Lincoln had been so reticent during the summer and fall, when Cameron was first criticized for his lax administration and questionable contracts, that Seward questioned whether the president was sufficiently attentive to the unsavory situation. Then, one night in January, the secretary of state recalled, “there was a ring at my door-bell.” The president entered, seated himself on the sofa, “and abruptly commenced talking about the condition of the War Department. He soon made it apparent that he had all along observed and known as much about it as any of us…his mind was now settled, and he had come to consult me about a successor to Mr. Cameron.”
Choosing the right successor to Cameron was vital. Lincoln’s initial preferences may have included Joseph Holt, Buchanan’s war secretary who had crucially supported the Union during the secession crisis, or West Point graduate Montgomery Blair. According to Welles, Blair “had exhibited great intelligence, knowledge of military men, sagacity and sound judgment” during cabinet discussions. Instead of either man, in a decision that would prove most significant to the course of the war, Lincoln selected Edwin Stanton, the gruff lawyer who had humiliated him in Cincinnati six years earlier and whose disparaging remarks about his presidency were well known in Washington circles.
Washington insiders attributed the choice to the combined influence of Seward and Chase. These two rivals rarely agreed on policy or principle, but each had his own reasons for advocating Stanton. Seward would never forget Stanton’s contribution as his informant during the last weeks of the Buchanan tenure. The intelligence provided by Stanton had helped root out traitors and keep Washington safe from capture. It had also fortified Seward’s role as the central figure in the critical juncture between Lincoln’s election and inauguration. Chase’s far more intimate friendship with Stanton had grown from their earlier days in Ohio when Stanton had assured Chase that “to be loved by you, and be told that you value my love is a gratification beyond my power to express.” Equally important, Chase believed that Stanton would be a steadfast ally in the struggle against slavery.
Lincoln had his own recollections of Stanton, not all of which were negative. He had watched Stanton at work on the Reaper trial and had been impressed instantly by the powerful reasoning of Stanton’s arguments, the passion of his delivery, and the unparalleled energy he had devoted to the case. “He puts his whole soul into any cause he espouses,” one observer noted. “If you ever saw Stanton before a jury,” you would see that “he toils for his client with as much industry as if his case was his own…as if his own life depended upon the issue.” Energy and force were desperately needed to galvanize the War Department, and Stanton had both in abundance.
On Saturday, January 11, the president sent an uncharacteristically brusque letter to Cameron. In light of the fact that the war secretary had previously “expressed a desire for a change of position,” he wrote, “I can now gratify you, consistently with my view of the public interest,” by “nominating you to the Senate, next monday, as minister to Russia.” After receiving the dismissal letter on Sunday, Cameron is said to have wept. “This is not a political affair,” he insisted, “it means personal degradation.”
After dinner that night, Cameron went to see Chase. They apparently talked over the troubled situation and decided to enlist Seward’s help. Chase drove Cameron back to Willard’s and then went alone to Seward’s house. As planned, Cameron came in soon after, brandishing the president’s letter, which, he said, was “intended as a dismissal, and, therefore, discourteous.” Cameron was finally convinced “to retain the letter till morning, and then go and see the President.” Later that night, Chase confided in his diary: “I fear Mr. Seward may think Cameron’s coming into his house pre-arranged, and that I was not dealing frankly.” As usual, however, so long as the high-minded Chase was certain that he had “acted right, and with just deference to all concerned,” he was able to rationalize his machinations.
The next day, presumably briefed by Seward and Chase, Lincoln agreed to withdraw his terse letter and substitute a warm note indicating that Cameron had initiated the departure. Since the desirable post at St. Petersburg was vacant, the president would happily “gratify” Cameron’s desire. “Should you accept it, you will bear with you the assurance of my undiminished confidence, of my affectionate esteem, and of my sure expectation that…you will be able to render services to your country, not less important than those you could render at home.” He also asked Cameron to recommend a successor. Cameron expressed his fervent opinion that his fellow Pennsylvanian Stanton was the best man for the job. In fact, Lincoln had already made his decision, but Cameron left believing he was responsible for Stanton’s selection. In the end, each of the three men—Seward, Chase, and Cameron—assumed he was instrumental in Lincoln’s appointment of the new secretary of war.
