That Nation Might Live: One Afternoon with Lincoln’s Stepmother Read online

  That Nation

  Might Live

  One Afternoon with Lincoln’s Stepmother

  A Story of Motherhood

  Abraham Lincoln

  & The Civil War

  Jeff Oppenheimer

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeff Oppenheimer | TNML Production Company

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” to [email protected]

  www.ThatNationMightLive.com

  Facebook.com/ThatNationMightLive

  Twitter.com/NationMightLive

  ISBN-13: 978-1497538771

  14-1364APC-28

  Printed in the United States of America.

  For Shelbie

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  September 8, 1865

  William H. Herndon’s first letter to his wife Anna

  Ten Yarns as the Story of Abraham Lincoln & The Civil War

  1 - My Angel Mother

  2 - Hasty Pudding

  3 - Live As I Have Taught You

  4 - More Than Common

  5 - Rob Africa Of Her Children

  6 - Good Thing They Did

  7 - More Painful Than Pleasant

  8 - He Desires To Ride Into Office

  9 - Here The Old Lady Stopped

  10 - Abe Know’d My Voice

  William H. Herndon’s second letter to his wife Anna

  Their Humble But Worthy Home

  Which Mother?

  Photographs

  Primary Sources

  House Lights

  William H. Herndon’s Notes — September 8, 1865

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  On September 8, 1865, Abraham Lincoln’s longtime friend and law partner, William H. Herndon, visited the martyred President’s aged stepmother, Mrs. Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln. Herndon’s notes are integrated into the following fictional recreation of their afternoon together. The selected events in the life of Abraham Lincoln are real. The accounts are preferably first person. License was taken to convert these moments in the life of Lincoln into ten stories told from a rocking chair.

  September 8, 1865

  “When I first reached the home of Mrs. Lincoln and was introduced to her by Colonel A. H. Chapman, her grandson by marriage, I did not expect to get much out of her. She seemed so old and feeble … She breathed badly at first but she seemed to be struggling at last to fix her mind on the subject. Gradually by introducing simple questions about her age, marriage, Kentucky, Thomas Lincoln, her former husband, her children, grandchildren … [she] awoke, as it were, a new being. Her eyes were clear and calm; her flesh is white and pure, not coarse or material. She is tall, has bluish large gray eyes.”

  William H. Herndon, Esq.

  Old Mrs. Lincoln’s home,

  Goosenest Prairie, Illinois

  Law Offices of Herndon & Orendorff

  Springfield, Ill., September 8, 1865

  Dearest Anna,

  I cannot work. I cannot rest. My good friend is gone, yet is with us in Spirit. The news of his going struck me dumb, the deed being so informally wicked, so monstrous, so huge in consequences, that it is too large to enter my brain. Hence, it is incomprehensible, leaving a misty distant doubt of its truth. It is grievously sad to think of one so good, so kind, so loving, so honest, so manly, and so great, taken oƒ by the bloody murderous hands of an assassin.

  We exist now in the midst of two civilizations - one in the North and one in the South. The one will try and make Mr. Lincoln a perfect being, a supernatural man, and the other will say he is a devil; and so he will travel down all time misapprehended, not understood and, pray, whose fault will it be? The middle man is needed. Hence I have two things in view: first, sympathy for Lincoln, and, secondly, solidity for his memory. The recorded life sayings and doings of Lincoln will out-last all the artistic lives of Lincoln written during ‚ age — Mark that.

  The train takes me further from you still, yet under my finger, as if by some loving spell, I still feel the tip tap of baby’s Nina’s Blessed heart.

  I feel her snuggled safe between us. These tender moments are all a man can pray for, and God has blessed me with ‚ supreme joy. To have life with you, Anna, is a gift perhaps unworthy of this sloth; but a gift I bother not question, accepting it only with the greatest joy. That you, a woman of such wisdom, good humor, and beauty, would agree to marry me, is proof of Providence beyond the reach of the most measured skeptic. And so it is, to be wrenched from your side, Sweet Anna, is nothing sparing anguishing sorrow. I forgo, as so many have sacrificed long past awful misery that nation might live.

