Copyright © 2015 by Shane
Tourtellotte
Robert E. Lee stepped out of the carriage, and took his first close look at the White House. It was a fine mansion, in its way, but Lee could not help thinking his old home at Arlington was the more impressive.
"If you'll accompany me, sir." The lieutenant escorting him gestured toward the door, breaking Lee's brief reverie.
"Of course." He walked with his escort, side by side, still taking in the White House. At times, two and three years ago, he had imagined entering this place as a victorious general, carrying his government's terms for peace, and separation. Perhaps God meant to punish his arrogance, but hadn't the North merited much more with its own presumptions?
Apparently not. God had made His decision, the one Lee had acceded to thirteen days ago at Appomattox. Strange how that date already seemed distant, when the day's deeds were ever present with him.
The freckle-faced sergeant guarding the door goggled a moment in awe, then raised his blue cap high over his head in salute. Lee gave the young man a nod. Union soldiers had been that way ever since his surrender: cheering him alongside Richmond locals when he returned home, paying him curious yet respectful visits. He had a high reputation in both countries -- in this one country, he reminded himself. Perhaps he could use that to advantage.
The escort led him inside, then up a wide staircase. A man in plain clothes, older than the young sergeant, stood outside an open doorway to their left.
"Welcome, General." His tone was cordial, but no smile reached his watchful eyes. "President Lincoln is waiting for you." He briskly showed them inside.
Abraham Lincoln sat in the East Hall, reading a report from the Treasury, until he heard footsteps on the nearby stairs. He laid the papers aside, and by the time he heard Parker's voice, he was standing for his guest. He had wanted to meet this man for a long time.
And there he was. He still wore his gray general's uniform, though with black felt-covered buttons that seemed out of place. The brown slouch hat Lee held in his hand was also a mismatch. He was not especially tall, and his hair was mostly gray. He had a ruddy countenance, possibly from long exposure in the field, and dark, arresting eyes. His expression carried great dignity, but Lincoln thought he saw through to a sadness within, one he could well understand.
"Welcome to Washington, General Lee," he said, offering his hand. "I hope your trip was not too tiring."
Lee took the hand without hesitation, having prepared himself for this moment. "Not at all, Mister President. Thank you for the invitation to see you."
The general's voice was beautifully rich, enough to make Lincoln self-conscious. "Not at all. Would you join me inside?" he said, motioning to the open doorway. He spied his plainclothesman's worried look, and dismissed it.
"Of course, sir."
Lee stepped inside the office ahead of Lincoln, taking in its appointments. The marble fireplace to the right was empty that mild day, and Lee noted with slight surprise the portrait of Andrew Jackson above it. The opposite wall was hung with two large maps, one of Virginia, the other of North Carolina -- where right now General Johnston was trying to slip Sherman's grasp. A leather couch, flanked by chairs in the same style, stood beneath the maps.
"Sit wherever you'd like, General," Lincoln said.
The President's voice was high and reedy, betraying something of his rustic upbringing. It was not the voice one imagined from a great leader, but of a country lawyer trying to set an unwilling client at ease.
Lee took one of the leather chairs, thinking that was where Lincoln would want him to sit. The President took a more modest chair from the paper-strewn table in the middle of the office, and turned it to face Lee.
"I'm glad you could come meet with me today," Lincoln said, as he folded himself into his seat.
Lee hadn't quite felt he had a choice, given his position. He would never, of course, say such a thing – not while he was still dealing with the friendly lawyer. "I was very interested to hear what you might have to say to me," he answered instead. This was also the truth.
Lee was, strangely, more imposing sitting down, his eyes nearly on a level with Lincoln's. Lincoln noticed now the general's short legs, and how most of his height was in his perfectly erect torso. He surely would be an impressive sight in the saddle, a man who could lead an army, in any cause.
"Then I'll get to it," Lincoln said. "You are, General, in a unique position. You are, in a real sense, the leader of what remains of the Southern rebellion. Mr. Davis may claim the office, but the people of the South look to you to guide them. I think it is time that you did so."
Lee's face grew severe. "Sir, if you are urging me to usurp the rightful office and powers of President Davis, I must--"
"General, there is nothing there to usurp. The Confederacy is a dead thing, and I think you know that." By the pain that flashed across Lee's features, Lincoln saw that he did. "What remains is for us to reconcile the people of the South to that fact, and there you can be of great use."