After settling matters with Cameron, Lincoln asked George Harding, whom he had made head of the Patent Office, to bring his old law partner Stanton to the White House. Stanton was then forty-seven, though the grizzled brown hair and beard made him look older, as did the glasses that hid his bright brown eyes. Harding was afraid that disagreeable recollections from the Reaper trial would cast a pall on the meeting. Both Lincoln and Stanton seemed to have put the past behind them, however, leaving Harding “the most embarrassed of the three.”
The urgency of the situation left Stanton little time to deliberate. He consulted his wife, Ellen, who, according to her mother, “objected to his acceptance.” The move to the War Department would substantially diminish the lifestyle of the Stanton family, slashing a legal income of over $50,000 a year to $8,000. Stanton, too, tormented all his life by fears of insolvency, must have been concerned about the drastic diminution of income. Nevertheless, he could not refuse to serve as secretary of war in the midst of a great civil war. And if he served with distinction, his life, however short in years, might be made “long by noble deeds,” as Chase had once prophesied. He accepted the post, on the condition that he could retain Peter Watson, his old friend and assistant on the Reaper trial, “to take care of the contracts,” for he realized he would “be swamped at once” without Watson’s aid.
The announcement of Cameron’s resignation and Stanton’s appointment took the majority of the cabinet by surprise. “Strange,” Bates confided in his diary, that “not a hint of all this” was discussed at the cabinet council the previous Friday, “and stranger still,” the president had sent for no one but Seward over the weekend. Welles heard the dramatic news from Monty Blair, whom he met on the street. Neither one of them, Welles confessed, had been “taken into Lincoln’s confidence.” Indeed, Welles had never even met Stanton. Stanton’s nomination dismayed radical Republicans on Capitol Hill. The powerful William Fessenden, fearful that Stanton’s Democratic heritage would incline him toward a soft policy on both slavery and the South, worked to delay the Senate confirmation until he ascertained more about Stanton’s position. He conferred with Chase, who assured Fessenden that “he, Secretary Chase, was responsible for Mr. Stanton’s selection,” and that he would arrange a meeting that very evening between the Maine senator and Stanton. Seward’s role in the selection was not publicized, allowing the radicals to assume that Chase, their man in the cabinet, was the chief architect of the appointment. After a lengthy conversation with Stanton, Fessenden told Chase that he was thoroughly convinced that Stanton was “just the man we want.” The senator was delighted to find that he and Buchanan’s former Attorney General concurred “on every point,” including “the conduct of the war” and “the negro question.” The Senate confirmed Stanton’s nomination the next day.
News of Stanton’s replacement for Cameron met with widespread approval. The public generally assumed that Cameron had retired voluntarily. “Not only was the press completely taken by surprise,” Seward told his wife, “but with all its fertility of conjecture, not one newspaper has conceived the real cause.” Cameron’s reputation was preserved until the House Committee on Contracts published its 1,100-pa
ge report in February 1862, detailing the extensive corruption in the War Department that had led to the purchase of malfunctioning weapons, diseased horses, and rotten food. According to one newspaper report, the committee “resolved to advise the immediate passage of a bill to punish with death any person who commits a fraud upon the Government, whereby a soldier is bodily injured, as for instance in the sale of unsound provisions.” Though Cameron was never charged with personal liability, the House voted to censure him for conduct “highly injurious to the public service.”
Cameron was devastated, knowing that he would never recover from the scandal. Lincoln, however, made a great personal effort to assuage his pain and humiliation. He wrote a long public letter to Congress, explaining that the unfortunate contracts were spawned by the emergency situation facing the government in the immediate aftermath of Fort Sumter. Lincoln declared that he and his entire cabinet “were at least equally responsible with [Cameron] for whatever error, wrong, or fault was committed.”