  The battle for Union has concluded. The battle for Truth has commenced.

  Would to God the world knew what I do, and save me the necessity of being the man to open and explain all. I am satisfied, in connection with my own knowledge of Mr. L. for 30 years that his whole early life remains to be written. What made him so tender, so good, so honest, so just, so noble, so pure, so exalted, so tolerant, so divine?

  This is my journey.

  Your loving Husband,

  Billy

  All that I am,

  or ever hope to be,

  I owe to

  my angel mother.

  1

  My Angel Mother

  Old Mrs. Lincoln’s home,

  Goosenest Prairie, Illinois

  Friday, September 8, 1865

  I, William H. Herndon of Springfield, Illinois, hereby present the deposition of Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln, the second wife of Thomas Lincoln, and stepmother of President Abraham Lincoln.

  My railroad journey was twenty-seven hours and 100 miles to Mattoon Station. There I was greeted by Colonel Augustus H. Chapman at the Essex House. The impressive brick structure, combining hotel and rail depot as I have not seen before, sprung from the prairie like corn when the North/South Illinois Central intersected with the East/West Terre Haute Alton line.

  Colonel Chapman steered his two-horse buggy to this cabin eight miles south, to the home of the President’s aged stepmother. I recall from my approach across the open plain a shingled, pitched-roof, unpretentious building with a wide porch stretched across its front. Beside the door an ox yoke is hung there. Chapman said it is a tribute of sorts for Lincoln’s father. Morning Glories climbed freely on it.

  I dismounted on the horse path while Colonel Chapman made my presence known. I was soon greeted by Matilda Johnston Hall, the lone surviving child of Mrs. Lincoln. She led me into the right side door of the saddlebag cabin, comprised of two single room log cabins with separate entrances, connected by clapboards and a shared central chimney. Sword lilies came up plentifully alongside the footpath leading to Mrs. Lincoln’s door, her residence for most of her adult life.

  I stooped to clear the low doorframe. Firelight glinted off the dishes in the polished black walnut bureau sitting proudly beside the fire in the near corner. Opening the door to the plains let in a gust that brightened the fire momentarily, revealing Mrs. Lincoln dozing in her rocking chair, clad neck-to-shoe tip in a black woolen dress. In a reclining position it is evident that Mrs. Lincoln is tall and lean. Her chair sits on an emerald green rag rug, an island on an oak
floor scrubbed clean and glossy, smooth as still water.

  Colonel Chapman leaned close to Mrs. Lincoln’s rocking chair. Around her stooped shoulders was draped a woolen shawl. “Do you need another log on the fire, Granmarm?”

  Summer still owned the plains so it was, to my surprise and discomfort, Mrs. Lincoln prolonged the fire even as the day approached noon. His words seemed to revive her. “Thank’ee, dearie,” she murmured. “Don’t mind a’tall.” I removed my coat.

  I was introduced to her by her daughter, Matilda, known to all as Tildy. I did not expect to get much out of Mr. L’s stepmother. She seemed so old and feeble. She breathed badly at first but she seemed to be struggling at last to fix her mind on the subject. Gradually by introducing simple questions about her age, marriage, Kentucky, Thomas Lincoln, her former husband, her children, grandchildren... she awoke, as it were, a new being.

  Her flesh is white and pure, not coarse or material. She is tall, has bluish large gray eyes set deeply below level brows, framed by a scoop-shaped bonnet and softly curled gray hair. With visible strain she settled upon my countenance and slowly focused. “Where Mr. Lincoln once lived—his friends, too?” she asked.

  “In Springfield, Illinois,” I said once more. “I am William H. Herndon, his friend of thirty years and law partner of sixteen.”

  Muffled, and barely audible, she repeated her question, “Where Mr. Lincoln once lived—his friends, too?”