Lee grew guarded. "What would you have me do?"
Lincoln laced his hands together. "I would have you publicly urge Jefferson Davis to surrender his government and remaining armies. Perhaps more important, I would have you urge Southerners to lay down their arms and obey the Federal authority. And, if your conscience would permit you, I would have you take the oath of allegiance, as an example to all Southerners."
Now it was all on the table. Lincoln waited as Lee considered his answer, every passing second without a flat rejection raising his hopes.
So here was the Illinois lawyer's stratagem, laid before him. Much of what he suggested appealed to Lee, which only heightened his wariness. A general learned to see traps.
"I agree with you," he started slowly, "that the best thing Southerners can do for themselves now is to work hard to rebuild their states. I have so advised a few men who have asked my advice on the matter. I have also written to President Davis, urging him to give up the war rather than bring further devastation and suffering upon our section."
"I am very glad to hear that," Lincoln said, a smile brightening his homely face.
"However ... if I am to begin acting in a public manner, and not a private one, I would know whose interests I would be serving by my actions."
Lincoln seemed puzzled. "I should think everyone's interests would be served."
"That is what I must judge," Lee said. "To do that, I need to know what your intentions are toward the people and institutions of the South ..." He almost stopped here. "... and toward myself. I have heard hints and rumors, and read a few of your own words, but I must have something more substantial before I could act as you propose."
Lincoln couldn't fault the general for wanting assurances. He would have liked immediate trust, but considering what so many Southerners thought of him, Lee's suspicion seemed a mild, flimsy thing.
"You have had one substantial indication of my intent," he said, leaning forward a bit toward his guest. "General Grant's terms to you were in keeping with my attitude toward the South, and I would not change a letter of them. If General Johnston, and other leaders of rebel forces in the field, gave themselves up on similar terms, I could not be happier.
"But you asked about the people, not the army. My policy toward them would be a similar one: to let them up easy. My aim is to restore the unity of this country. Mass reprisals against rebels would only rend it further apart. You may take that, General, to mean that you need not fear being prosecuted, if that is the assurance you seek."
Lee's countenance barely shifted, but Lincoln thought he saw a flash of relief. How poised and self-controlled this man must be, he reflected, if he could show so little emotion on learning that he would not be put on trial for his life.
"That is good to know," Lee said, still remarkably stoic. "However, I am also interested in the property of Southerners, specifically that which has been confiscated in the course of the war. I want to know what steps will be taken to restore that property to its rightful owners."
Lincoln had not expected this turn. From what he had heard, Robert E. Lee disapproved of the institution of slavery. He seemed an odd candidate to argue its retention or restoration, using the rhetorical term "property" preferred by slavery's partisans.
"General, you must know that is impossible. Slavery is, and must stay, on the road to extinction. Aside from the humane considerations, leaving such a tinderbox--"
"That was not my meaning," Lee interrupted, virtually an outburst from him. "Leave that issue for now, important as it is. I speak of homes, and land." He summoned his strength. "I speak of Arlington, my family home, which you people have taken and ... used."
Lincoln couldn't fault his guest for the attempt, but there was no way to appease him here. "Thousands of our nation's honored dead lie in that ground now," he said. "I would join them in those graves before I had them dug out."
His frankness sent a shock through Lee's poise. "I did not imagine you would exhume a whole cemetery for me. I did think you might restore what you could, return the mansion house to my family."
It might have been possible, once. Lincoln had thought of mitigating the Confiscation Act in rebel states that promptly abandoned the war, but his whole Cabinet had come out against it just a week and a half ago, right outside in the East Hall. Even that, though, did not pertain here.
"That's not possible, General Lee. The Treasury took official possession of the property last year for non-payment of taxes. You must understand, I cannot even appear to hand out Federal property as my personal gift. I would be impeached by my own party in the House, and I would deserve it."
"Non-payment of taxes," Lee repeated. Lincoln could see his color coming up. "Was I really expected to ride personally into Washington with a pocket full of gold to pay off my land taxes? Perhaps one of your generals would have ridden into the opposing capital on such an errand, but not I."
