arrest and trial before a Court Martial, would probably, soon cure the evil," Scott told Secretary of War Cameron, but he feared a public conflict "would be highly encouraging to the enemies, and depressing to the friends of the Union. Hence my long forbearance." Instead, he proposed that as soon as the president could make other arrangements, he himself would gladly retire, "being, as I am, unable to ride in the saddle, or to walk, by reason of dropsy in my feet and legs, and paralysis in the small of the back."

For two months, Lincoln tried to restore harmony between his commanders. He spent many hours at General Scott's headquarters, listening to the old warrior and attempting to mollify him. He made frequent visits to McClellan's headquarters, situated in a luxurious house at the corner of Lafayette Square, not far from Seward's new home. The upstairs rooms were reserved for McClellan's private use. The parlors downstairs were occupied by the telegraph office, with dozens of staff "smoking, reading the papers, and writing." Sometimes McClellan welcomed Lincoln's visits; on other occasions, he felt them a waste of time: "I have just been interrupted here by the Presdt & Secty Seward who had nothing very particular to say, except some stories to tell." Observers noted with consternation that McClellan often kept Lincoln waiting in the downstairs room, "together with other common mortals." British reporter William Russell began to pity the president, who would call only to be told that the general was "lying down, very much fatigued." Nonetheless, so long as he believed in McClellan's positive influence on the army, Lincoln tolerated such flagrant breaches of protocol.

The first public dissatisfaction with McClellan's performance began to emerge as the autumn leaves began to fall. While Washingtonians delighted in his magnificent reviews of more than fifty thousand troops marching in straight columns to the sounds of hundred-gun salutes, with "not a mistake made, not a hitch," they grew restive with the failure of the troops to leave camp. Undeterred, McClellan insisted to his wife that he would not move until he was certain that he was completely ready to take on the enemy. "A long time must yet elapse before I can do this, & I expect all the newspapers to abuse me for delay-but I will not mind that."

Radical Republicans who had initially applauded McClellan's appointment began to turn on him when they learned he had issued "a slave-catching order" requiring commanders to return fugitive slaves to their masters. McClellan repeatedly emphasized that he was "fighting to preserve the integrity of the Union & the power of the Govt," and that to achieve that overriding goal, the country could not "afford to raise up the negro question." Coming under attack, he sought cover from his Democratic friends. "Help me to dodge the n.i.g.g.e.r," he entreated Samuel Barlow of New York, "we want nothing to do with him."

At the first whiff of censure, McClellan shifted blame onto any other shoulder but his own-onto Scott's failure to muster necessary resources, onto the incompetence of the cabinet, "some of the greatest geese...I have ever seen-enough to tax the patience of Job." He considered Seward "a meddling, officious, incompetent little puppy," Welles "weaker than the most garrulous old woman," and Bates "an old fool." He was disgusted by the "rascality of Cameron," and though he commended Monty Blair's courage, he did not "altogether fancy him!" Only Chase was spared his scorn, perhaps because the treasury secretary had sent a flattering letter before McClellan was called to Washington in which he claimed that he was the one responsible for the general's promotion to major general.

Impatience with McClellan mounted when one of his divisions suffered a crushing defeat at a small engagement on October 21, 1861. Having learned that the rebels had pulled back some of their troops from Leesburg, Virginia, McClellan ordered General Charles P. Stone to mount "a slight demonstration on your part" in order "to move them." Stone a.s.sumed that he would have the help of a neighboring division, which McClellan had ordered back to Washington without informing Stone. Colonel Edward Baker, Lincoln's close friend from Illinois, was killed in action, along with forty-nine of his men when the Confederates trapped them at the river's edge at Ball's Bluff. Many more were seriously wounded, including the young Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., who was brought to Chase's s.p.a.cious home to recover.

Baker was mourned by the entire Lincoln family. Lincoln later told the journalist Noah Brooks that "the death of his beloved Baker smote upon him like a whirlwind from a desert." The day before Baker was killed, the two old friends had talked together on the White House grounds. A pa.s.sing officer recalled the poignant scene: "Mr. Lincoln sat on the ground leaning against a tree; Colonel Baker was lying p.r.o.ne on the ground his head supported by his clasped hands. The trees and the lawns were gorgeous in purple and crimson and scarlet, like the curtains of G.o.d's tabernacle." Not far away, ten-year-old Willie "was tossing the fallen leaves about in childish grace and abandon." When the time came for Baker to take his leave, he shook Lincoln's hand and then took Willie into his arms and kissed him.

