In historical writing and analysis, PRESENTISM introduces present-day ideas and perspectives into depictions or interpretations of the past. Presentism is a form of cultural bias that creates a distorted understanding of the subject matter. Reading modern notions of morality into the past is committing the error of presentism. Historical accounts are written by people and can be slanted, so I try my hardest to present fact-based and well-researched articles.
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FOR HISTORICAL CLARITY
When I write about the INDIGENOUS PEOPLE, I follow this historical terminology:
- The use of old commonly used terms, disrespectful today, i.e., REDMAN or REDMEN, SAVAGES, and HALF-BREED are explained in this article.
Writing about AFRICAN-AMERICAN history, I follow these race terms:
- "NEGRO" was the term used until the mid-1960s.
- "BLACK" started being used in the mid-1960s.
- "AFRICAN-AMERICAN" [Afro-American] began usage in the late 1980s.
— PLEASE PRACTICE HISTORICISM —
THE INTERPRETATION OF THE PAST IN ITS OWN CONTEXT.
For all the volumes written about Abraham Lincoln and the eloquent words spoken by Lincoln himself—for all the polls that mark him as a great man, a national, even international, hero—the Civil War President remains something of an enigma. Our continuation of the "Lincoln and" tradition today suggests our preoccupation with his views on significant issues. Given a corollary (proposition) interest in the topic of race in American history, it is not surprising that Lincoln's place in that central theme remains a subject of debate. The revolutionary developments of the post-World War II period in the area of what is broadly termed "civil rights" have led to a reevaluation of Lincoln—from the great emancipator to the reluctant emancipator to the white supremacist, or Lincoln as just another "whitey."
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| A one-of-a-kind ferrotype (tintype) photograph of President-elect Abraham Lincoln. |
Historians, ordinarily a judicious lot, are as involved in the reevaluation as those with more obvious ideological interests. But historians should have a greater appreciation of context. Hence, to wrench Lincoln from context, from the backdrop of his times, from the exigencies of policy, the fortunes of war, and the historical record is not a path calculated for arrival at something approximating historical truth. In our relativistic age, it is too much to expect fidelity to the record; perhaps Lincoln should remain more symbol than historical reality. The record may be discomfiting; it often is.
Abraham Lincoln was born into a political culture that was profoundly racist (to use a somewhat anachronistic term). For centuries, Europeans, whether living on the continent, in the United States, or elsewhere, had deemed the Africans a race apart, one that was in no guise the equal of the Europeans. It was a combination of that racism with economic considerations that made the enslavement of Africans fundamentally different from the slavery of other places and at other times. Practically speaking, nothing in Lincoln's formative years would lead us to expect him to be other than a man of his culture.
The laws of Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois—in common with those of other political jurisdictions within the United States—held the African to be less than a citizen, less than a person.
Yet Lincoln imbibed other influences—the idea of political democracy (however limited), the concept of social mobility (however restricted), and the idea of economic improvement (however problematical). Lincoln believed the words of the Declaration of Independence; he thought that a person should not be constrained by circumstances of birth, and he embraced the Whig notions of economic growth. As an individual, he was, from all reports, singularly free from bigotry—against individuals and groups.
As much as any public man of his day, he advocated the most expansive sharing of the American dream. His re-entry into national politics in the wake of the exacerbated sectional conflict of the 1850s was predicated upon the ideas that slavery was evil and that, in certain instances, racial bigotry was unworthy of a great nation. That his political fortunes, and those of his party, were tied to the geographical restriction of slavery set him and his party apart from his political opponents. He could have been seen as radical in 1858 or 1860 (and 1948 or 1960).