Cameron would never forget this generous act. Filled with gratitude and admiration, he would become, Nicolay and Hay observed, “one of the most intimate and devoted of Lincoln’s personal friends.” He appreciated the courage it took for Lincoln to share the blame at a time when everyone else had deserted him. Most other men in Lincoln’s situation, Cameron wrote, “would have permitted an innocent man to suffer rather than incur responsibility.” Lincoln was not like most other men, as each cabinet member, including the new war secretary, would soon come to understand.
On his first day in office, the energetic, hardworking Stanton instituted “an entirely new régime” in the War Department. Cameron’s department had been so inundated by office seekers and politicians that officials had little time to answer letters or file telegraphs they received. As a result, requests for military supplies were often delayed for weeks. Stanton decreed that “letters and written communications will be attended to the first thing in the morning when they are received, and will have precedence over all other business.” While Cameron had welcomed congressmen and senators every day but Sunday, Stanton announced that the War Department would be closed to all business unrelated to military matters from Tuesdays through Fridays. Congressmen and senators would be received on Saturdays; the general public on Mondays.
Stanton quickly removed many of Cameron’s people and surrounded himself with men much like himself, full of passion, devotion, and drive. He made it clear from the beginning that he would not tolerate unmerited requests for even the smallest job. The day after he took office, Stanton later recalled, he met with a man he instinctively judged to be “one of those indescribable half loafers, half gentlemen,” who carried with him “a card from Mrs. Lincoln, asking that the man be made a commissary.” Stanton was furious. He ripped up the note and sent the man away. The very next day, the man returned with an official request from Mary that he be given the appointment. Stanton did not budge, dismissing the job seeker once again. That afternoon, Stanton called on Mrs. Lincoln. He told her that “in the midst of a great war for national existence,” his “first duty is to the people” and his “next duty is to protect your husband’s honor, and your own.” If he appointed unqualified men simply to return favors, it would “strike at the very root of all confidence.” Mary understood his argument completely. “Mr. Stanton you are right,” she told him, “and I will never ask you for anything again.” True to her word, Stanton affirmed, “she never did.”
Under Stanton’s altered regime, the War Department opened early in the morning and the gas lamps remained lit late into the night. “As his carriage turned from Pennsylvania Avenue into Seventeenth Street,” one of his clerks recalled, “the door-keeper on watch would put his head inside and cry, in a low, warning tone, ‘The Secretary!’ The word was passed along and around till the whole building was traversed by it, and for a minute or two there was a shuffling of feet and a noise of opening and shutting of doors, as the stragglers and loungers everywhere fled to their stations.”
Stanton kept his meetings brief and pointed. He was “fluent without wordiness,” George Templeton Strong wrote, “and above all, earnest, warm-hearted, and large-hearted.” His tireless work style invigorated his colleagues. “Persons at a distance,” a correspondent in the capital city wrote, “cannot well realize what a revolution has been wrought in Washington by the change of the head of the War Department. The very atmosphere of the city breathes of change; the streets, the hotels, the halls of Congress speak it.”
After nearly a year of disappointment with Cameron, Lincoln had found in Stanton the leader the War Department needed.
EARLY IN FEBRUARY 1862, Mary Lincoln pioneered a new form of entertainment at the White House. Instead of the traditional public receptions, which allowed anyone to walk in off the street, or the expensive state dinners, designed for only a small number, she sent out some five hundred invitations for an evening ball to be held at the White House on February 5. Since the party was not open to the public, an invitation became a mark of prestige in Washington society. Those who were not on the original list, according to Nicolay, “sought, and almost begged their invitations.”
Mary prepared for her gala with great enthusiasm. She arranged for the Marine Band to play in the corridor and brought in a famous New York catering firm to serve the midnight supper. She had her black seamstress, Elizabeth Keckley, create a beautiful white satin gown with black trimming, a long train, and a low-cut neckline that instantly attracted Lincoln’s eye. He laughingly suggested that “if some of that tail was nearer the head, it would be in better style.”
