CHAPTER 18
PEACE IS NOT THE GOAL
To demonstrate that the Senate firmly backed Lincoln's Ned Baker in that
day's debate and stood foursquare against the "polished treason" of his oppo-
nent, an overwhelming majority of senators voted down a motion by a seces-
sion sympathizer to postpone consideration of Trumbull's bill.
Having voted officially not to postpone the anti-sedition bill, the senators
then postponed it. At the quiet suggestion of Sumner of Massachusetts, the
Senate proceeded to take up other business, leaving the "Bill to Suppress
Insurrection and Sedition" for another day. Since the Senate was nearing the
end of its special session, that meant the bill would not be taken up until
December. Trumbull, supported only by the ever-vindictive Wade, was left
sputtering and furious; Sumner, who read the mood of the senators after what
was generally held to be a courageous stand by the lonely voice from Ken-
tucky, wanted to avoid a vote on what Breckinridge had shown to be a
seriously flawed piece of legislation.
"You really ought to apologize to Sumner," Breckinridge heard Fomey
saying to him, walking out of the chamber after the gavel fell. "He wasn't the
one who brought up that rock that seems to bother you fellows, it was Fes-
senden. Sumner actually scuttled the bill. You ought to thank him."
Breckinridge shook his head; he wasn't apologizing to anybody who
wanted to make war on sovereign states just to promote the immediate aboli-
tion of slavery, as Sumner had been doing for years. The vain senator from
Massachusetts had been flattering and fussing over the friendless Mrs. Lin-
coln, thinking he could use her to influence her husband, a technique of
advocacy that Breckinridge thought beneath contempt. If he had been wrong
about the source of the insult on the Senate floor, so be it; Charles Sumner
had escaped blame for many divisive things he did, and this minor injustice to
him helped even the score.
At the posts behind the new Senate chamber, the tall Kentuckian craned
his neck to see over others' heads, trying to spot Anna Carroll with his horse
and an Ebbitt House carriage. He had to get home, pack, and get on the road
to Kentucky that day. None of the other senators waiting for carriages spoke
to him; he did not enjoy being a pariah, but understood their need for public
distance. John Forney, his longtime drinking companion, remained beside
him, looking gloomy.
Breckinridge knew that Forney owed his Senate job to Cameron and Lin-
coln, as a payoff for the enthusiastic editorials of his Philadelphia Press. Lin-
coln needed the support of War Democrats, the Douglas Dems who fought
with the peace-seeking Breckinridge Democrats, and Forney helped the Re-
publican administration reach them in Pennsylvania. But Forney was not the
sort to burn his bridges to his fellow Democrats who did not support the war,
and had done what he could to make life more comfortable for the tortured
Kentuckians in the Senate.
"I'll see you in December, John," Breckinridge said to cheer up the politi-
cian-newsman.
Fomey sadly disagreed. "This is farewell. You'll never again take your seat
in the Senate of the United States, Breck."
Breckinridge looked at him sharply; had he shown weakness in that de-
bate? "When I said I'd resign my seat if Kentucky didn't agree with me, I
meant itbut that's why I'm going back now. I know I can get across the
need for neutrality in Kentucky, John. I've run for the House, the Senate, and
the Vice President there, and I've never lost. I won't lose Kentucky now." He
had not carried Kentucky in his presidential race, but did not feel the need to
point that out.
"My dear sir," Fomey said formally, "you will follow your doctrine into
the Confederate Army."
Breck resisted the impulse to shudder. "My doctrine leads to neither army.
If I go over the lines, it will be to bring my son home."
They had heard no direct word about Cabell; a family friend said he
thought the boy was in Tennessee with the rebels. Mary had written him that
two of Uncle Bob's sons had gone South, which infuriated the preacher
Breckinridge, while the other two signed up with the Federals. A niece, a frail
favorite of his named Margaret Elizabeth, was trying to become a nurse in the
Union's Sanitary Commission. He was saddened by the thought of his own
family becoming a model for the dividing nation, but what he could not abide
at all was the idea of the far-flung but close-knit Breckinridge clanrelatives
who loved each other, helped each other, and were constantly going to each
other's weddings and funeralsactually warring on each other.