The threat to slavery perceived by Lincoln's election in 1860 precipitated a train of events that culminated in the civil war. That war, whatever else it may have been, or whatever else we may wish it had been, was a titanic military struggle fraught with profound political and social consequences. Lincoln, as he remarked in his Second Inaugural Address, did not anticipate, nor did other Americans anticipate, those consequences any more than they anticipated the full horrors of that terrible conflict. Lincoln expected a relatively short war once the apparently overwhelming resources of the Union could be brought to bear against the Confederacy. Thus, the ancient prejudices of his country might have survived the war intact had the war ended with a Union victory in the first year or so. But that was not the case. Lincoln necessarily had to accept and then defend policies that arose from circumstances that forced a reconsideration of the place of Africans in the United States.
The American political and military establishment decreed in 1861 that white men would fight the war. Lincoln concurred. The Congress enacted in July 1861 that the war would be fought for the Union—not for conquest or the abolition of slavery. Lincoln concurred. When his generals and Cabinet officials moved beyond the President's plan, Lincoln overruled them. When Negro leaders asked that regiments of Negro soldiers be enrolled under the flag of freedom, Lincoln and his advisors refused. In stations high and low, many northerners seemed to fear a rebellion of slaves more than they feared a rebellion of slaveowners. Had northern arms prevailed in 1861 or early 1862, slavery might have remained status quo ante bellum.
The political attack on slavery was embodied in a series of laws termed the Confiscation Acts. Under the provisions of those laws, Lincoln could have enrolled Negro men as laborers and support elements for the armies in the field. Lincoln chose instead not to invoke those aspects of the Acts. A primary reason was his concern for the border states, especially Kentucky. Lincoln believed that wholesale emancipation or the enlistment of Negro soldiers would cause Kentucky, and probably Missouri and Maryland, to become even greater obstacles to the Union cause—to say nothing of antagonism elsewhere in the North. In the case of Kentucky, he was correct. Holding that state in the Union necessitated either overwhelming military force or some deference to the wishes of its white population. Lincoln's policy reflected a combination of both. Eventually, more Negro men entered the Army from Kentucky than from any other state except Louisiana. And the reaction of the white population in Kentucky was as hostile as had been predicted. But by 1863, the adverse reaction in Kentucky was considerably less consequential than in 1861 or 1862.
For practical political reasons, Lincoln did not openly lead the movement toward the enlistment of Negroes. Before 1863, long before he expressed enthusiasm for the idea, he allowed others to take the first steps; he remained silent, overruled them, or caused them to be overruled. He was always sensitive to political considerations and his office's prerequisites and powers. Timing, the right moment, was critical—and Lincoln always deemed himself a better judge of the moment than those who advised him, formally or informally.
On September 25, 1861, Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles allowed the recruitment of Negroes into the Navy, but only with the rank of "boy" and at a compensation of no more than $10.00 per month. The step caused little comment, perhaps because "boys" on ships were not expected to shoot Rebels or to function as part of the military establishment.
Simon Cameron, Secretary of War, was less subtle. On October 14, 1861, he authorized Brigadier General Thomas W. Sherman to hire Negro fugitives for service in South Carolina, although he disclaimed any intent to arm them as soldiers. Lincoln seemed amenable to the idea of Negroes as "auxiliaries." But the plan failed because General Sherman apparently neither wished to use Negroes nor wanted to offend the sensibilities of white South Carolinians unduly. In December, Cameron took a more direct step. In his annual report, he openly advocated the employment of slaves as soldiers. More importantly, he allowed the report to be copied and distributed before giving it to Lincoln. The President disavowed the offensive portions of the report and ordered them deleted from his annual message to Congress. Because of that misstep and because he was a general embarrassment to the administration, Cameron was removed from the Cabinet and named minister to Russia.
During the first half of 1862, Congress moved towards bringing Negroes into the Army—March, rendition of slaves by military forbidden; April, abolition of slavery in D.C.; July, Second Confiscation Act and Militia Act. In April and May, the new Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, encouraged (at least implicitly) the arming of Negroes in South Carolina. The situation there caused a great stir because the general in command, David Hunter, proved to be politically inept and hence a political liability. He managed to offend many officers and men in the white regiments and two congressmen of a border state, Kentucky. When those congressmen demanded explanations of what was transpiring in South Carolina, Stanton retreated into his bureaucratic defenses. Still, he did ask General Hunter for a report, which he forwarded to Congress. Hunter's report was entertaining to some Republicans (referring to "fugitive rebels") and to the border state congressmen—insulting.