Any other time, Lincoln would have laughed, and likely as not suggested a few Union generals for the role. Now, though, he felt himself being pushed hard, and his reflex was to push back.
"And who made Washington the opposing capital, if not yourself? You made that choice, with all the consequences that follow. If you did not want those consequences, you did not have to try to split the country apart. There is a price for rebellion."
The flush of anger left, and Lincoln saw he had been hard. Lee was struggling inside with emotions, and Lincoln spoke softer, lest anger win that battle inside. "I would not have you pay yet more, but I would have you recognize that what's done is done."
"I know." Lee's voice was a rasp. "I know what I have done, Mr. Lincoln."
In the awful silence that followed, Lincoln cudgeled his brains. Perhaps he could arrange for Lee to pay off the accumulated taxes on Arlington. There would have to be interest charged on the balance, but he might also get a remittance for the part of his land now made into a cemetery. It might be made to work, if Lee had the money.
Before he could start putting his notion into words, though, Lee regained his voice.
The silence was awful. For two weeks, it seemed every waking thought he had had was of the momentous step he had taken four Aprils ago. He did not need this man throwing it in his face. His own regrets were quite enough.
So he would not be made whole, even in this small way. Lee hadn't expected it, but it would have been a heartening sign. Now he needed to ignore the injury to himself, and work to prevent greater hurts.
"I want to know," he began, "just how high you believe the South's price for rebellion should be. What are your plans for us? What cost do you mean to exact, and what clemency do you propose to show?"
Lincoln's eyes came back on him, looking more sunken than before. "I don't have all my plans arranged in my head, and my first announcement really should be in an official capacity."
"If I am, as you have said, the effective leader of the South, does that not give me some official status? Or was it meant more as flattery?"
Lee saw he had scored. When Lincoln spoke again, it was with an air of resignation.
"Very well. My aim is to get the Southern states governing themselves, as quickly as practical. They may do it well or badly, but they need to do it soon -- and they need to do it loyally. New governments under the same old people will only bring the same old problems. The political and military leaders of the Confederacy won't be punished, but neither will they be permitted to take high office. That must be part of the price."
"I see." It sounded reasonable, for as much as it revealed. "Will those leaders, and among them I surely include myself, be granted the vote?"
"I am inclined that way. It may require taking the loyalty oath, but I would put no greater restriction upon it. If you are to be citizens, you should have the rights of citizens."
Lee considered his next question. He wanted to know whether he'd be allowed to own property -- not even Arlington, but something as simple as farmland. He had long thought of becoming a farmer, and now that his military career was done, he needed a new vocation. If Lincoln did not throw impediments in his path, that would be a worthwhile proof of the man's clemency.
He was ready to ask, but another question loomed in his mind. It concerned his personal ambitions less than the general welfare of the South -- and that decided him to ask it instead.
"Are our colored men to have the vote as well?"
Well, here it was. This question was unavoidable: Lincoln had hoped merely to postpone it awhile, or to grapple with it in more amiable circumstances. Now there could be no delaying, and no dissembling either.
"Yes, General. Some, at least, will have the vote. Those who have served in uniform, and perhaps others who demonstrate the aptitude for political involvement."
Lee's face became blankly grave. Lincoln was learning to read the expression as a well-restrained anger. "And we are not to be consulted about this," Lee said, "not to have a choice, but to have it imposed? This part of your price, I must say, is quite high."
Lincoln did not answer Lee's question, because Lee was effectively right. "I hope you will find the price is not as high as you fear. However, we are already on that road, and there is no turning back."
"No." The melodious voice was now clipped and harsh. "This is like making a turn at a crossroads, and declaring your choice irrevocable after two steps. Slavery is one matter: I agree that it is dead, and should be dead. Before the war, I had hoped that it could be ended gradually, by intelligent planning. Doing it abruptly, as you have, is an injustice to the poor slaves, throwing them headlong into a condition for which they are not prepared. That is why the South held so long to the institution. We knew the chaos that would ensue from ending it prematurely, and I fear you too will soon know it."
Lincoln said nothing, too incredulous to trust himself. Did Lee believe what he himself was saying? He had taken Lee as honest, but he had also taken him as too intelligent to succumb to such self-justification, or self-delusion. Or perhaps he was simply a man of the South.