He told Forney that this was the time for cool heads, especially in the one
state where neutrality was possible and peacemaking could find fertile
ground. Fomey's assumption, which was probably that of most of the sena-
tors, was almost surely mistaken; Breckinridge intended to be back in Decem-
ber, to take his place speaking for the majority opinion he would help shape
in Kentucky, providing the necessary neutral corridor to mediation of the
dispute.
"If it's any consolation for giving up a great career," the Secretary of the
Senate said in his Parthian shot, "I thought you won that debate with Ned
Baker. He had the audience, you had the argument. All you lost was the
presidency."
"We'll meet again, if we live, in the winter," Breckinridge called out, in a
voice that carried past Forney to the others waiting. He often used that good-
luck qualifier, "if we live," in his farewells; now, in what threatened to be
wartime, the innocuous phrase sounded ominous, and he resolved not to use
it again. "I hear you'll be starting a newspaper here in the capital."
Forney nodded yes.
"Lincoln money?"
The politician-newsman nodded again, looking guilty. "Some friends of the
Administration," Forney admitted, "but some Democrats too." Because the
leading newspaper in Washington, the National Intelligencer, was not suffi-
ciently pro-Lincoln, the radical Republicans thought that a competing news-
paper should be launched; Cameron and the War Department lawyer, Edwin
Stanton, would see to it that government advertising would be available for
its support. Breckinridge knew that Forney was being labeled "Lincoln's
Dog" by many Democrats, especially newsmen, and thought that was need-
lessly cruel. "Politics is politics," Forney murmured, and the Kentuckian
squeezed his arm in farewell.
Anna Carroll came up with the carriage and Breckinridge climbed in,
expecting to drive her home. To his surprise, she handed over the reins with-
out looking at him, turned away, and stepped down to the street. She almost
ran toward Constitution Avenue, which led down the long hill toward her
rooms.
His first thought was that she was being discreet, and he approved of that.
Certainly no loyal Unionist eager to prove fervor for the anti-secession cause,
as Anna surely was, would want to be seen with the likes of the senator who
had been publicly tarred as the apologist for treason and the abettor of the
conspiracy to dismember the Union. But there had been no secret signal in
her movements, no whisper to reassure him or set a time to meet later.
He drove down from Capitol Hill along Independence Avenue, directing
the horse's head toward the half spike jutting into the air that was intended to
be a monument to George Washington. Great slabs of marble were stacked
alongside the strange construction, with workmen who might be expected to
be occupied building the city's defenses busy instead building the strange
obelisk that would salute the nation's founder. Breckinridge wondered what
Washington, were he alive now, would think of this great phallus aimed at the
sky. He assumed the first President would be disappointed that his monument
was not a heroic statue, but a huge stake poking at the sky; and that the rights
of states like his native Virginia were being trampled on by one of his succes-
sors.
Breckinridge guided his horse around a mud puddle to turn right at Six-
teenth Street, brooding about the roar of approval that greeted Baker's cry of
"polished treason." His heart began to pound belatedly; with no more need
for public self-control, he began to feel the strain of the long, tense debate.
Phrases occurred to him that he should have used, points crowded in that had
gone unmade. Of all the things he had said on the floor, however, the only
remark he would have taken back was about public opinion in Kentucky. He
should be showing confidence in his ability to lead opinion there and not
suggesting he would meekly submit to the prevailing mood. Aside from that,
he was satisfied with his presentation; he had said more than he had planned
to say, but it was just as well that his support for peaceful separation was out
in the open. Sooner or later, it would have had to be said, and the inflam-
matory words of peace were best uttered from his legally privileged place in
the Senate.
