We Are Lincoln Men: Abraham Lincoln and His Friends

PREFACE

IN the 1880s, when John Hay and John G. Nicolay were collaborating on their biography of Abraham Lincoln, they discussed the tone and bias of the work. Fierce Republicans both, they did not want to write a stump speech in eight vols, but instead to write the history of those times like two everlasting angels—who know everything, judge everything, tell the truth about everything and don’t care a twang of their harps about the one side or the other. But then Hay added a demurrer: There will be one exception. We are Lincoln men all the way through.

This is a book about Lincoln men—people who thought of themselves as special friends of Abraham Lincoln. There can be no doubt that much of the time, Lincoln himself so considered them. They are figures whose lives were inextricably intertwined with Lincoln’s. They were his closest friends.

It came as a surprise to me that they were so few in number. Of course, there were dozens—indeed, hundreds—of others who claimed to be Lincoln’s friends. Throughout his life, many people stepped in to assist him when he needed their help. They loaned him money, they employed him as their lawyer, and they voted for him in elections. He is often pictured as a self-made man who had to struggle to get to the top, but William H. Herndon, his law partner for sixteen years, insisted, with only a little exaggeration, that no man ever had an easier time of it in his early days—in … his young struggles than Lincoln had. He always had influential and financial friends to help him; they almost fought each other for the privilege of assisting Lincoln. After Lincoln’s assassination, when reporters asked old-timers in Illinois how he had been able to rise so rapidly without family connections, without wealth, without education, they received the explanation that Lincoln had nothing only plenty of friends.

In turn, Lincoln referred to dozens of his neighbors, his associates, and even some of his political opponents as friends. In his early years, adopting the Quaker manner of his ancestors, he frequently began letters with salutations like Friend Diller, Friend Thomas, and Friend White. Many of his letters ended with Your friend, as ever. His correspondence is sprinkled with phrases like my personal friend and my personal friend of twenty years standing. In a few instances, he referred to acquaintances as intimate friends—some of whom remain as obscure as Benjamin A. Watson, a Springfield confectioner, and George C. Beilor, or Bestor, who may have been a mayor of Peoria.

But the evidence is overwhelming that only a handful of these friends were on intimate terms with Lincoln. Those who knew him best came to realize that behind the mask of affability, behind the facade of his endless humorous anecdotes, Lincoln maintained an inviolable reserve. Even Herndon, who was associated with him for so many years, found him incommunicative—silent, reticent—secretive, and he often had to guess what his partner thought or wanted. He was, Herndon summarized, the most shut-mouthed man who ever lived.

In pursuing my research, I found myself confronting a riddle: How could a man who had no friends also be a man who had nothing but friends? In attempting to solve it, I steeped myself in the extensive literature on the nature and significance of friendship. The best introduction is The Norton Book of Friendship, edited by Eudora Welty and Ronald A. Sharp—a copy of which my dear friend, Eudora Welty, sent me shortly before her death. It offers a rich and rewarding sampling of letters, poems, and essays describing notable friendships. Next, I explored the considerable psychological literature on friendship, which proved especially valuable in showing the importance of close friendships in one’s early years. I have been greatly influenced by Harry Stack Sullivan’s The Interpersonal Theory of Psychiatry, and I have also learned much from Making a Friend in Youth, by Robert L. Selman and Lynn Hickey Schultz, and from Parents and Peers in Social Development, by James Youniss.

Presently, I discovered that most ideas about friendship derive from philosophical analyses. It is easy to trace a line of intellectual descent from Emanuel Kant to Michel Montaigne to St. Thomas Aquinas to Cicero, all of whom wrote treatises on friendship. And, in turn, their ideas derive from the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle.

Over the centuries, Aristotle’s typology of friendship has remained fundamental. There are, Aristotle shows, three basic kinds of friendships. There are enjoyable friendships, in which people associate simply for the pleasure they derive from each other’s company; there are useful friendships, in which each party has something to gain by associating with the other; and there are perfect or complete friendships, in which there is free sharing of ideas, hopes, wishes, ambitions, fears. Such a complete friendship can exist only between good people similar in virtue, each of whom wishes for his friend good things—not because his friend is useful or even enjoyable but simply because he is good. It hardly needs saying that such friendships are rare.

I found Aristotle’s categories useful in classifying the hundreds of people who claimed to be Lincoln’s friends. A great many of his political supporters were clearly useful friends—people who could help him (and sometimes be helped by him) in running for office or winning a court case. Others were enjoyable friends, like the wild Clary’s Grove boys with whom he raced and wrestled in New Salem, Illinois.

