Author’s Note
I was raised in a political family, my father, Ernest C. Manning, serving as Premier of the Canadian province of Alberta for twenty-five years and as a Canadian Senator for another thirteen years. I myself served as a member of the Canadian Parliament during a time when it wrestled with the potential secession of a Canadian province from our federation.Besides my father, my two other heroes growing up were Jesus of Nazareth and Abraham Lincoln of Illinois.
Good Friday was therefore always a doubly melancholy day for me because it marked the day historically when Jesus was cruelly and unjustly executed by the Romans and Abraham Lincoln was cruelly and tragically assassinated by John Wilkes Booth.
In the case of Jesus, the melancholy of his followers, myself included, is relieved by the good news of his resurrection on Easter Sunday. But in the case of Abraham Lincoln, there is no equivalent relief for the melancholy of his admirers brought on by the painful recollection of his untimely death.
And so, when I would tell my own children the story of Lincoln, I sought for some way to somewhat alleviate that gloom—if only in my and their imaginations. Out of that desire came this fictitious story.
I have political friends who are realists to the core, and other friends and family members who are serious students and writers of history. They may understandably take a rather dim view of the literary and political license which I have taken in concocting this tale. All I can do is ask your indulgence and that of others who might possibly be offended.
But perhaps, like me, you are a great admirer of Abraham Lincoln still inclined on occasion to grieve over his untimely passing when reminded of it. If so, perhaps this little tale will be helpful in enabling us to appreciate his life and revere his memory even more by imagining “what might have been”—the harms which his country might have been spared and the unrealized benefits it might have reaped—had he continued to live and further serve the cause of government of the people, by the people, and for the people.
This is my modest hope in sharing with you “A Horse for Mr. Lincoln.”
Preston Manning Calgary, Alberta
A Horse for Mr. Lincoln
INTRODUCTION
My name is John Hay. I was born in 1838 in Salem, Indiana, raised in Warsaw, Illinois, and educated at Brown University.After Mr. Lincoln’s death, my colleague John Nicolay and I wrote and published a detailed account of the Lincoln Presidency. It has since been quoted by many others as an accurate and authoritative account of that tumultuous period in the history of the United States.
But in the years since that account was first published my conscience has been troubled—troubled by the fact that a most Significant Event occurred midway through the Lincoln presidency, the details of which I did not share with my co-author and which I deliberately chose to omit from our historical account. I did so because this Event was so unusual and inexplicable that, had it been included in our narrative, I feared it would have undermined our credibility as authors and the credibility of our work.
Since I left the employ of the White House and the United States government many years ago, I have grown old and am now gravely ill. I have been persuaded by my wife—the only one to whom I have ever confided this matter—that before I pass from this world I should share my knowledge of the aforementioned Significant Event with the public, in particular those who, like me, still hold dear the memory of Mr. Lincoln.
And thus this brief memoir, entitled, for reasons that will become evident to the reader, “A Horse for Mr. Lincoln.”
John Hay
Cleveland, Ohio
1. JOURNEY TO GETTYSBURG
On the first three days of July 1863, the largest and bloodiest battle of the American Civil War was fought in the vicinity of a small Pennsylvania town named Gettysburg.The northern Army of the Potomac, commanded by General George Meade, prevailed, but it suffered the loss of some 23,000 men killed, wounded, or missing.
The southern army commanded by General Robert E. Lee suffered losses of around 28,000 men, but nevertheless managed an orderly retreat which meant the War would continue.
Early in November of that same year, President Lincoln was invited to make “a few appropriate remarks” at a solemn ceremony planned to dedicate a portion of the battlefield as a national soldiers’ cemetery.
And so it was that on the morning of November 18, 1863, I accompanied Mr. Lincoln by carriage to the Washington train depot to make the somber journey to Gettysburg.
The four-car presidential train, steam belching from its engine, was decorated with flags for the occasion. We mounted the steps of the last car and I deposited Mr. Lincoln’s things—a traveling bag and a sheaf of papers—in the private room at the rear which served as the President’s office on such excursions.
“All aboard for Gettysburg!” the conductor cried, adding for the President’s benefit, “And God bless the Union!”
The front portion of the fourth car consisted of a well-appointed drawing room where the President could receive and visit with other guests on the train if he so chose. On this occasion he had invited a number of ambassadors, newspapermen, and military personnel to accompany him to the dedication. Three members of his cabinet were also on board—each taking me aside and making clear that he would need “a word with the President” on some important matter before we reached our destination.
Mr. Lincoln spent considerable time visiting with various passengers as they came and went. But as we neared Hanover Junction I interjected myself, saying that the President had some important work to attend to. I then got the President settled in his “office” and settled myself on the bench outside his closed door. Those seeking “a word” would have to get past me. And knowing that the President wanted to work on his remarks for the dedication the next day, I was resolved that he not be disturbed.