Anna was probably disappointed. All her coaching on the war powers had
gone for naughtindeed, had been used to ready him for strong rebuttal
and her pleas had been ignored, but he thought of her as a political profes-
sional; the fact of their public disagreement lent a certain piquancy to their
private affair. He was certain she would forgive him for so vigorously espous-
ing his minority view of how the Constitution should be read. Instead of
drawing back slightly, as they had planned, he had plunged ahead to outright
tolerance of secession. That might cause her to fret about the effect of his
stand on his career, which did not worry him; in fact, the deep concern of a
loving political ally about his future gave him a warm feeling. He was not
totally surrounded by scowls.
His mind skipped to the likely reaction of other women in his life. At home
in Lexington, Mary would probably be pleased at the Southern reports of the
debate, if she took the time to read the newspaper in her sick-with-worry state
about Cabell. Rose Greenhow? He was surprised she had not come to watch
the debate from the gallery, as it seemed half the population of Washington's
grand levees did, but perhaps the Wild Rose was otherwise occupied. He did
not recall seeing Henry Wilson on the Senate floor that afternoon.
The spire of St. John's Church was ahead; he realized he was approaching
the Greenhow house on Sixteenth Street. Rose was impatient with him for
not racing South to lead the Confederate forces to glory, and she was still
irritated that he would not try to enlist Anna Carroll in her intelligence
network. He suspected that Rose also might be put out with him for not
availing himself of the opportunity she offered of observing firsthand the
charms that were the talk of the most powerful men in the town. The risk of
entering a liaison with Rose, a woman with an undeniably arousing set of
movements, was considerable, but a similar risk had not stopped him with
Anna. It was just that Rose demanded so much at a time when his hands and
heart were full. He did not think of himself as a greedy man; perhaps their
friendship would take a physical turn in December, if she did not go South, or
get herself caught here as a spy.
A large man trying to look small could be seen behind a tree on the corner.
Breckinridge smiled at that, and stopped smiling when he saw a woman
seated on a bench across the street closely eyeing him and every other pas-
serby in the neighborhood of Rose Greenhow's house. He looked up at the
second-story window of the house on Sixteenth Street. The blind was drawn
down three quarters of the way, Rose's private signal to friends to stay away.
Either that meant that she was occupied with a visitor, or it was a warning to
messengers that the house was being watched by Union detectives. Breck
drove his carriage right on by, looking straight ahead.
He was glad that Anna was not involved in any way with Rose. He could
not leave for Kentucky for what might be months without saying good-bye to
Anna, and the abrupt way they had just parted left him unsatisfied and
troubled. He had a mission to perform at home, and its outlines were begin-
ning to take shape in his mind. Peace meetings, small rallies held throughout
the state to discuss and debate neutrality's many advantages might be fol-
lowed by a peace convention drawn from all over the country. Louisville was
a hotbed of unionism despite the Courier; would Lexington be the best site?
On second thought, a conference at the capital at Frankfort would have the
greatest effect on the Union-leaning legislators. If, as he hoped, a latent revul-
sion against war existed in many Northerners, a national peace movement
was waiting to be mobilized. What it needed was a focal point, some event to
plan for, talk about, hold, and then have friendly newspapers and pam-
phleteers hail as evidence of support for opposition to civil war throughout
the nation.
At Ebbitt House, he turned in the rented carriage and arranged for the
feeding of his horse. He sent up a boy with a note to Anna. The boy returned
with a note in her angry scrawl: "Miss Carroll is indisposed." Frowning but
not really worried, Breckinridge trotted up the three flights of stairs and
rapped on her door.
She opened the door, eyes looking down and away to hide their redness,
and let him in.
"You're angry at me, Anna?"
"Disappointed."
He told her he had to come because he was riding home that evening, and
began to describe his ideas for a peace convention. She nodded dully, which
was most unlike her; it was her custom to agree enthusiastically, to disagree
forcefully, or to change the subject. She went to the closet and took out a
small satchel and set it on the bed. Then she found and handed over his
bathrobe, and, one by one, every item that he had left in her rooms.
"Why can't I leave these here? I'll be back before you know."
"You'll never be back. And if you do come back, please don't come back
here."