During the summer of 1862, Lincoln evinced no inclination to support Hunter, to implement the provisions of the Second Confiscation Act liberating the slaves of Rebels, or to employ Negroes other than as laborers. He stated his views to the Cabinet in late July, and on August 6, he told a delegation of "Western gentlemen" that he would not arm Negroes "unless some new and more pressing emergency arises." He said such would turn "50,000 bayonets" in the border states against the Union. Steps short of actually arming Negroes would be continued—upon this, he and his critics did not differ. And in the same context, on August 22, he wrote his famous reply to Horace Greeley's "Prayer of Twenty Million": as President, he would save the Union; all else would be subordinate to that goal.
On August 10, the disheartened (if not chastened) General Hunter reported to Stanton that he was disbanding his regiment of South Carolina volunteers. But as the curtain fell on Hunter, Stanton on August 25, authorized Brigadier General Rufus Saxton at Beaufort, South Carolina, to "arm, uniform, equip, and receive into the service of the United States such number of volunteers of African descent as you may deem expedient, not exceeding 5,000." Why the reversal? Why had Stanton authorized Saxton to do what had been denied, Hunter? A comment by Lieutenant Charles Francis Adams, Jr., may be pertinent.
Regarding Hunter, "Why could not fanatics be silent and let Providence work for a while?" (And if not Providence, at least the President.) In short, had Hunter managed to be more politic concerning his fellow officers and the Congress, had he been able to restrain his rhetorical flourishes, he may not have run afoul of the critics of his policy, to say nothing of the President. The fact was, Negroes were now to be brought into the service, not by a general acting more or less on his own authority, but by order of the War Department— and the President.
In other corners of the conflict, namely Louisiana and Kansas, other generals enlisted Negroes. In New Orleans, for example, Benjamin F. Butler had negated earlier enlisting efforts but now, encouraged by Secretary of the Treasury Chase (and Mrs. Butler), called for free Negroes to enter the service. By mid-fall, three such regiments were formed in Louisiana. On August 5, 1862, the redoubtable abolitionist James H. Lane in Kansas wired Stanton that he was raising black and white units, and was there any objection? Stanton wrote Lane on August 22 and again on September 23 that such action was without the authority of President Lane and never received authorization. Still, he continued enrolling Negro soldiers in the Union. Benjamin Quarles has termed such enrollments "trial balloons," which Lincoln allowed to float when no one of consequence tried to pop.
Of course, Lincoln discussed another matter with his Cabinet in the summer of 1862—namely, emancipation. In his "preliminary" proclamation of September 22, 1862, Lincoln did not mention Negro soldiers. In October, however, he presumably talked to one Daniel Ullmann of New York, who urged that very course. After hearing Ullmann's argument, Lincoln asked: "Would you be willing to command Negro soldiers?" Although stunned by the question, Ullmann replied in the affirmative. Given the late summer and early fall events in South Carolina, Louisiana, and Kansas, Lincoln seemed to be evolving a plan—perhaps Ullmann would pilot another of those trial balloons.
The Emancipation Proclamation, issued on January 1, 1863, called for the enrollment of Negroes in the Union Army and Navy. It was contained in an almost offhand passage—entirely in keeping with Lincoln's tendency to hint, approach indirectly, and finally, defend the stated policy. Yet the proclamation was fundamental. It was a war message, a political document. The government of the United States, through the Office of the President, was now unequivocally on the side of emancipation and of bringing Negro men into the Army of the Republic.