I was extremely weary, having been up half the night before preparing for the trip. With my eyes half closed I stared out the window watching the telegraph poles along the roadbed flash by with ever-increasing speed.
They spoke to me of all the telegrams bearing news from the war front which poured into the War Office in Washington just across from the White House. Mr. Lincoln often visited that office himself or sent me to bring those telegrams to him. How I hoped—how I prayed—that they would contain good news to cheer the President’s spirits. But more often than not the news was bad, report after report of heartbreaking setbacks and failures, of defeats and retreats rather than victories and advances.
Dark scenes, broken by intermittent bursts of light, flashed across my eyes. The demoralizing rout of the Union Army at Bull Run. Defeat in Missouri, then victories at Pea Ridge and Fort Henry. Victory again at Roanoke Island—things were looking up—then the indecisive Peninsular campaign, the ignominious withdrawal of the Army of the Potomac after the Seven Days Battles, and the Confederate victory at Manassas. A costly victory for the Union Army at Antietam, only to be followed by defeats at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. Then victory at Gettysburg, but at what an appalling cost and Lee’s army allowed to escape. The never-ending scenes of blood and carnage and the weary procession of Union generals—Scott, McClellan, Burnside, Hooker, Meade—as the President sought vainly to find a general who would fight and win.
I was awakened from my fitful dream by someone shaking my shoulder. It was Secretary of State Seward, anxious to talk to the President. More requests, two more cabinet members ushered into the “office,” more visitors, more meetings, until at last as evening fell we arrived at Gettysburg.
Mr. Lincoln was taken immediately to the home of David Willis, a resident of Gettysburg who had been appointed special agent of Pennsylvania’s Governor Curtin for the purposes of arranging the dedication ceremonies. There, Mr. Lincoln met with governors of several northern states—important political allies—and with Edward Everett, former U.S. Senator, former Governor of Massachusetts, former Secretary of State, and former President of Harvard, who had been invited to give the main dedicatory address the next day.
Mr. Lincoln retired about 11:00 p.m. to work further on his dedicatory remarks. At 11:00 a.m. the next morning, mounted on a chestnut horse, he joined with other dignitaries in the procession to Cemetery Hill.
When we arrived at the platform site it was surrounded by almost 20,000 people assembled to pay their last respects to the fallen warriors of Gettysburg. The ceremonies began with a prayer offered by the chaplain of the House of Representatives. Then came Mr. Everett’s magnificent oration, lasting almost two hours and describing in measured tones and beautiful language the history of the war, the details of the Battle of Gettysburg, and the tribute owed to those who had made the supreme sacrifice at this very place.
Now it was Mr. Lincoln’s turn. He drew his paper from his coat pocket, put on his spectacles, and surveyed the crowd for a moment. Then in that clear tenor voice of his which I had come to know so well, audible even to those at the outer edges of that great crowd, he spoke the following words:
Five times the President was interrupted by applause. Even so, his whole speech was over in less than three minutes. Later he would be criticized for being too brief, and Edward Everett for being too long. But as Mr. Lincoln himself later wrote to Everett: “In our respective parts …, you could not have been excused to make a short address nor me a long one.”
At the conclusion of the ceremonies it was my unenviable task, with the help of a military escort, to move Mr. Lincoln through the immense crowd back to Gettysburg where he had more meetings before our train could leave for Washington.
I did my best, but what could I do or say when an old man who had lost his son at Little Round Top clung to the President’s hand tearfully begging him to “remember my boy.” The President stopped, his own eyes welling with tears, and assured the man, “I will not only remember, but remember with tears of gratitude what your boy has given to his country.”
2. THE THREE TROOPERS
The presidential train was scheduled to leave Gettysburg for Washington later the next day. Before leaving, and after checking that the President had no immediate need of my services, I saddled the horse that had been provided me and took the opportunity to make one last tour of the battlefield.
I still could scarcely comprehend the carnage that had taken place there just a few months earlier. Although valiant attempts had been made to dress the battlefield for the dedication, the signs of destruction were everywhere—the scarred earth ploughed by cannon balls, the scorched trees pockmarked and shredded by rifle fire, the unmistakable stench of rotting horse flesh still wafting on the air.
Notwithstanding the eloquence of Mr. Everett and the President, could any words spoken or written about the Battle of Gettysburg ever hallow or sanctify such a field of horrors?
I rode slowly back towards the town. The streets were still busy with visitors and soldiers who had come to represent the many units which had been engaged there. As I turned on to the main street toward the railway depot, I was jolted from my melancholy thoughts by the sound of a piercing, high pitched whistle.
