Profiles in Character #10: Abraham Lincoln Amidst the Civil War
“By jingo, Butler or not Butler, here goes!” Abraham Lincoln said as he wrote to stop the execution of a young Union soldier in General Butler’s Army. The man’s elderly father had come to the White House to plead for his son’s life. Despite Butler’s urging that such commutations destroyed Union Army discipline, Lincoln, with sadness in his eyes, could not resist. By the Civil War’s end, he had saved hundreds of soldiers from their fate, mostly young boys who stayed away on leave, fell asleep on sentry duty, or just got scared in battle. Pleas from a mother, sister, or wife were especially effective. His compassion extended even to Confederate deserters who fell into Union hands, telling one mother: “You shall have your boy, my dear madam.”
Lincoln was tortured by the horror of the war. He came into office in 1861 dedicated to saving the union, and his belief in forgiveness reflected both his ethical values and his goal of preserving republican government by reuniting the nation, which he called “the last best hope of earth.” His magnanimity was often criticized by Northerners who sought vengeance, but it rarely swayed him. In mid-1864, Congress passed the Wade-Davis bill that set stringent measures for any Confederate state to be re-admitted to the union. Lincoln vetoed it, in part because it was too harsh, expected too much of the soon-to-be-defeated rebels.
His penchant for forgiveness was expressed most forcefully and eloquently in his Second Inaugural Address. On March 4, 1865, after acknowledging that both North and South were complicit in “American slavery,” he asked a heavily northern and revenge-filled audience to have “malice toward none, with charity for all.” Sensing an impending Union victory, he pleaded for reconciliation, “to bind up the nation’s wounds.” His words, and his belief in forgiveness, were well-known to his generals and no doubt led Grant to give generous terms to Lee at Appomattox just over a month later.
On the morning of April 14th, in what would turn out to be his last cabinet meeting, Lincoln reminded those present of his desires. As recounted by Gideon Welles, his navy secretary:
“he did not sympathize with and would not participate in any feelings of hate and vindictiveness. ‘He hoped there would be no persecution, no bloody work after the war was over. None need expect he would take any part in hanging or killing these men, even the very worst of them. Frighten them out of the country, let down the bars, scare them off, said he, throwing up his hands as if scaring sheep. Enough lives have been sacrificed. We must extinguish our resentment if we expect harmony and union. There was too much desire on the part of our very good friends to be masters, to interfere with and dictate to these States, to treat the people not as fellow-citizens; there was too little respect for their rights. He didn’t sympathize in those feelings.’”
Forgiveness, Lincoln knew, was an essential act for the vanquished as well as the victor. As long as hatred lingered, the nation could not reach the point he longed for at the end of his First Inaugural Address in 1861: “we are not enemies, but friends” who must be “touched . . . by the better angels of our nature.”
After Lincoln’s assassination, at a Sunday service in St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Richmond, a black man came forward to receive communion. The white congregation and the minister were stunned, the latter not quite knowing how to respond. At that moment, a gray-haired white man also came forward and knelt beside the black man at the chancel rail. As they received communion, the rest of the congregation rose from their seats and followed. It’s not clear whether forgiveness and the healing it promised were in their minds, but the signal sent by Robert E. Lee suggested that it should be.
Photo Credit: Lincoln Pardon Letter, Courtesy of Denver Post