Twenty-four hours later, Captain Thomas Eckert, in charge of the telegraph office at McClellan's headquarters, received word of Baker's death and the defeat at Ball's Bluff. Instructed to deliver all military telegrams directly to McClellan, Eckert searched for the commanding general. Finding him at the White House talking with Lincoln, he handed the general the wire and withdrew. McClellan chose not to reveal its contents to the president. Afterward, when Lincoln dropped in at the telegraph office to get the latest news from the front, he discovered the dispatch. A correspondent seated in the outer room observed Lincoln's reaction. He walked "with bowed head, and tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks, his face pale and wan, his heart heaving with emotion." He stumbled through the room and "almost fell as he stepped into the street."

Mary was similarly distraught. She had named her second son, Edward, in honor of Edward Baker. Now both her child and his dear namesake were lost. Willie and Tad, who had likewise adored Baker, were heartbroken. For Willie, much like his father, writing provided some measure of solace. He composed a small poem, "On the Death of Colonel Edward Baker," which was published in the National Republican. After two stanzas recalling Baker's patriotic life and celebrated oratorical skills, he wrote:

No squeamish notions filled his breast,The Union was his theme."No surrender and no compromise,"His day thought and night's dream.

His country has her part to play,To'rds those he has left behind,His widow and his children all,-She must always keep in mind.

The child's homage to a cherished friend reflected a depressingly common circ.u.mstance as the war left mounting casualties and desolation in its wake. Ten-year-old Willie's words would be echoed in his father's memorable plea in the Second Inaugural Address, when he urged the nation "to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan."

McClellan straightaway denied responsibility for the defeat at Ball's Bluff, characteristically insisting that the "disaster was caused by errors committed" by the leaders at the front. "The whole thing took place some 40 miles from here without my orders or knowledge," he told his wife; "it was entirely unauthorized by me & I am in no manner responsible for it." The person "directly to blame," McClellan said, was Colonel Baker, who had exceeded General Stone's orders by crossing the river. Rumors then began to spread that Stone himself would be court-martialed.

When frustrated congressional leaders, many of whom were longtime friends of Baker, decried the defeat at Ball's Bluff and the general stagnation of the Union troops, the president defended McClellan. When these same leaders approached McClellan, he unleashed a diatribe against Scott, accusing him of placing obstacles at every step along his way. The congressional delegation left, vowing to remove Scott. "You may have heard from the papers etc of the small row that is going on just now between Genl Scott & myself," McClellan wrote his wife, "in which the vox populi is coming out strongly on my side.... I hear that off[icer]s & men all declarethat they will fight under no one but 'our George,' as the scamps have taken it into their heads to call me."

On November 1, Lincoln regretfully accepted the veteran's request for retirement. The newspapers released General Scott's resignation letter along with Lincoln's heartfelt reply. The president extolled Scott's "long and brilliant career," stating that Americans would hear the news of his departure from active service "with sadness and deep emotion." At the same time, Lincoln designated McClellan to succeed Scott as general-in-chief of the Union Army.

Two days later, his objective accomplished, McClellan confessed to conflicted emotions when he accompanied Scott to the railroad station for his departure from Washington. "I saw there the end of a long, active & ambitious life," he wrote his wife, "the end of the career of the first soldier of his nation-& it was a feeble old man scarce able to walk-hardly any one there to see him off but his successor." The truth, as the newspapers reported, was that a large crowd had a.s.sembled at the depot, despite the train's leaving at 5 a.m. in a drenching rain. All the members of Scott's staff were there, along with McClellan's complete staff and a cavalry escort. Secretaries Chase and Cameron had come to join the general on his journey to Harrisburg. Moreover, "quite a number of citizens" had gathered to pay their respects, belying the ignominious farewell that McClellan depicted. Once again, the young Napoleon erred in his calculations.

As winter approached, public discontent with the inaction of the Union Army intensified. "I do not intend to be sacrificed," the new general-in-chief wrote his wife. Now that McClellan could no longer blame Scott for his troubles, he shifted his censure to Lincoln for denying him the means to confront the rebel forces in Virginia, whose numbers, he insisted, were at least three times his own. In letters home, he complained about Lincoln's constant intrusions, which forced him to hide out at the home of fellow Democrat Edwin Stanton, "to dodge all enemies in shape of 'browsing' Presdt etc." He reported a visit to the White House one Sunday after tea, where he found "the original gorrilla," as he had taken to describing the president. "What a specimen to be at the head of our affairs now!" he ranted. "I went to Seward's, where I found the 'Gorilla' again, & was of course much edified by his anecdotes-ever apropos, & ever unworthy of one holding his high position."