"This plan of colored franchise," Lee continued, "can only compound the error. These people cannot function as voting citizens, cursed as they are with the ignorance that necessarily springs from their bondage."
"That may be so," Lincoln said, "but recall how I structured my plan. Negroes will have to prove themselves intelligent, or they must have served in the military, the experience of which will have instilled -- or brought out -- virtues worthy of a citizen of a democracy."
"Do you really believe that a few months in a blue uniform will work this magic? Do you really believe ... that makes them our equals?"
Lincoln smiled gently. "I have had my doubts about their true equality, and still have some. I have also seen reasons the last four years to believe that it is true. Perhaps it is time to give them the chance to prove or disprove the matter themselves. This I will say for certain: those who have risked their blood for this country have earned something from it. I will not deny it to them."
This attitude, Lee could understand. The many thousands who had served under him for three long years had earned much from their country. Only now, there was no country to repay them as they deserved, and the payment Lincoln proposed to give them would be the bitterest insult.
"You are risking great resentments among the people of the South," Lee said. "Indeed, 'risking' is the wrong word. Many will certainly consider this a despotic act, setting up colored men as an overlord class, overbearing white voters by sheer numbers. And if they are one-time soldiers, with the implied threat of bearing arms to enforce this new order, many Southern men may look toward their old arms as well."
Lincoln sat up at that. "Is that something you would condone? Is that something you would encourage?"
Lee took time choosing his words, needing to be honest without backing down. "I would not encourage them to act so, yet I would not be able to condemn them openly either. Each man has his limits, and I would not set myself up as judge of where one man or another was pressed too sorely to bear."
Would Lincoln understand? Would he realize that he risked reigniting the war with this rashness? Or might he think his aims worth the risk of fresh blood?
A hint of irony tugged at Lincoln's smile. This friendly meeting had, by degrees, turned into a genteel battle, and Lee was as skillful inside this office as he had been in the field. If this was what McClellan and Burnside and Hooker had to face, no wonder they had met defeat so often. Too bad Lincoln could not copy the bashing straight ahead strategy of Grant here.
"I agree with you: men have limits to what they can bear. So consider the burden of bondage that the slaves have borne, in their millions, for as long as they have lived. If they could endure this debasement without a general bloodletting, I think the white men of the South can stand a much lesser discomfiture with similar forbearance."
Lee looked grave, but not quite blank. Pity might have won out over wrath for a moment, and Lincoln pressed the advantage.
"The Negro must be given respect under the law. Whether he gets it from his fellow man is beyond the reach of any government to mandate. Like any other person, he will have to earn it by his works. Likewise, he must have the opportunity to make a better life for himself. This government can provide some help, giving him the tools for advancement he has been denied, but again, the end result is his to determine." He held out his hands. "Is it so terrible, after all, to treat a man as a man?"
Lee did not speak, lost in thought, his head bowed. Lincoln watched him, contemplating the mind working under that gray hair. An odd shimmer in the hair made him look closer, and the realization caught him off guard. Lee's hair was swept over from the left side, covering a bald pate he could just see peeping through.
Suddenly, this was not the indomitable general, grand even in defeat. He was an aged man, worn down by heavy pains and burdens, but bearing it all uncomplainingly. Lincoln found himself respecting Lee all the more for the human frailty he hid so well -- and feeling for a man who, like himself, had carried the crushing weight of this war for so long.
Lincoln had the urge to take Lee's hand, call him "Robert," offer his friendship if Lee would have it. He knew the wish ludicrous the instant it formed in his mind. One could not be so familiar with this man so quickly. He would have to earn it.
"You must contend with matters of Negro policy according to your conscience," Lincoln said. "But I know as well as you do where your conscience lies on the matter of stopping the bloodshed of this war, and of making the South a prosperous part of the nation again. I ask you to help me achieve those ends, which not only being good in themselves, will give us more amicable grounds on which to settle the other matters dividing us." The urge struck again to reach for Lee, but he held back. "Please, will you ask your compatriots to lay down their arms?"
Slowly, Lee's head came up. Pain etched his face. "No."
It wounded Lee to say this. Lincoln's wish for peace and comity was sincere, he had to admit, but it was still all on his terms, the gentle words hiding the acts of a conqueror more than a countryman.