He had evidently underestimated her displeasure. Slowly, giving himself
time to adjust, he placed all the items she had handed him on the table in the
middle of the room, atop her scattered papers. The Limoges shaving mug she
had given him, which had belonged to her grandfather, he put alongside her
inkpot. This gave him a moment to try to sort out what his reaction should be
to her unexpected behavior. He began by confessing he did not understand
why she was so upset.
"First," she said without passion, "you're a traitor to your country."
He controlled the surge of anger and said, "If enough of the Senate agrees,
I'll be hanged from a gallows set up on the Capitol steps and that will be the
end of it. But you say that's only the first thing. What else?"
"You've betrayed your friends, everybody who believed in you."
"Be honest with me, Anna. By 'friends,' you mean yourself. And by 'every-
body,' you mean everybody you told that you would bring me around to Mr.
Lincoln's view."
"Oh, go away," she said, sitting down at the window. "I don't want to
argue. We've argued enough."
It struck him hard that she really did not want to engage. He drew up a
stool and sat close to her. Her face was set in an expression of bleakness that
rarely appeared there; the face he was accustomed to was heated in discus-
sion's animation or cooled in sleep's repose. Anna had always been either
onstage or offstage, never standing in the wings looking on in pain,
"It's possible for friends to disagree about the great issues and still remain
friends," he said, he hoped gently. "The whole Breckinridge family is split-
ting North and South, and we're angry with each other, but we still love each
other, we're still family."
"Don't you think I know that? It's never been what you think that at-
tracted me, but how you think." She swallowed, balling her handkerchief
between her palms. He waited for her unburdening.
"I didn't mind when you attacked my Know-Nothings, that you stood up
for the immigrants who were ruining the country. People on both sides of
that can still be close. But on the Union and the rebellionthat's not politics,
that's life. When you decide where you stand on secession, you choose your
whole future. And forgive me, I thought we would have sort of a future
togethernot publicly, not as man and wifebut as part of each other's
lives, like we've been. Even more, as two friends on the way to doing great
things, doing them together, neither one lonely anymore." She went back to
rolling the handkerchief; he had never seen her close to tears, her voice
choking its way through her throat.
"We agree about the Union and the Constitution," he argued, feeling awk-
ward in using Senate-floor concepts in a situation so intimate, "but I don't
believe war is a way to hold the Union together, and you do. I grant you that
is a big disagreement, Annabut it doesn't make me a traitor and you a
patriot. Be reasonable. I don't want to lose you."
"You're thinking selfishly," she said, more in control of her voice now.
"You're thinking like a child." He thought it best not to respond. "You're
thinking only of today, this week, not of the future. A mature person thinks
of consequences, to the country, to himself, to the people he loves."
Her point invited debate, but he had done enough debating that day.
"One of the things that holds us together," she continued, "and being
together with you is important to me, is our careers. We are doing great
things in historic times, and getting ready to do so much more. But in the
Senate today, you threw your career away. You indulged your ego, you glo-
ried in being the martyr in the arena full of lions, you gave no thought to the
consequences, not to yourself, certainly not to us."
"I cannot believe that if I stand for my principles, even if it costs me my
political future, you will think any the less of me."
"Well, guess what1 do, because your principle is stupid. The South
knows there can be no secession without war. And thanks to Mr. Lincoln, the
North knows that the only way to keep the Union, any Union at all, is to be
willing to fight for it. Only you, only John C. Breckinridge, thinks everybody
else is going to forget what they stand for and listen to what he thinks is sweet
reason. You're a fool, and I'm a worse fool for thinking you would be the
greatest man of our time."
Shaking her head bitterly, mortified at her weakness at not being able to
force back tears, she looked away and wept.
He did not know how to deal with that. He had learned in life that the way
to respond to most women's tears was with soothing sounds and tender hold-
ings, and rocking back and forth, but he suspected that if he tried that ap-
proach to Anna Carroll's anguish, it would be like throwing oil on a fire.
After a time, when he felt she was ready to speak again, he offered a firm
position: "Your judgment could be wrong, you know. There could be a
stronger desire for peace than you realize. And even if I don't succeed in
stopping the war from beginning in earnest, perhaps I can shorten it."