My horse, ears pricked forward, jerked his head toward the source. My eyes followed his and saw, standing on the edge of the street, three cavalry troopers all in blue. The middle one—the source of the whistle—was a giant in stature with a bushy beard and curly black hair protruding from under his cavalry Stetson.
The troopers waved, beckoning me to approach. When I did so, it was the giant who spoke.
“You are Mr. Hay, Mr. Lincoln’s assistant?”
“I am,” I replied.
“My name is Gabriel Durham, of the 12th Illinois Cavalry, part of Buford’s Brigade. “These here,” he pointed to his companions, “are troopers Stedman and Blanset.”
“We’re Illinois men, too,” volunteered Stedman. “Buford’s Brigade. It was us that held the high ground here at Gettysburg until the infantry could get here.”
“Held the high ground,” added Blanset earnestly.
“What can I do for you boys?” I asked.
“We have something we want to give the President,” replied the giant, removing his hat and rubbing it on his pant leg.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A horse.”
“A horse?” I queried.
“Yes,” said the giant excitedly. “The men of Buford’s Brigade—many of us are Illinois boys—are great admirers of the President. We believe everything he said in his little speech yesterday is dead true. We want to give him something to remember this place and to remember us by—a horse, a cavalry horse with cavalry tack and our brigade colors.”
“We feel like Mr. Lincoln is holding the high ground in Washington like we held it here in Gettysburg,” added Stedman soberly.
“The high ground,” repeated Blanset.
“Where is this horse?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” said Durham, smiling sheepishly and scratching his head. “We don’t have it yet. But we took up a collection from the men and from our friends back home, and we have the money. We just got to go out now and find the right horse.”
“It can’t just be any horse,” added Stedman. “Got to be the right horse—the right horse for the President.”
Durham elaborated. “The word among the cavalry is that sometimes on these special occasions they don’t give the President the right horse. Sometimes it’s too small for a big man and his feet—the President’s—almost touch the ground. Looks ridiculous. Or sometimes it’s too skittery. The President needs a horse that’s cool under fire. In the cavalry we match the horse to the man.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Lincoln would like these fellows—down to earth, brave, sincere, and generous.
“But what is it you want from me?” I asked, concerned now that I was going to miss the train.
“When we get the right horse and get him properly outfitted,” replied the giant, “we’ll bring him to Washington. All we want you to do is to arrange things so that we can present him to the President.”
“Tell you what,” I said, highly doubting that I would ever see these men again or the still-to-be-purchased horse. When you get that horse and you’re ready to come to Washington, send a telegram to me at this address. Then I’ll see what I can do for you.” (I hastily scribbled down the telegraph address at the War Office that I visited almost daily.)
“Much obliged, Mr. Hay,” said the giant, giving me a slow sweeping salute. “You’ll be hearing from us.”
3. A HORSE FOR MR. LINCOLN
Month after weary month passed, marked with the ebb and flow of the fortunes of war. This battle won, that battle lost. Hopes raised today only to be dashed tomorrow. Then the appointment of Ulysses S. Grant as Lieutenant-General in command of all the Union forces. Victories now more frequent than defeats, Sherman’s march to the sea, and at long last, Lee’s surrender at Appomattox.During the same time period, Mr. Lincoln’s political fortunes ebbed and flowed: the growing conviction that he could not win a second term, and the Democrats’ nomination of General McClellan with his platform of a ceasefire and a negotiated peace. There was gloom in Republican circles, and my colleague John Nicolay and I were wondering what we would do if Mr. Lincoln went down to defeat.
But then came General Sherman’s just-in-time victory at Atlanta, the upswing in the President’s political fortunes, and his re-election to a second term in November 1864. There were wild celebrations of the Republican camp, amid Mr. Lincoln’s swearing in and his moving Second Inaugural Address in March 1865.
It was at this time that it came—a telegram addressed to me personally care of the War Office.
“Hay: Remember me? Met you at Gettysburg. Have the horse for Mr. Lincoln. Request permission to present the week of April 9. Our troop to be disbanded but will pass through Washington first. Please respond. Private Gabriel Durham, 12th Illinois Cavalry.”
Durham? A horse? Permission to present? For a moment I couldn’t even place the name let alone make sense of the request. Then it all came back. Our visit to Gettysburg. The three troopers. Durham, the giant. The promise of a horse for Mr. Lincoln.
A few months earlier I would have consigned such a request to the trash basket. But now Washington, the White House, I myself—all were in a celebratory mood. What harm could it do to let three troopers from Illinois have fifteen minutes with their Commander in Chief?