The list of the men who might be considered Lincoln’s complete friends is much shorter. He would have found it easy to agree with Henry Adams’s observation: One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; and three are hardly possible. For a number of men who thought themselves as intimates of Lincoln, there is too little evidence to explore, or to refute, their claims of close friendship. Ward Hill Lamon, Norman B. Judd, Leonard Swett, Gideon Welles, Edwin M. Stanton, Frederick Douglass, and Ulysses S. Grant all knew Lincoln well, but surviving records do not tell us how frequently they saw him, what they talked about, what confidences, predictions, and fears they shared.

I have chosen to focus on six figures who were undoubtedly close to Lincoln and who have left full, revealing reports of their association: Joshua F. Speed, William H. Herndon, Orville H. Browning, William H. Seward, John Hay, and John G. Nicolay. Each saw a different side of Lincoln, and taken together, their accounts present a rounded picture of Lincoln at various stages of his development. They also tell much about Lincoln’s difficulty in making, and in holding, intimate friends.

It will be noted that I have not included any women in this list, and readers may reasonably ask why I do not offer an account of his relationship with his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln. Obviously, there was, for at least part of their marriage, an intimacy that Lincoln did not find elsewhere, but I am convinced that the closeness of husband and wife is basically different from that of friends. At any rate, Mary Lincoln is such an important, and difficult, figure in Lincoln’s life that she deserves separate treatment.¹ Apart from that, my omission stems from the fact that Lincoln was never really comfortable around women, and, except for a few elderly matrons in New Salem, he did not confide in them. Toward the end of his life, he assumed an air of gallantry toward some women—an air that infuriated his jealous wife—but he never developed a special friendship for any of them.

I found that an examination of Lincoln’s close friends required me to rethink some puzzling questions in the Lincoln story: Why did Abraham Lincoln, as a boy, not have a close friend, or chum? Did Lincoln have a love affair with Ann Rutledge? Did Lincoln have a homoerotic relationship with Joshua Fry Speed? How reliable are William H. Herndon’s recollections of his friendship with Lincoln? Why did Lincoln never offer a cabinet post, or a seat on the Supreme Court, to his closest wartime friend, Orville H. Browning? Did William H. Seward largely direct American foreign policy during the Civil War, or did Lincoln use his friendship to manage Seward? Why did Lincoln come to depend so heavily on his two private secretaries, John G. Nicolay and John Hay? To such questions, there are no simple or definitive answers in the historical record, and a biographer has to rely on his understanding of Lincoln’s character, on his knowledge of the period, and, in the end, on his intuition. I have tried to authenticate every factual statement in the following pages, but where the evidence is conflicting or lacking, I have offered judgments that are admittedly speculative.

From time to time, all the major figures in this book had disagreements with Lincoln, but all of them remained loyal to him throughout his life, and after his death, all venerated him as our greatest President. My title is a tribute to that loyalty.

David Herbert Donald

Lincoln, Massachusetts

December 31, 2002

A STRANGE, FRIENDLESS, UNEDUCATED, PENNILESS BOY

Lincoln’s Early Friendships

EVERYBODY liked the boy, but he had no special friends.¹ Years later, after Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, old residents of Kentucky and Indiana remembered what a good boy he had been. He was a modest and Sensitive lad—never coming where he was not wanted, Elizabeth Crawford recalled; he was gentle, tender and Kind.² Dozens said they had been his friends, but no one claimed to have been his intimate.

I

NOT much can be said about Lincoln’s playmates in Kentucky, where he spent his first seven years. Nearly all the stories about his boyhood are apocryphal. For instance, the Reverend James Duncan recalled how with three dogs he and young Abraham chased a groundhog into a cleft in the rocks along the side of a creek. After working in vain for nearly two hours to force the creature out, Lincoln ran off about a quarter of a mile to the blacksmith shop and returned with an iron hook attached to the end of a pole, which he used to pry the creature out. The problem with this memory is that Lincoln would have been only two years old at the time.³

The only fairly authentic anecdote concerning Lincoln’s Kentucky playmates recounts an adventure when he was about seven. He and Austin Gollaher were playing in Knob Creek, which ran near the Lincolns’ cabin, and decided to cross it to look for some young partridges Lincoln had seen the previous day. Neither boy could swim. Gollaher succeeded in cooning his way across on a small sycamore pole, but when Abraham followed, he fell off into deep water, and Gollaher had to rescue him. He was almost dead, Gollaher remembered years later, and I was badly scared. I rolled and pounded him in good earnest until he began to breathe again.⁴