  Mrs. Lincoln faded back into the fire’s glow while Col. Chapman repeated his introductions, to which she seemed to have no apparent comprehension. I requested her to give me a sketch of her life, and stated that it might prove useful and interesting as a matter of history. After a protracted silence I spoke of her son as a man who was kind, tender and sympathetic, who felt deeply in the presence of suffering, pain, wrong, or oppression of any shape. He was the very essence and substance of truth—the exact truth—was of unbounded veracity, and had unlimited integrity. He was just to all, he loved the right, the good, and true, with all his soul. Mr. Lincoln expressed his great feelings in his thoughts and his great thoughts in his feelings. By these his soul was elevated and purified for his work.

  She had no observable registration to my professions. As hope of any insights into my dearest friend began to fade, Mrs. Lincoln turned and looked upon my face. Her eyelids began to wrinkle and eventually lift and I saw again her bluish large gray eyes.

  “I loved him also.” She said no more.

  Mrs. Lincoln sat up in her rocking chair and smoothed out her skirt with her snowy, slightly gnarled hands. A white linen bonnet, trimmed in lace, covered her gray hair and tied neatly beneath her chin. Her face is as peaceful as a newborn babe’s when she dozes. Awake, she is alive with seemingly unspecified interest.

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded, leaning back in her rocking chair once again. “Where Mr. Lincoln once lived—his friends, too. And you say you were a friend of his?”

  I spoke of her son as the best friend I ever had. He was the best friend I ever expect to have, and I repeated to her that I think Mr. Lincoln was the best man, the kindest, tenderest, noblest, loveliest, since Christ. Something I said roused her considerably. With a single, sustained breath she spoke:

  “I’ve known since he come back from New Orleans that second time...”

  I could not prompt her to provide additional account regarding said return from New Orleans. I began to return my quill to its case when Mrs. Lincoln stirred. She awoke new once more. Her clear eyes returned, Mrs. Thomas Lincoln Says —

  “I knew Mr. Lincoln in Ky — I married Mr. Johnston — he died about 1817 or 18 — Mr. Lincoln came back to Ky, having lost his wife — Mr. Thos Lincoln and Myself were married in 1819 — left Ky — went to Indiana — moved there in a team. Here is our old Bible dated 1819: it has Abe’s name in it. Here is Barclay’s dictionary dated 1799: it has Abe’s name in it, though in a better hand writing — both are boyish scrawls.

  “My eyesight is good but I have trouble sometimes in threading a fine needle. I been better the past winter than common. My teeth are all gone, except two old snags. I am not much account any more, but I am still here mostly, or as much as I ever was. Want to know what kind of boy Abe was? Babies weren’t as plenty as blackberries in the woods of Kaintuck. When I heard the news that Nancy Lincoln had her baby, I long to see her. Danny fussed about doing much of anything, so I hoisted my babe Betsy tight to my ribs and got to walking. You’d a thought he might come chasing after us, but not Daniel Johnston. My first husband was born tired.

  “I made the trip down to Lincoln’s farm on Nolan Creek where Nancy was recovering. Was near a mill owned by a man by name of Hodgens, had a spring on the claim, as I recall. I found Nancy there in the cabin, laying there in a pole bed looking purty happy. Tom’d built up a good fire and throwed a bear skin over the covers to keep them warm, and set their little two-year-old Sairy on the bed, to keep her off the dirt floor. Yes, there was only a dirt floor in the cabin.

  “Lil Sairy and Betsy set there at the foot of the bed and stared at the new babe, point to him a bit, mostly tended to their corncob babies whilst Nancy and I tended to the infant. Yes sir, there were four mammies in that one-room cabin that night! Nancy had washed her little perfect babe and put a yellow flannel petticoat on him. He looked just like any other baby at first, like red cherry pulp squeezed dry.

  “’What you going to name him, Nancy?’ I asked her.