"No," he repeated, "not as your agent. In all your solicitous care for the Negroes, you still do not see that by imposing their self-determination in the South, you've taken that self-determination away from us Southerners. That denies us our political rights in the Union. You would bring us back in physically, but keep us subjugated politically. Now, I will counsel men as I have done before, but I will not do it in any official way that might tend to endorse such actions by you."
Lincoln sighed, the crags on his face deepening. Lee could see the pain there, the weariness that came from years of hard toils. He could feel for the man, were he not so willful.
"I see," said Lincoln. "My path would have been easier with your help -- and so, I think, would yours. The time I have to set the South's path is limited. When Congress convenes in December, it will have its own ideas for the reconstruction of the South, and you will probably like them even less than I will."
"That Congress being the one controlled by your party," Lee noted.
"Oh, yes," Lincoln said, bleakly amused. "My party, but not all of my mind. A good many of them will have vengeance planned. Others will have merciful intents, but impractical plans. It will be a risky time for the South when they are in session."
The implied threat was there in the words, if not the tone. Still, Lincoln had part of a point about the Radicals' power in Congress -- but only a part.
"I would be more persuaded by your warning about Radicals in Congress," he said, "if your own actions hadn't been so often radical."
"War is no placid beast," Lincoln answered. "It gets in the saddle, rather than beneath it, a lesson we have both learned at close hand. I have taken radical actions, but very often have been forced to it by the course of events."
Lee took a moment to reply. "How interesting, then, that the changes you wrought were so often the ones you wanted all along."
Lee had wanted to say far more. The Republicans, he was convinced, had sought to take over the country in 1860, sticking at nothing to impose their will. Now, seeing all the deaths their folly had brought, Lincoln pled powerlessness against a historical tide.
Maybe Lincoln lacked the self-knowledge to see that. Maybe his simple manner concealed a ruthless cunning. Whichever it was, Lee could not take the chance of putting himself in the man's service. This meeting might go on, but in truth it was over.
Lee's words stung the President. But no, they didn't really surprise him. Many Northern Democrats laid the same accusation at his feet: how much greater must be the temptation for Southerners to believe the same. He had only hoped that Lee would not have succumbed to it.
"I see. I could make a hundred protestations of my innocence to that charge, but you would simply reiterate your convictions a hundred and one times. That will do no one any good." He dropped his eyes for a second. "It appears I have wasted your time in asking you to this meeting, and for that I am sorry, General. I will not try your patience any more."
Lincoln stood up, slowly. He felt weary all of a sudden, weary with the burden of hard work ahead for which he would have little help. Lee looked up at him, perhaps surprised that Lincoln had yielded to the inevitable that quickly. Then he reached for his slouch hat and stood.
"I do not feel my time was wasted, Mr. President," Lee said, quite diplomatically. "I still appreciate your invitation here, and the spirit in which it was offered. Perhaps we will be in better accord another day."
Lee offered his hand, and Lincoln took it. "I do hope so," the President said. "Allow me to see you out of the house."
"Of course," said Lee.
It would help Lincoln preserve appearances. Lincoln had tried to keep news of this meeting quiet, but he already knew he had failed, and that reporters and other curious people would be loitering around the White House for a glimpse of General Lee. Seeing them together, in apparent amity, would look good, and perhaps divert awkward questions about actual progress.
Something in Lee's eyes as he broke their handshake told Lincoln that the general knew all this, and did not object. Lincoln took some hope from that.
The fatigue touched him again as he went to open the door for Lee. He promised himself to take some leisure soon. Perhaps the theater tonight. He had wanted to go a week ago, but he and Mary could not find guests to share their usual box at Ford's. This time, he'd settle for going alone, just he and his wife. Indeed, he rather liked the idea.
He tried to think of some pleasant commonplace to talk to Lee about, to lighten the departure -- but a scuffle out in the Center Hall broke his thought. "What is that?" Lee said, advancing. Lincoln hastened to follow.
The gunshot stopped both men cold.
John watched the guard crumple from their clinch, a bullet lodged in his chest. His single-shot Deringer now useless, he reached into his jacket for the dagger. There were steps on the staircase below, and shouts. He had to hurry.
He turned toward the threshold, and there they were. President Lincoln -- oh, he had imagined this moment so many times. But just ahead of him, clad in gray -- the rumor was indeed true. There was General Lee, the man who had surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia, the man who had given up their glorious cause for lost.