Over the next several months, the new policy was put into effect. Ullmann appointed a brigadier general of volunteers and was explicitly charged with raising four regiments of volunteers in Louisiana (where he found public opinion far from supportive). Colonel James Montgomery of Kansas was authorized to raise a Negro regiment in South Carolina, and the governors of Massachusetts and Rhode Island were given similar authorization. Massachusetts Governor John A. Andrew, in fact, raised most of his Negro troops from the southern states.
The primary organizing effort was placed in the hands of Lorenzo Thomas, adjutant general of the Army. His order of March 25 from Secretary Stanton was to proceed to the Mississippi Valley to enlist Negro troops and find white officers and enlisted men who would take commissions in Negro regiments. Thomas was an effective recruiter, stressing that he spoke with the full authority of the President, the Secretary of War, and the General-in-Chief. Henry W. Halleck (notorious for his General Order No. 3 in 1861) had fallen in line with administration policy and was now telling other Mississippi Valley officers to do the same. Of particular interest was the reaction of Ulysses S. Grant, who, early in the war, had no more sympathy for emancipation than did many other regulars. Yet Grant was undoubtedly a man to follow orders from Washington. Indeed, he had already made provision for organizing "contrabands" into a workforce. According to John Eaton, Jr., in charge of the contrabands, Grant believed that if the occasion arose, the fugitives could carry rifles instead of hoes, rakes, and shovels.
Halleck's advice to Grant, in a friendly, somewhat patronizing letter, was a compelling statement of administration policy. "From my position here, where I can survey the whole field, perhaps I may be better able to understand the tone of public opinion and the intentions of the Government." Grant then assured Halleck (and later the President) that he would support the policy even to the extent of ordering subordinate officers to actively " remove prejudice" against Negroes. Thomas's mission, after all, went beyond recruiting Negro men into the ranks. As Dudley Cornish has stated: "Rather was his task that of initiating Union policy on a grand scale, of breaking down white opposition to the use of Negro soldiers, of educating Union troops in the valley on this one subject, of starting the work of the organization," and then leaving others to finish the work of recruiting and training. Lincoln approved of Thomas's work, telling Stanton that Thomas was "one of the best (if not the best) instruments for this service." Perhaps Lincoln had been right after all. It was best to bring the general public along, then put the task in the hands of the professional soldiers who, without ideological biases, placed great stock in order, system, and hierarchy. The road to favor with the administration was not in embarrassing the President but inefficiently following his policy once that policy was clearly enunciated.
On Independence Day, 1863, Vicksburg surrendered; the "Father of Waters" again flowed "unvexed to the sea." Thanks were given to not only the Great Northwest but also New England, and the "Sunny South, too, in more colors than one."
In early August, Lincoln wrote to Grant, congratulating him upon his magnificent military achievement but also noting: "Gen. Thomas has gone again to the Mississippi Valley, with the view of raising colored troops. I have no reason to doubt that you are doing what you reasonably can on the same subject. I believe it is a resource that will soon close this contest if vigorously applied now. It works doubly, weakening the enemy and strengthening us. We were not fully ripe for it until the river was opened." On August 26, Lincoln wrote to a political friend in Illinois that some of his field commanders "who have given us our most important successes believe the emancipation policy, and the use of colored troops, constitute the heaviest blow yet dealt to the rebellion; and that, at least one of those important successes, could not have been achieved when it was, but for the aid of Negro soldiers." He could have recited the practical, some might say cynical, reasons given for bringing Negroes into the Army—saving the lives of white soldiers. Yet, said Lincoln, "Negroes, like other people, act upon motives. Why should they do anything for us if we will do nothing for them? If they stake their lives for us, they must be prompted by the strongest motive—even the promise of freedom. And the promise being made must be kept." One day peace would come. "And then, there will be some Negro men who can remember that, with silent tongue, and clenched teeth, and steady eye, and well-poised bayonet, they have helped mankind on to this great consummation; while I fear, there will be some white ones, unable to forget that, with malignant heart, and deceitful speech, they have strove to hinder it.