  “‘Abraham,’ she says. ‘After his grandfather that come out to Kaintuck with Daniel Boone. He was mighty smart and wasn’t afraid of nothing, and that’s what a man has to be out here to make anything out of himself.’

  “Betsy and Sarah rolled up in a bear skin, slept by the fireplace that night, with a little corner for me so I could see the little feller when he cried. That was the first time I set eyes on Abe. I can scarcely say, even from his very first, he was mighty good company, solemn as a papoose, but interested in everything. Abe never was much for looks. Looks didn’t count them days nohow. It was strength and work and daredevil. A lazy man or a coward was just poison, and a spindling feller had to stay in the settlements. The clearings hadn’t no use for him.

  “Tom had to git up and tend to his baby boy’s needs at times, some a Nancy’s too. Tom was kind and loving and kept his word, and always paid his way, and never turned a dog from the door. That’s Abe’s father, my second husband. Dare say he’s my last. Any more lost suitors might best turn right round!

  “I was girl still first time Tom Lincoln shown his face in Liztown. (Writer – Elizabethtown, Kentucky) He come around for the work when we were building a mill. I confess I did not object to being at the center of a crowd. From my earliest recollections I known folks were prone to fawn on me. Sinful pride that was. I gussied myself up and brung one of my Mama’s kittles to the stream so I could bring them working men water. Tommy Lincoln try to keep to himself, Mr. Herndon, but that was not to my liking so I pester him some. He was a young man then, vocal as a tree stump. Most natural that he did not object to my attention.

  “I grown up Sally Bush - particular in my personal appearance, and in the selection of my gowns, and in the company I kept. I had long been accounted a proud body, holding my head above common folks. Some of my own kin felt the same. Never figured twice about it as I was living it. As I figured it, the decence of my dress and purt friends, stoked up envy. No surprise then some would hiss about it. Sinful pride that was.

  “Over the years Tommy Lincoln become real familiar to us Bushes. He was a Patroller for a while when my father was Captain. Seem like Tom was kin then. When I was young still, Tommy asked me to marry him. I was barely a woman, and Tommy was a full ten years older than I. Made my share a fool decisions. I did not marry Tom back then. Maybe Tommy Lincoln wasn’t a challenge for me. Or the truth could be simpler still, and the truth might be I was sparking on a certain bushy haired Danny Johnston, the same one all the girls were whispering sin about when we supposed to be singing scripture a
t camp meetings on Green River Lake. And it wasn’t too long afore that same Danny started sparking up sweet right back on me. He smelled like clean pine. I liked that, I liked it too much.

  “Just round then, Tommy Lincoln picked up and took off with my own brother Isaac for New Orleans, only the Good Lord knew when they might return. They took by flatboat, pass through Cheyenne and Chickasaw country, didn’t have fancy riverboats going up and down river back then. You know how they had to make their way home, Mr. Herndon? They walked!”

  Mrs. Lincoln smiled broadly and I could see that the memory amused her greatly. Then, a shadow of concern clouded her features as she inquired, “I stray off topic, Mr. Herndon? My words’ll sometimes follow my wandering mind like a baby fox to its crazy Mama.”

  “Please, Mrs. Lincoln, do not give it a thought,” I assured her. “I am much obliged for the pleasure of your company, and interested in anything you have to say.” I further explained that I hoped, in deposing her story as a matter of course, she would include any peculiarity or specialty of her stepson and his boyhood that she recalled.

  “The examples you have provided already, I think, are excellent. It is all new to me.” I went on to assure her that the information would be valuable in many ways and so it is best she speak freely. Mrs. Lincoln seemed content with my encouragement. I prompted her with a question about her first husband. She continued:

  “I was determined to marry the Prince of our little circle, Mr. Daniel Johnston. I was going to be Sarah Bush Johnston, and I knew better than those plagued choruses of fool-calling I heard all around me. My own father refused to sign the marriage bond, making it known for all his feelings on the subject, so my brother Elijah signed by making his mark.