American History Revised (50 page)

Move the history reel forward, to late 1859 and early 1860, and a similar story unfolds. An ambitious former congressman aspired to higher office: the Senate seat of Stephen Douglas in 1864. Abraham Lincoln had few illusions about seeking the presidency—he was no national figure. Anyway, the presidency was an administrative job; Lincoln wanted to join the Senate, where the great orators of the day plied their craft: men like Daniel Webster, John C. Calhoun, and especially Lincoln’s hero, Henry Clay. As an orator, Lincoln could push favorite moral causes such as popular government, free labor, and containment of slavery. As an executive, he could not.

When the Republicans met for their national party convention and Lincoln’s name was thrown into the ring as a potential “dark horse,” Lincoln continued to insist that he preferred the Senate to the White House. “I declare to you this morning, General, that for personal considerations I would rather have a full term in the Senate—a place in which I would feel more consciously able to discharge the duties required, and where there is more chance to make a reputation, and less danger of losing it—than four years of the presidency.”

The Republican delegates, however, had other concerns—namely the pivotal “border states.” In an election that looked increasingly confusing and rancorous, the Republicans needed the support of Kentucky and Illinois. After concluding that the front-runner, William H. Seward, could not win the election, the delegates on the third ballot turned to Lincoln.

1838
There is not a single president who, as a young boy, publicly announced that he would grow up to become president of the United States. Every one of our presidents had modest aspirations in their childhoods.

Not so one woman. A young girl of no particular stature, she told many of her friends that she hoped to marry a man who would become president. They all giggled.

When she reached maturity, she had a few boyfriends, but no one special. Her biological clock was running out: lest she become an old maid, she needed to marry quickly. Any man would do. Her prospects were slim: there was Edward Speed, but he was interested in Matilda Edwards. There was Edwin Webb, but he had two little children who were more than she could handle. There was a rising-star
politician with whom she “flirted outrageously”—a man who eventually became the Democratic candidate for president. But he was too busy with his career to be bothered. Time was running out.

There was a fourth man, very shy and awkward. Her family objected, but she gave it her best shot and so dominated her evenings with the young man that he could hardly get in a word edgewise. He finally proposed, then broke it off. She was devastated.

Spinsterhood loomed.

“Be patient,” her friends told her, “he’ll be back.” Months later, the ungainly young man—a recluse with no other girlfriends—re-proposed and she finally landed her catch. Twenty years later Mary Todd Lincoln entered the White House as First Lady.
*

A quarter-century later, Rutherford Hayes became president of the United States. Dining at the White House one evening was a sixteen-year-old girl, the daughter of his former law partner in Ohio. The girl told the president she liked the White House so much she must marry someone destined to become president. One imagines Mr. President had a good chuckle.

But the last laugh belonged to the young girl. No great beauty, and very demanding and intense, she found it difficult to socialize with men. Her chances of catching a young man headed for great things were slim. If she could not catch a president, she would have to help make one. So, when a local judge came courting, she examined him carefully. He came from a prominent Cincinnati family and had gone to Yale, but he was enormously fat. Did this mean he lacked the burning fire of ambition? In their two-year courtship, he agreed he needed to be goaded and pushed, and she saw a talent that exceeded her own. When they married in 1886, he joked to her that the prime requirement for being a good husband was obedience.

Three years later, at the age of thirty-two, William Howard Taft became the youngest-ever solicitor general of the United States, responsible for representing the federal government before the Supreme Court. Enjoying his life in Washington DC, the jovial Taft, aided by his ambitious wife, made many friends and political allies, including the young assistant secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt. When the opposing political party won the presidency, and Taft (and Roosevelt) had to leave Washington, Nellie Taft was beside herself: “My darling,” she said, “it will put an end to all the opportunities you now have of being thrown with the bigwigs.”

The next eight years found Nellie and
her husband back home in the political wilderness of Cincinnati, where her husband contentedly served as a circuit-court judge. But when his fellow Ohioan William McKinley became president and his good friend TR became vice president, Taft returned to Washington to meet the president, who offered him a position as civil administrator of the newly acquired Philippines. “Take this job,” the president advised him, “and you shall not suffer.”