On Wednesday night, November 13, Lincoln went with Seward and Hay to McClellan's house. Told that the general was at a wedding, the three waited in the parlor for an hour. When McClellan arrived home, the porter told him the president was waiting, but McClellan pa.s.sed by the parlor room and climbed the stairs to his private quarters. After another half hour, Lincoln again sent word that he was waiting, only to be informed that the general had gone to sleep. Young John Hay was enraged. "I wish here to record what I consider a portent of evil to come," he wrote in his diary, recounting what he considered an inexcusable "insolence of epaulettes," the first indicator "of the threatened supremacy of the military authorities." To Hay's surprise, Lincoln "seemed not to have noticed it specially, saying it was better at this time not to be making points of etiquette & personal dignity." He would hold McClellan's horse, he once said, if a victory could be achieved.

Though Lincoln, the consummate pragmatist, did not express anger at McClellan's rebuff, his aides fumed at every instance of such arrogance. Lincoln's secretary, William Stoddard, described the infuriating delay when he accompanied Lincoln to McClellan's anteroom. "A minute pa.s.ses, then another, and then another, and with every tick of the clock upon the mantel your blood warms nearer and nearer its boiling-point. Your face feels hot and your fingers tingle, as you look at the man, sitting so patiently over there...and you try to master your rebellious consciousness." As time went by, Lincoln visited the haughty general less frequently. If he wanted to talk with McClellan, he sent a summons for him to appear at the White House.

DURING THESE TENSE DAYS, Mary tried to distract her husband. If old friends were in town, she would invite them to breakfast and dispatch a message to his office, calling the president to join the gathering. Initially irritated to be taken from his work, Lincoln would grudgingly sit down and begin exchanging stories. His "mouth would relax, his eye brighten, and his whole face lighten," Elizabeth Grimsley recalled, "and we would be launched into a sea of laughter." Mary had also introduced a therapeutic "daily drive," insisting that the two of them, and sometimes the children, take an hour-long carriage ride at the end of the afternoon, to absorb "the fresh air, which he so much needed."

More than most previous first ladies, Mary enjoyed entertaining. She had never lost her taste for politics. On many nights, while her husband worked late in his office, the first lady held soirees in the Blue Room, to which she invited a mostly male circle of guests. Her frequent visitors included Daniel Sickles, the New York congressman who recently had murdered the son of the composer of "The Star-Spangled Banner," Philip Barton Key, who was having an affair with Sickles's wife. Defended by a team of lawyers including Edwin Stanton, Sickles had been found innocent by reason of "temporary insanity."

Another flamboyant figure at Mary's salons was Henry Wikoff, who had published an account of his picaresque adventures in Europe. He had been a spy for Britain and had spent time in jail for kidnapping and seducing a young woman. Mary enjoyed people with scandalous backgrounds, and delighted in the lively conversation, which ranged from "love, law, literature, and war" to "gossip of courts and cabinets, of the boudoir and the salon, of commerce and the Church, of the peer and the pauper, of d.i.c.kens and Thackeray."

While Mary charmed guests in her evening salons, she gained respect for the energy and aplomb with which she hosted the traditional White House receptions for the public. She believed that these social gatherings helped to sustain morale. Most important, her husband was proud of both her social skills and her appearance. "My wife is as handsome as when she was a girl," he said at one White House levee, "and I a poor n.o.body then, fell in love with her and once more, have never fallen out."

When Prince Napoleon, the cousin of Napoleon Bonaparte III, visited Washington in early August, Mary organized an elaborate dinner party. She found the task of entertaining much simpler than it had been in Springfield days. "We only have to give our orders for the dinner, and dress in proper season," she wrote her friend Hannah Shearer. Having learned French when she was young, she conversed easily with the prince. It was a "beautiful dinner," Lizzie Grimsley recalled, "beautifully served, gay conversation in which the French tongue predominated." Two days later, her interest in French literature apparently renewed, Mary requested Volume 9 of the Oeuvres de Victor Hugo from the Library of Congress.