When Abraham was about six, he trudged off to school with his older sister, Sarah, more in order to keep her company on the two-mile walk than in any expectation that he would learn to read and write. But Gollaher, looking through the golden haze of memory, said Abraham was an unusually bright boy at school, and made splendid progress in his studies. During the few months he and Sarah attended school, another Kentuckian remembered, He alwa[y]s appear[e]d to be very quiet during play time and gained something of a reputation for liking solitude and for keeping his clothes cleaner than the other boys his age.⁵

But when all these stories are put together, they add up to very little. As his cousin Dennis Hanks correctly judged, Abe Exhibited no special traits in Ky.⁶

II

SOUTHERN Indiana was not a place that encouraged young Abraham Lincoln to make close friends. When Thomas Lincoln moved his family from Kentucky to Perry County (later subdivided to form Spencer County), Indiana, in 1816, they settled in a wild region. The public land to which Thomas staked his claim in the Little Pigeon Creek area was so remote that for part of the distance from the Ohio River, he had to hack a path through unbroken forest for his family to follow. Dangerous animals prowled in the woods. Many years later, when Abraham Lincoln revisited the region, he was moved to verse:

When first my father settled here,

’Twas then the frontier line:

The panther’s scream, filled night with fear

And bears preyed on the swine.⁷

There was little opportunity in this rough frontier region for young Abraham Lincoln to make friends with other children of his own age. Though he was only eight years old, he was large for his age, and his labor was needed to help clear away the undergrowth and chop down enough trees so that his father could plant corn. As he remembered it, he had an axe put into his hands at once; and from that till within his twenty-third year, he was almost constantly handling that most useful instrument—less, of course, in plowing and harvesting seasons.⁸

After about a year, the family seemed fairly well settled, especially when Thomas Sparrow and his wife, Elizabeth Hanks Sparrow, Nancy Hanks Lincoln’s aunt and uncle, moved from Kentucky and built their own cabin near the Lincolns’. Dennis Hanks, Elizabeth Sparrow’s eighteen-year-old illegitimate nephew, accompanied them, and he enlivened both households with his irrepressible good spirits and endless loquacity.

Then disaster struck. People in the Little Pigeon Creek community began to be afflicted with the mysterious ailment they called milk sickness that was later discovered to be caused by milk from their cows that ran wild in the forest and had been eating the luxuriant but poisonous white snake-root plant. Dizziness, nausea, and stomach pains were followed by prostration, coma, and, usually within seven days, death. Both Thomas and Elizabeth Sparrow died. Then Nancy Hanks Lincoln fell sick and died on October 5, 1818, leaving behind her husband, her daughter, aged eleven, and Abraham.

The death of his mother was a critical event in Abraham Lincoln’s life. There is no way to measure the effect of such a loss on a nine-year-old. Lincoln himself left no direct record of his grief over his mother’s death, but there is evidence to suggest his deep sense of loss. In the 1840s, when he revisited his old Indiana neighborhood, he was moved to mournful verse:

I range the fields with pensive tread,

And pace the hollow rooms,

And feel (companion of the dead)

I’m living in the tombs.⁹

During the Civil War, in an attempt to console the bereaved child of a friend killed in battle, he wrote: In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares…. I have had experience enough to know what I say.¹⁰

Death is always traumatic for small children, and in Abraham’s case the blow was the more severe because his mother’s death, at the age of twenty-five or twenty-six, was both premature and unexpected. There was no long period of illness during which her husband and children could reconcile themselves to the inevitable. The loss was the more devastating because of its finality. Though a religious woman, Nancy Hanks Lincoln apparently had no belief in an afterlife (nor did her son ever develop one), and on her deathbed she gave her children no assurance that she would see them in heaven but told them to be good and kind to their father—to one another and to the world.¹¹ There was no possibility for a healing period of mourning. Nancy Lincoln, like her aunt and uncle, was placed in a coffin her husband hastily constructed of rough boards and, without ceremony, was buried on a knoll a quarter of a mile from the cabin. No stone or other marker was erected over her grave.