The Philippines was probably the last place Taft wanted to go, but Nellie recognized the value of being in a high-profile position. Certainly a lot better than being a judge! She immediately departed for the Far East to spend several months learning about Asian culture, then joined her husband in Manila to help him in his lonely post. Taft became so esteemed by the local people that when he departed three years later, he was sent off by cheering crowds in the streets of Manila, expressing their gratitude. He was the most successful administrator of an occupied country America ever had.

Nellie Taft could not make her husband want to be president, but Theodore Roosevelt could. He made Taft his assistant, then pushed him to be his successor. When he asked Taft what position he wanted, expecting him to say “the presidency,” and Taft responded “Chief Justice,” Nellie informed the two men that her husband had misspoken, he should be president. When Taft finally did become president, his progressive-minded wife went into high gear, insisting she be the first wife ever to participate in the inauguration ceremony and ride to the White House with the new president. Nellie Herron Taft had finally arrived home.

1844
Many people aspire to be president, but usually the hardest part is breaking into politics in the first place. There is little glory in local politics, but without a beginning there can be no end.

Among the finest groups of candidates ever to compete for a congressional seat were the three candidates from the Seventh Congressional District of Illinois in 1844. Two of them later became war heroes, one of them—touted in his early days as a future president—dying for his country, and the survivor moving on to senator. The third eventually did become president.

Problem was, here they were—friends and members of the same party—in their early thirties, ambitious to get into national politics—and there was only one opening. What to do? Edward Baker, John Hardin, and Abraham Lincoln had a meeting. History does not record what was said, but the aftermath would suggest that it was every man for himself.

In a rough campaign marked by personal attacks and alleged vote-stealing, Baker won the county nomination over Lincoln. But Lincoln bore him no ill will:
he spoke well of his opponent’s integrity, and three years later named his newborn son Edward. In the subsequent go-round at the district level, Baker and Hardin ended in a tie, putting the last-place finisher in a position where he “possibly could have beaten both candidates.” But Lincoln refused to try to cut a deal for himself, saying, “I should despise myself were I to attempt it.” Moving on as a Baker delegate to the party convention where Hardin finally won, Lincoln proposed a resolution, which passed, recommending that his party support Baker in the
next
congressional election. In this bizarre move, Lincoln foreclosed any opportunity to become congressman after Hardin’s term expired. Hardin would be the congressman now, to be followed by Baker. Lincoln’s political career looked bleak.

Actually it was a very shrewd move, thinking of the long term. By conducting himself honorably, Lincoln was gambling that by getting the party to limit the front-runner Hardin to one term so that the runner-up, Baker, could also have his moment in the sun, Baker in turn would be morally restricted to only one term, thereby opening the door for Lincoln the third time around.

Which is exactly what happened, but with one complication. After Hardin served his term in Congress and Baker served his term, Baker kept his word but Hardin did not. Lincoln’s gamble had failed: he was in for a rough fight with a well-known ex-congressman. Hardin mounted a vigorous campaign of dirty tricks, even trying to get the nomination rules changed that would assure his reelection. But the party leaders, impressed that Lincoln never said anything negative about Hardin (“talented, energetic, usually generous and magnanimous,” Lincoln would say), would have none of it. They persuaded Hardin that he should withdraw—it was now Lincoln’s turn. Abraham Lincoln had finally won his dream: he was now a national politician.

After serving as congressman for one term, it was another twelve years before Lincoln won a second public office, but when he did, it was the big one.

How Lincoln won the presidential nomination is a virtual recapitulation of his winning the congressional nomination. In 1855, in his eager bid to become senator, he saw his dream diminish as several backers, led by Norman Judd, switched to Lyman Trumbull. Despite cries of “Treason!” from his wife and his campaign manager, Lincoln maintained cordial relations with Judd and eventually backed out of the contest, recognizing that Lyman Trumbull probably had a better chance of winning. But it was a bitter blow. In 1856, Lincoln was again proposed as the Republican Party nominee for a high state office, this time for governor, and once again in the spirit of party unity he backed off, proposing the name of William Bissell.

Both Trumbull and Bissell won. When
the Illinois delegation to the 1860 Republican convention put forth their choice for presidential nominee, they put forth not the state party’s two senior officeholders, but the man who had played an instrumental role in putting them there. The politician who presented Lincoln’s name was none other than the former ally whose defection in 1855 had cost Lincoln the senate contest: Norman Judd.