I looked at the President’s appointment book. Full as usual. But perhaps on Friday (Good Friday) April 14th. Mr. Lincoln’s schedule was light that day with only a few appointments and a tentatively planned visit to the theatre with Mrs. Lincoln and friends that evening.
I telegraphed back: “Durham: Glad you’re still alive. Fifteen minutes on April 14th to present the horse to Mr. Lincoln. Come to the north gate of the White House at 5:00 p.m. sharp. Sincerely, Hay.”
The days flew by. Friday April 14th. Mr. Lincoln attending to his appointments and correspondence. Mrs. Lincoln insisting that the President attend the theatre that evening. Almost 5:00 p.m. A sentry appears at the door to my office.
“Mr. Hay, sir. Three troopers from the 12th Illinois Cavalry at the north gate. They say they have an appointment with the President.”
“Please send them up.”
“Sir, they have a horse with them.”
“Please send them up.”
I advised the President that his visitors had arrived and were waiting just outside. Mr. Lincoln pulled on his boots—the new ones we had given him for the Inauguration—and descended the steps.
“Mr. President. These men are the troopers from the 12th Illinois Cavalry that I told you about. They fought under Buford at Gettysburg. Mr. President, meet troopers Durham, Stedman, and Blanset. Gentlemen, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Honored, Mr. President, honored,” said Durham, saluting crisply then grasping the President’s hand. “We have something for you, sir—a present from the men of the 12th. Stedman, Blanset, bring him here.”
“Well, well,” said the President, “glad to meet you boys. And any trooper from Illinois who fought at Gettysburg is already a friend of mine. But I already have a horse, don’t I, Hay?”
The President was in a good mood.
“Not like this one, sir.” And I meant it.
The horse that tossed his head and danced at the end of the short tether held by Stedman was a most magnificent animal. He was fully 18 hands high, sound and well-formed in every respect, coal black in color with four white stockings and a small white star on his forehead. His powerful, bulging shoulders were impressive. He held a certain energy and wisdom in his eyes that demanded respect.
His bridle and saddle were of the finest leather, polished until they glistened like burnished gold and studded with silver stars.
The President gave a low whistle of admiration. He knew good horse flesh when he saw it.
“No taxpayers’ horse, this one, Hay. What a beauty, boys! What a beauty! Does he have a name?”
“His name is High Ground,” declared Durham. “It was Buford’s troopers that held the high ground at Gettysburg just like you’ve held it here in Washington.”
“Held the high ground,” repeated Blanset earnestly.
The President was obviously moved. He looked from the horse to Durham, and from Durham to Stedman and Blanset.
Very slowly, as if to himself, he repeated the words: “High Ground? High Ground. I guess we all know what it can cost to try to hold the high ground. Thank you, men, for this horse and for what you and your friends…” His voice choked and tailed off.
It was Durham who broke the awkward silence.
“Would you like to ride him, sir?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Lincoln.
The President swung easily into the saddle. (I’d never really thought of him as a horseman, until he had reminded me one day of the many miles he had spent on horseback as a lawyer riding the Illinois court circuit.)
He and High Ground appeared made for each other— Mr. Lincoln’s long legs and lanky frame not looking so awkward or conspicuous astride a horse of that height and size.
The President clicked his tongue softly. High Ground broke into a slow easy canter down the lane toward the north gate. The sentries at the gate watched approvingly as horse and rider made a quick turn and trotted smartly back toward the White House.
“He’ll do just fine,” the President assured the three troopers. He dismounted easily, and handed High Ground’s reins to one of the stable boys who had come out from the livery stable to watch.
“Hay,” he said enthusiastically, turning to me, “let’s show these boys a little White House hospitality. It’s the least we can do in gratitude for such a magnificent gift.”
“But, sir,” I remonstrated, “you and Mrs. Lincoln are to leave for the theatre in a few minutes.”
“The theatre? Oh, yes, the theatre.” The President rolled his eyes.
“Tell you what we’ll do.” (I could tell the President was about to change plans as he was wont to do, and could already feel the wrath of Mrs. Lincoln.) “Hay, have Johnson (Vice President Andrew Johnson) and the rest go on ahead—Johnson was thinking of accompanying us anyway. Mrs. Lincoln and I will come along shortly.”
“And as for you boys,” he clapped Durham on the shoulder, “you come with me. Hay here will get you something to drink, we’ll swap a few stories, and we’ll let Johnson represent me at the theatre for a while. After all, what’s a Vice President for anyway?”
I began again to protest, but could see it would be no use. The President was already herding the three troopers toward the White House. I hurried off to send a message to Johnson and to arrange the refreshments, but dreading the moment when I would have to explain the change in plans to Mrs. Lincoln.