Meanwhile, Willie and Tad had settled into a happy routine. They worked with their tutor in the mornings and played with the two Taft boys in the afternoons and evenings, either at the White House or at the Taft home. Judge Taft became “much attached” to both Lincoln boys. He believed that Willie “had more judgment and foresight than any boy of his age that [he had] ever known.” The four boys built a cabin on the mansion’s flat roof, which was protectively encircled by “a high stone Ballistrade.” They named their makeshift fortification the “Ship of State,” and equipped it with a spyglass that enabled them to watch the movement of boats on the Potomac and troops on the shore. They invited guests to theatrical performances in the attic. Riding the pony given Willie as a gift became another favorite pastime. In mid-January, when Robert came home on vacation from Harvard College, the family was complete.
Then, a few days before Mary’s grand party, Willie came down with a fever. Illness had been prevalent in Washington that January, as snow was followed by sleet and rain that left the ground covered with a thick layer of foul-smelling mud. Smallpox and typhoid fever had taken many lives. “There is a good deal of alarm in the City on account of the prevalence of the Small pox,” Judge Taft recorded in his diary. “There are cases of it in almost every Street in the City.”
Illness had struck the Stantons, the Sewards, and the Chases. Stanton’s youngest son, James, had become critically ill after a smallpox vaccination caused “a dreadful eruption” on all parts of the baby boy’s body. The illness continued for six weeks, during which time he was “not expected to live.” In this same period, Fanny Seward, who had gone to Philadelphia with her mother, contracted what was first suspected to be smallpox but was probably typhoid. Her “burning fever,” back pains, and “ulcerated” throat lasted for nearly two weeks. Seward left Washington in alarm to be with Fanny, one of the few departures from his work during the entire war. Nettie Chase was also seriously ill, having contracted scarlet fever on her way to boarding school in Pennsylvania.
Mary thought it best to cancel the party because of Willie’s illness, but Lincoln hesitated, since the invitations had already been sent out. He called in Dr. Robert Stone, who was considered “the dean of the Washington medical community.” After examining Willie, the renowned doctor concluded that the boy was “in no immediate danger” and “that there was every reason for an early recovery.” Relieved by
the diagnosis, the Lincolns decided to hold the ball.
The carriages began arriving at the brilliantly lit White House around 9 p.m. All the Washington elite were present—the cabinet members and their wives, generals and their high staff, the members of the diplomatic corps, senators and congressmen, lawyers and businessmen. McClellan, in dress uniform, attracted much attention, as did the new secretary of war. The Green, Red, and Blue parlors were open for inspection, along with the East Room, where the Lincolns received their guests. Society reporters commented on both the “exquisite taste with which the White House has been refitted under Mrs. Lincoln’s directions” and the magnificence of the women’s attire. The “violet-eyed” Kate Chase was singled out, as usual. “She wore a dress of mauve-colored silk, without ornament,” one reporter wrote admiringly. “On her small, classically-shaped head a simple wreath of minute white flowers mingled with the blond waves of her sunny hair, which was arranged in a Grecian knot behind.”
At midnight, the crowd began to move toward the closed dining room. During a slight delay occasioned by a steward who had temporarily misplaced the key, someone exclaimed, “I am in favor of a forward movement,” and everyone laughed, including General McClellan. The doors were thrown open to reveal a sumptuous banquet, which was to be served with excellent wine and champagne. “The brilliance of the scene could not dispel the sadness that rested upon the face of Mrs. Lincoln,” Elizabeth Keckley, the seamstress who had become a close confidante, recalled. “During the evening she came up-stairs several times, and stood by the bedside of the suffering boy.”
Despite Mary’s worry and watchfulness, the ball was a triumph. “Those who were here,” Nicolay told his fiancée, “will be forever happy in the recollection of the favor enjoyed, because their vanity has been tickled with the thought that they have attained something which others have not.” Although there was some caviling about “frivolity, hilarity and gluttony, while hundreds of sick and suffering soldiers” were “within plain sight,” reviews in the capital city were overwhelmingly favorable. The Washington Evening Star pronounced the event “a brilliant spectacle,” while Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper described Mary as “our fair ‘Republican Queen,’” garbed in a “lustrous white satin robe” and black and white headdress “in perfect keeping with her regal style of beauty.”