Children experience the death of a parent with confused emotions. There is, of course, the immense and overwhelming sense of loss, but there is also often concealed anger at having been abandoned. Always there is a sense of guilt—guilt over being a survivor when a mother or father has been taken—which can be accompanied by a wholly irrational feeling that, especially in the case of a mysterious disease like the milk sickness, somehow the child may have done something or neglected to do something that caused the parent’s death.¹²

Psychoanalysts agree that when a parent dies, a child needs most the comforting presence of his surviving parent or of a known and trusted substitute.¹³ But the undemonstrative Thomas Lincoln, who had to struggle simply to keep food on the family table, was not a man who could extend such comfort to his orphaned children, and there were no neighbors who could serve as mother substitutes.

The sense of abandonment that the Lincoln children felt because of the death of their mother induced fear that their father too might leave them. Indeed, within a year of Nancy’s death, Thomas Lincoln did go back to Kentucky, leaving his two small children unprotected except for their teenage cousin, Dennis Hanks. When Thomas Lincoln returned with a new wife, Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln, she found Abraham and Sarah dirty, hungry, and clad in tatters. The children became devoted to this warm and outgoing woman, a widow with two daughters and a son Abraham’s age, who quickly brought order to the Lincoln household, but she arrived before Abraham had time fully to accept the loss of his mother. His father had remarried before an itinerant preacher read a funeral service over Nancy Hanks Lincoln’s grave.

In such circumstances, children often have difficulty in making close connections with others. It is as if once their most intimate link, to a parent, has been destroyed, they are fearful lest they invite another devastating hurt.

III

DURING this period of incomplete mourning, Abraham was saved from social isolation by the presence of Dennis Hanks, engaging, garrulous, and self-promoting. Dennis was later to claim he had great influence on young Abraham. I taught Abe his first lesson in spelling—reading and writing, he boasted. I taught Abe to write with a buzzards quillen which I killed with a rifle and having made a pen—put Abes hand in mind [mine] and moving his fingers by my hand to give him the idea of how to write.¹⁴ (He claimed also to have sparked Lincoln’s interest in the law: I bought the Statute[s] of Indiana and from that he Lerned the principles of Law and allso My Self.) Most of these claims were fabricated or highly exaggerated, though certainly the two worked together on the farm and hunted rabbits together. But Dennis was nearly ten years older than his cousin, and he was more like a benevolent uncle than a close friend.

Abraham never developed a warm friendship for his step-brother, John D. Johnston, who was about his own age. The reasons are obscure. Though Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln was even-handed in her treatment of both boys, her husband was not; as a relative remembered, he always appeared to think much more of his stepson John D. Johnston than he did of his own Son Abraham.¹⁵ Perhaps Thomas Lincoln felt more temperamentally kin to John D., who was rather dull and lazy, if good-tempered, than he did to Abraham; possibly he felt threatened by Abraham and was unwilling to share the male role of authority with his talented son. At any rate, a relative recalled, he never showed by his actions that he thought much of his son Abraham when a Boy, he treated [him] rather unkind than otherwise. Inevitably the two boys became rivals rather than friends. Dennis Hanks said they were enemies.¹⁶

Outside of Abraham’s family circle, there were few boys of his own age in the Little Pigeon Creek community. The Lincoln family had no nearby neighbors. Spencer County was almost uninhabited when the Lincolns arrived, with a total population of only about 200 in an area nearly the size of the state of Rhode Island. In 1820, about forty families lived within a five-mile radius of the Lincolns’ cabin; this means there were fewer than two families per square mile. Louis A. Warren, who made a careful study of the early land records and the 1820 census, calculated that at the time Abraham was eleven years old, there were seven, or possibly eight, families that lived within a mile of the Lincolns, and these included only ten boys (besides Abraham and John D. Johnston) and nine girls between the ages of seven and seventeen. It is not possible to ascertain the ages of the individual children, but these figures suggest that within a mile radius, there were, at most, only one or two other boys of Abraham’s age, none living so close that they could see each other and play with each other daily.¹⁷

The Little Pigeon Creek neighborhood was not even a village, and there was nothing like a community center, but Abraham did have a chance to meet other children when he, with his sister and the three Johnston children, attended the school that Andrew Crawford opened in a cabin about a mile from the Lincoln house. It closed after one term of three months. The next year, he enrolled in James Swaney’s school, about four miles from home, but the distance was so great that, because of his farm chores, he attended only sporadically. The following year, he went for about six months to a school Azel W. Dorsey opened in the same cabin where Crawford had taught. His