"The way you could end this war is to raise a Union army in Kentucky,
smash down into Tennessee, and take the railheads at Nashville and Mur-
freesboro," she said with great certitude. "That would save lives in the long
run, and you could accept the presidency of a grateful nation."
"It would go against everything I believe in."
"God save us from men convinced of their noble motives, because they
deepen the rivers of blood." A chill went through his body at her words, cried
as if from some Old Testament prophet. "Breck, get it through your head.
Peace is not the goal. Peace will have to wait. Democracy is the goal. The
success of representative government is the goal. Lincoln sees that and he
doesn't flinch."
"He is a despot and a hypocrite," he shot back. "Lincoln talks about
freedom, and he rips away our most precious freedoms in the North. He talks
about freedom, and he denies nine million of his fellow men in the South the
freedom to start their own nation."
"He is stubborn and he is mean," she seemed to agree, "and all the non-
sense about 'Honest Abe' is a terrible deceit. He will play one man against
another, manipulate one interest to lacerate the next, and throw good men
away when they have served their purpose. I've talked to Old Man Blair, who
knows him, and held the head of his young secretary when he was in his
cups."
"Then how can you"
"Because Lincoln will do anything, go through anything, put us all
through any horror, to reach his goal."
"And the goal is a Union with one half conqueror, the other half con-
quered. You think that a worthy goal?"
"His goal is majority rule. Breck, I know that sounds theoretical, and it
won't rally most people round the flag, but that's what he is grimly deter-
mined to prove, once and for all. And he's like a man possessed about it.
Nothing you do is going to stop him."
The notion that one man's obsession about a political theory should put a
continent of brothers through a bath of bloodand that this normally intelli-
gent woman should be resigned to follow him without questionwas too
much for Breck to tolerate. She had been wrong about her damned Know-
Nothings, wrong about trusting Fillmore and Buchanan, wrong in her esti-
mation of John C. Breckinridge, and he hoped to hell she was wrong about
the brutal, bulldog tenacity of Abraham Lincoln.
"The great good sense of the American people will stop him. This country
may go crazy for a while, but not for long. Anna, I'm leaving now, and I'm
sorry it has to be this way. I miss you already."
"Go South," she said. "You belong there."
"I'm going to border-state Kentucky, where I belong, and I'll keep it neu-
tral."
"I wish you well." She took a deep breath and let it out. "What I really
wish is, I wish I had never met you."
He supposed that was a perverse expression of tenderness, coming from a
woman who had given her love to few men, but he held his tongue. If peace-
making was to be his mission, he could not go to war with Anna Carroll.
"And I, on the contrary, will always be grateful I met you." He was
human, and could not resist one bitter note: "I hope you enjoy your war and
your war powers. Just don't confuse them with freedom."
She rose and lashed out at him. "Go South, with the other traitors, and see
what kind of freedom you find. See what war does to your beloved states'
rights, see what men are willing to do to the laws when they have to fight for
survival. Goddammit, Breckinridge, war means fighting, and the men who
fuss about the rules get pushed aside."
He put his belongings into the satchel. "I think there is something to be
said for the law."
"How's your Latin, lawyerinter arma, silent leges. " In time of war, the
law falls silent. He did not correct her quotation of Cicero.
"I have always benefited from your instruction," was all he said, angry
now, but more at Lincoln and the spirit of the times than at this misguided
woman who meant more to him than any he had known. He did not want to
hurt her, but he had by taking away her chance at participating in a great
career. The career did not seem so important to him; she did.
Standing in the doorway, he took a last look at her. She faced the window,
the bleakness across her face as if she had been abandoned again, but as Rose
had told him about her, Anna had grown accustomed to being left by men.
He closed the door behind him softly. The nation could not stay in this crazed
state for long; the war fever, by its nature, would burn itself out. He could not
be confident about his plans but tended to believe he would return to Wash-
ington, perhaps even to Anna, in December.