Twin hatreds warred within his breast, but only for a second. "Traitor," he breathed as he drew out the dagger. "Traitor to the South!" he shouted, and charged.
The stranger shouted, and ran toward Lee. In two long-legged strides, Lincoln was between them, taking the brunt of his charge. He got hold of his raised left arm and brought it down hard, giving his own side a thump. Getting his other hand on the assailant, he lifted him off the ground. The man hit Lincoln's head with something hard in his right hand, setting off flashes in his eyes. The pain gave him a burst of anger, and he hurled the man bodily out of the room.
Soldiers were already rushing up to the attacker as he crashed to the floor. One of them swung his rifle butt down hard, with a thud and a cry.
"Take him alive!" Lincoln shouted -- then gasped. That blow to his side, he realized, was more than a thump. He put a hand down to his side, and felt the stickiness.
He felt Lee's presence at his side. "Help me ... to a chair," he said softly, and felt steady hands guide him backward.
The whole house was now in an uproar. Guards were hurrying upstairs. Someone was shouting about companions of the attacker, and a diversion. One person knelt over the plainclothesman lying in the hall, apparently shot. Another came rushing in to Lincoln, horror on his face.
"I'm not hurt bad," Lincoln said, and pointed to the plainclothesman. "Look after Parker."
Now they were hauling the would-be assassin to his feet. Lincoln got a look at his crazed face -- and realized he'd seen it before. Two years ago, at a play: The Marble Heart. He couldn't remember the name, only that his lead performance was pretty poor. They carried him off, his plaintive cries of "Useless!" fading away.
Lincoln sagged deeper into the chair. One hand pressed against his knife wound, the other cradled his aching head. Thank God Mary was out shopping this day. Had she witnessed this, he did not think she could have borne it.
He felt something graze the hand at his side. It was Lee's hand, holding a folded handkerchief. Lincoln shifted his hand, and Lee slid it beneath, so he could stanch the blood flow better.
"Thank you," Lincoln said, turning his head. Only then did he see the expression on Lee's face, one so tender that it seemed to belong to a different man.
For a moment, Robert Lee had thought he was going to be struck down. As slowly as he had moved to defend himself, some part must have welcomed it. Better that it had come in battle, but this would perhaps be a fitting end for him, stripped of the honor of the battlefield, dying in the citadel of his enemy.
But it had not come. He had stood still, but Lincoln had moved, had taken the dagger meant for his own vitals. In its simple way, it was as brave an act as Lee had witnessed, in combat or anywhere. And Lincoln did it for a man who, two weeks ago, was his most powerful foe.
He put his old handkerchief against the wound, thinking how inadequate a compensation it was. He had felt such un-Christian sentiment toward this man scant moments ago, and his whole face burned as he recollected it.
"Thank you," Lincoln said. Their eyes met, and Lee felt transfixed, as thought Lincoln was seeing through him, right into the heart of his shame. Lee's eyes wavered, and turned away.
"It cannot go on," he said. "The reprisals, the vengeance, the hate ..."
He felt the moment of decision arrive, as it had two weeks ago. This time, it was going to be easier.
"Were I to publicly denounce this attack, and to ... urge acceptance of the result of the war, would you prefer that I gave my statement to a Northern newspaper or a Southern one?"
Lincoln managed to smile, if wryly. "Any will do. I'm sure the others will pick up the story."
There was a woman's cry outside, down the stairs. "Mary's back," Lincoln said, raising his head. "Help me up, General. She will be calmer if I meet her on my feet. Help me."
Lee lifted Lincoln out of the chair, steadying him a moment as he tottered. He noticed how many eyes were on them, but thought little of it.
... Though Leutze's work contains a few factual errors (for example, Booth had already been taken away, and Lee was not wearing his uniform hat), the iconography of Lee bearing up the erstwhile enemy who saved his life remains immensely powerful and affecting. President Grant acquired the painting for the White House in 1869, to memorialize the reconciliation Lincoln and Lee helped to fashion in the restored Union. Grant placed it in the East Hall, where the dramatic events took place, and it remains there to this day.
Excerpt from entry for "With Charity for All, Emanuel Leutze (1867)", in Artworks of the White House
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