Nor did Mary Lincoln confine her abundant energies to social ventures. A month after the French dinner, she strenuously pressured her husband on a matter of state-the pending execution of William Scott. A soldier from Vermont, Scott had fallen asleep during picket duty. His dereliction of duty had occurred during the predawn hours of his second straight night of standing guard. As the story was told, he had volunteered the first night to replace a sick friend, and then was called to duty the next night on his own. According to Lizzie Grimsley, the severity of the soldier's sentence distressed both Tad and his mother. "Think," Tad entreated, "if it was your own little boy who was just tired after fighting, and marching all day, that he could not keep awake, much as he tried to." Mary joined in, begging her husband to show mercy to the young soldier. The situation was not easy for Lincoln. While he understood the human circ.u.mstances that led to the soldier's lapse, he also recognized that his intervention might undermine military discipline. In the end, Mary's arguments apparently swayed him.

The day before the scheduled execution, Lincoln walked over to McClellan's office and asked him to issue a pardon, "suggesting," the general recollected, "that I could give as a reason in the order that it was by request of the 'Lady President.'" Vermont senator Lucius Chittenden, who had also interceded on young Scott's behalf, apologized for the imposition, recognizing "that it was asking too much of the President" to intervene "in behalf of a private soldier." Lincoln put Chittenden's mind at ease, a.s.suring him that "Scott's life is as valuable to him as that of any person in the land. You remember the remark of a Scotchman about the head of a n.o.bleman who was decapitated. 'It was a small matter of a head, but it was valuable to him, poor fellow, for it was the only one he had.'"

The renovation of the White House and its surrounding landscape engaged Mary throughout the summer and fall of 1861. She raved to a friend that she had "the most beautiful flowers & grounds imaginable, and company & excitement enough, to turn a wiser head than my own." Yet with each pa.s.sing month, she spent less time with her husband, whose every hour was preoccupied with the war. Though he still took the afternoon drives she had prescribed, he often invited Seward along so the two men could talk. In late August, when Seward's wife and daughter arrived in Washington to spend several weeks, Lincoln took them for drives nearly every afternoon. Frances took an immediate liking to the president, whom she described as "a plain una.s.suming farmer-not awkward or ungainly," who talked with equal ease about "the war & the crops." f.a.n.n.y was captivated. "I liked him very much," she recorded in her diary. She was especially delighted when the president showed her the kittens her father had given to Willie and Tad and told her that "they climb all over him."

During these pleasant interludes with the Seward family, Lincoln stopped to visit the various encampments in the surrounding countryside. Halting the carriages, he and Seward would talk with the soldiers. A veteran reporter who had watched every president since Jackson wrote that he had never seen anyone go through the routine of handshaking with the "abandon of President Lincoln. He goes it with both hands, and hand over hand, very much as a sailor would climb a rope." The affable Seward was equally at ease. f.a.n.n.y took particular delight in watching them greet troops from the 23rd Pennsylvania Regiment. "With one impulse" the men cheered Lincoln's appearance so loudly that the horses were "somewhat startled"; then they "began cheering for 'Secretary Seward' pa.s.sing his name from mouth to mouth." f.a.n.n.y proudly confided in her diary that "I love to remember all Father says and does."

Frances Seward was happy to be reunited with her husband for the first extended period in almost a year, but she found the frantic pace of wartime Washington life enervating. Nor did she feel at home in the "palatial" house her husband had taken on Lafayette Square. In a letter to her sister, she wistfully confessed that Henry was never "more pleased with a home-it accommodates itself marvelously to his tastes & habits-such as they are at this day." She praised Fred and Anna, who were so "gifted in making their surroundings...tasteful & attractive." But it was a home designed for the three of them-her husband, son, and daughter-in-law-not for her. It perfectly fitted the constant round of entertaining that Seward so enjoyed. And Anna was far better suited to the role of hostess than Frances-confined to her bed by migraines for several days every week-could ever hope to be.