The force of the effort for recruiting Negroes lay in the deep South and in the Northeast. Lincoln still had no wish to press the issue in the border states. And his caution was well founded, although he did authorize (through Stanton) recruiting in Maryland, Kentucky, and Missouri.
Kentuckians were particularly resentful. When Ambrose Burnside suggested in June 1863 that the administration disavow any intention to conscript free Negroes in Kentucky, Lincoln concurred that the effort would cost more than it would gain. In January 1864, however, the War Department established a recruiting post in Paducah. Kentucky Governor Thomas E. Bramlette traveled to Washington and protested directly to Lincoln. The President explained that he had come to his policy of emancipation and arming Negroes after prudent delay—early in the war, it was not an "indispensable necessity." He changed his mind when he knew he had to choose between "surrendering the Union, and with it, the Constitution, or laying strong hand upon the colored element." He had not been certain at that time that he had made the right decision, but after a year's experience, he was convinced of it. "We have the men [130,000], and we could not have had them without the measure. And now let any Union man who complains of the measure test himself by writing down in one line that he is for subduing the rebellion by force of arms; and in the next, that he is for taking these hundred and thirty thousand men from the Union side, and placing them where they would be but for the measure he condemns. If he can not face his case so stated, it is only because he can not face the truth." That letter contained Lincoln's memorable line, "I claim not to have controlled events, but confess plainly that events have controlled me." Lincoln meant for the letter to be circulated among the white population of Kentucky. Although his correspondents expressed satisfaction with it, Kentuckians, in general, resented recruitment of Negroes more intensely than did people of any other state. But Lincoln knew, and he made the point repeatedly from mid-1863 to the end of the war; without the Negro soldiers, there would be no Union.
Frederick Douglass said so well in 1876:
His great mission was to accomplish two things: first, to save his country from dismemberment and ruin; and second, to free his country from the great crime of slavery. To do one or the other, or both, he needed the earnest sympathy and the powerful cooperation of his loyal fellow-countrymen. Without those primary and essential conditions to success his efforts would have been utterly fruitless. Had he put the abolition of slavery before the salvation of the Union, he would have inevitably driven from him a powerful class of the American people and rendered resistance to rebellion impossible. From the genuine abolition view, Mr. Lincoln seemed tardy, cold, dull, and indifferent, but measuring him by the sentiment of his country—a sentiment he was bound as a statesman to consult—he was swift, zealous, radical, and determined
The enlistment of Negroes into the Union Army was part of Lincoln's evolving policy on slavery and race, a policy charged with political, social, and psychological overtones. The Negro man as a soldier—with rifle and bayonet—was a different figure from the slave. His presence, while a military necessity, was also a potent blow to the idea of the innate inferiority of the Africans, a view not peculiar to the South. Those who urged the enlistment of Negroes realized its implications. Some political figures saw it as a necessity, calculated to outrage the South. Negro leaders saw it from a different perspective. Not only would the enlistment of Negroes serve a military purpose, but most assuredly, it would also enhance the sense of manhood among Negro men, a sense deliberately blunted by public policy throughout the nation. Thus, while Douglass remarked on the "tardiness" of the President who "loved Rome more than he did Caesar," he insisted that emancipation and manhood, in the most profound sense, were indispensable steps toward participation in American society.
Lincoln acted as he did from necessity. His almost mystical devotion to the Union and his personal compassion for the dispossessed of the world combined into policy. Events moved him in the sense that circumstances determined the time for action. During the Civil War, a fundamental truth emerged: Negro people understood the meaning of the war and contributed to the great goal of freedom. Yet Negroes were also objects; to defeat the white South, the white North needed Negro men. Lincoln was their emancipator, their savior when he spoke as the cautious, prudent political leader and when he eloquently spoke of the magnificent contribution that Negro soldiers made to the Union. The war brought the time, and Lincoln—"preeminently the white man's President"—became the Negro man's hero.
By John T. Hubbell
Edited by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.
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