As she readied herself to return to Auburn, Frances was concerned that she had not yet called on Mary Lincoln. The first lady had just come back from a three-week vacation in upstate New York and Long Branch, New Jersey, and Frances felt it her duty to visit, "especially as I went to see her husband." On the Monday before Frances was due to leave, word came that Mary would receive her and her family that evening. After dinner, John Nicolay arrived to escort the Sewards to the White House. The little group included Henry, Frances, Fred, Anna, and f.a.n.n.y, as well as Seward's youngest son, Will, and his new bride, Jenny. They were shown into the Blue Parlor by Edward, the Irish doorkeeper who had worked in the White House for nearly two decades. "Edward drew a chair for Mrs. L.," f.a.n.n.y recalled, and then arranged the chairs for the rest of the party, before leaving to inform Mary that her guests had arrived. "Well there we sat," f.a.n.n.y recorded, until "after a lapse of some time the usher came and said Mrs. Lincoln begged to be excused, she was very much engaged."

"The truth," f.a.n.n.y wrote, "was probably that she did not want to see Mother-else why not give general direction to the doorkeeper to let no one in? It was certainly very rude to have us all seated first." Referring to Mary's celebrated salons, f.a.n.n.y archly added that it was "the only time on record that she ever refused to see company in the evening." In fact, Mary detested Seward and had most likely contrived to snub the entire Seward family. From the outset, she had resisted Seward's appointment to the cabinet, fearing that his celebrity would outshine her husband's. "If things should go on all right," she warned, "the credit would go to Seward-if they went wrong-the blame would fall upon my husband." Contrary to Mary's suspicions, it was Seward who received much of the censure incurred by the administration, as his fellow cabinet members tended to blame him more than Lincoln for whatever displeased them. Long after Seward had come to respect Lincoln's authority, however, many observers, including Mary, mistakenly a.s.sumed that the secretary of state was the mastermind of the administration. "It makes me mad to see you sit still and let that hypocrite, Seward, twine you around his finger as if you were a skein of thread," Mary fumed to her husband.

Furthermore, Mary resented the long evenings Lincoln spent at Seward's Lafayette Square mansion rather than remaining home with her. Warmed by Seward's fireplace and gregarious personality, Lincoln could unwind. Though he himself neither drank nor smoked, he happily watched Seward light up a Havana cigar and pour a gla.s.s of brandy. And while Lincoln rarely swore, he found Seward's colorful cursing amusing. On one occasion, as Lincoln and Seward were en route to review the troops, the driver lost control of his team and began swearing with gusto. "My friend, are you an Episcopalian?" Lincoln asked. The teamster replied that he was, in fact, a Methodist. "Oh, excuse me," Lincoln said with a laugh. "I thought you must be an Episcopalian for you swear just like Secretary Seward, and he's a churchwarden!"

Lincoln and Seward talked of many things besides the war. They debated the historical legacies of Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, and John Quincy Adams. Seward argued that neither Clay's nor Webster's would live "a t.i.the as long as J. Q. Adams." Lincoln disagreed, believing that "Webster will be read for ever." They explored the concept of "personal courage." When Lincoln spoke admiringly of the intensity of a particular soldier's desire to take on the enemy in person, Seward disagreed. "He had always acted on the opposite principle, admitting you are scared and a.s.suming that the enemy is." They traded stories and teased each other.

One night when John Hay was also present, another guest brought up the Chicago convention. Hay feared that reminding Seward of his loss was in "very bad taste," but Lincoln used the remark to tell a humorous story about 1860. At one point, he related, the mayor of Chicago, John Wentworth, had feared that Lincoln was oblivious to shifting opinion in Illinois. "I tell you what," Wentworth advised, referring to Thurlow Weed. "You must do like Seward does-get a feller to run you." Both Lincoln and Seward found the story "vastly amusing."

Lincoln's buoyant mood plummeted an hour or so later that evening when he received General Thomas W. Sherman's request for more troops before his advance upon Port Royal, South Carolina. Frustrated by repeated calls from every general for reinforcements, he told Seward he would refuse Sherman's request and would telegraph him to say he didn't have "much hope of his expedition anyway." Now it was Seward's turn to moderate the president's reply, much as Lincoln had softened Seward's language in the famous May 21 dispatch. "No," Seward replied, "you wont say discouraging things to a man going off with his life in his hand." Lincoln rejected Sherman's request for more troops but expressed no pessimism about the mission.

The long evenings of camaraderie at Seward's, where interesting guests wandered in and out, probably rekindled memories of Lincoln's convivial days on the circuit, when he and his fellow lawyers gathered together before the log fire to talk, drink, and share stories. Between official meetings and private get-togethers, Lincoln spent more time with Seward in the first year of his presidency than with anyone else, including his family. It was not therefore surprising that the possessive Mary felt rancor toward Seward and his family.

WHILE LINCOLN ENDURED complaints about the lack of forward movement in the East, he was forced to confront an equally th.o.r.n.y situation in the West, where the fighting between secessionists and Unionists in Missouri threatened to erupt into civil war. Though a majority of the state supported the Union, the new governor, Claiborne Jackson, commanded a sizable number of secessionists intent upon bringing the state into the Confederacy. Missouri initially succeeded in thwarting the rebel guerrillas, largely through the combined efforts of Frank Blair, who had left Congress to become a colonel, and his good friend, General Nathaniel Lyon. They had prevented rebel troops from seizing the St. Louis a.r.s.enal, and ingeniously captured Fort Jackson, where the Confederate troops were headquartered. Lyon had entered the rebel camp on a scouting mission, disguised as the familiar figure of Frank's mother-in-law, a well-respected old lady in St. Louis. He wore a dress and shawl, with a "thickly veiled sunbonnet," to hide his red beard. Hidden in his egg basket were revolvers in case he was recognized. The following day, with knowledge of the camp and seven thousand troops, Lyon marched in and took the fort.

In spite of these early successes, daring rebel raids soon destroyed bridges, roads, and property, and threw the state into a panic. To take charge of this perilous situation and command the entire Department of the West, Lincoln appointed General John C. Fremont, the dashing hero whose exploits in 1847 in the liberation of California from Mexico had earned him the first Republican nomination for president in 1856. Lincoln later recalled that it was upon the "earnest solicitation" and united advocacy of the powerful Blair family that he made Fremont a major general and sent him to Missouri.

Fremont's appointment was initially greeted with enthusiasm. "He is just such a person as Western men will idolize and follow through every danger to death or victory," John Hay wrote. "He is upright, brave, generous, enterprising, learned and eminently practical." Fremont's staunch antislavery principles found favor among the German-Americans who comprised a large portion of the St. Louis population. "There was a sort of romantic halo about him," Gustave Koerner recalled. His name alone had "a magical influence," inducing thousands of volunteers from the Western states to join the Union Army.

Within weeks of Fremont's arrival, however, stories filtered back to Washington of "recklessness in expenditures." Tales circulated that the Fremonts had set themselves up in a $6,000 mansion, where bodyguards deterred unwanted visitors, including Hamilton Gamble, the former Unionist governor of Missouri and brother-in-law of Edward Bates. Some worried that Fremont, like McClellan, had chosen to stay in the city to prepare for a move against the rebels rather than join his troops in the field. These unsettling rumors were followed by the shocking news of General Lyon's death in a struggle at Wilson's Creek on August 10. Weeks later, the Union forces suffered another devastating defeat when they were forced to surrender Lexington to the rebels. Among Missouri's loyalists morale plummeted.

In late August, realizing he must act before the situation deteriorated further, Fremont issued a bold proclamation. Without consulting Lincoln, he declared martial law throughout the state, giving the military the authority to try and, if warranted, shoot any rebels within Union lines who were found "with arms in their hands." Union troops were directed to confiscate all property, including slaves, of all persons "who shall be directly proven to have taken an active part with their enemies in the field." These slaves, Fremont proclaimed, "are hereby declared freemen." Fremont's policy far exceeded the Confiscation Act pa.s.sed by the Congress earlier that month, which applied only to slaves supporting Confederate troops and did not spell out their future status.

Lincoln learned of Fremont's proclamation by reading it in the newspapers along with the rest of the nation. With this announcement, Fremont had unilaterally recast the struggle to preserve the Union as a war against slavery, a shift that the president believed would lead Kentucky and the border states to join the Confederacy. Lincoln wrote a private letter to Fremont, expressing his "anxiety" on two points: "First, should you shoot a man, according to the proclamation, the Confederates would very certainly shoot our best man in their hands in retaliation; and so, man for man, indefinitely." Even more troubling, he saw "great danger" in "liberating slaves of traiterous owners," a move that would certainly "alarm our Southern Union friends, and turn them against us-perhaps ruin our rather fair prospect for Kentucky. Allow me therefore to ask, that you will as of your own motion, modify that paragraph so as to conform" to the recent Confiscation Act of Congress. Lincoln was anxious that Fremont change the language of his own accord, so that the president would not be officially forced to override him. He understood that if the controversy became public, radical Republicans, whose loyalty was crucial to his governing coalition, might side with Fremont rather than with him.