Election night, 1860

With our own election looming, this was interesting to write, especially since Lincoln and Obama both have Springfield experience. Undoubtedly, Lincoln would never have envisioned an age in which a black man could vote much less run for any sort of political office. On the other hand, he wouldn't have thought a woman could do either as well.

And it's funny, so many folks (Republicans) claim Lincoln and yet his Republican party is vastly different from the modern-day Republicans. There has been a shift in polarity between the Reps and the Dems -- they've switched places. Modern Republicans would never fight a war whose goal was really to reduce the rights of individual states....and on and on. This is so not what this blog is for, but hey, I'm knee deep in this crap right now. How about an excerpt?

This bit, God help me, was so ridiculously shaped by the article in the latest Smithsonian, that I'm almost ashamed. I've fought with myself about how much I'm going to worry about historical detail and -getting it right-.... And this excerpt is more or less a blow by blow reenactment of what reporters say went down that night. So sue me. Unless you work for Smithsonian Magazine, in which case, please go look at these pretty flowers.
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The offices of the Illinois & Mississippi Telegraph Company were crowded that evening. A growing knot of onlookers had steadily filled the room throughout the night. Their focus was divided between the activity of the telegraph operators and their machines and the exceedingly calm man who sat on a sofa nearby. He was tall and lanky; awkward-looking and thin; all elbows and knees. And yet, he exuded a cool confidence and capability that was unmatched in the room. As each telegram was received the operators translated the code into English, and transcribed it onto a yellow form. The papers then passed from hand to hand to the man on the sofa, each man attempting to glean as much meaning as he could from a quick glance. After the tall man read a message, he would hand it to someone else, reacting as if the telegrams had as much significance as a trivial bit of family news.
The rest of the men in room were not nearly as placid. Each telegram had the power to change the atmosphere drastically. Good news caused the men to cheer, so loudly that the throngs on the street out knew what was happening before the enthusiastic runners sent from the office had even opened the door. Still, they would take the opportunity to shout out the results and be met with louder, wilder cheers.
Bad news -- and there was some of it that night -- sucked the air out of the room. Instead of cheers, there were low murmurs, the men discussing the implications of the latest missives, what victories had to be gained in order to set off the defeats. Through it all, the tall man’s demeanor did not change.
At midnight, they withdrew from the telegraph office and proceeded through the large crowd outside to an ice cream parlor. As they made their way across the square, cheers and shouts from the throng filled their ears. Everyone wanted to shake the tall man’s hand, pat his shoulder, touch his hat.
In the parlor, a table of oysters, sandwiches, and coffee had been set out by local women. The mood in the parlor was jovial and friendly. Removed from the telegraph office, the tall man kept his air of cool and shared jokes and storied with his friends. His wife joined him, sitting at his side, picking delicacies for him to eat and occasionally whispering encouraging words in his ear.
Runners continued to come from the telegraph office, breathless with excitement and the effort of pushing through the increasing crowds outside. News of victories was greeted with earth-shaking cheers, or if they bore news of losses – not many of significance, but losses nonetheless – with quiet, anxious glances. Through it all, the tall man seemed nonplussed, content to snack upon the smoked herring on the plate in front of him and distract the group with another tale from his days in the state legislature.
Presently, a telegram from Philadelphia was brought forth, handed directly to the man himself who stood and read it aloud. Philadelphia, and the entire state of Pennsylvania had voted for him, giving him that state’s 27 electoral votes. Soon thereafter, a telegram from New York arrived with the news that he would win that state’s 35 votes, and with it the presidency.
If the crowd of onlookers and well-wishers had been merry before, it was nothing compared to their reaction to this news. Throughout Springfield cheers and shouts of triumph could be heard through the night. Everyone in the town was united in ecstatic joy: clapping each other on the back; dancing silly, childish dances; throwing their hats into the air. To the delight of the crowd, one man repeatedly performed back flips on the State House lawn.
Through it all, the tall man remained calm, ever calm. He excused himself from the table and crossed the square again to return to the telegraph office. His closest friends swiftly followed him at once protecting him from the excited crowd, and becoming of the excited crowd themselves. They made it to the office, the tiny room now filled to bursting with excited revelers. He steeled himself and went back inside.
It was all but over. With Pennsylvania and New York firmly in hand, as well as Ohio, and Massachusetts, and of course, Illinois, it was a certainty. A final telegram from New York stated, “We tender you our congratulations upon this magnificent victory.” And so, it was done, and Abraham Lincoln became the president-elect of the United States of America.
He stood from the sofa and thanked his friends, and the telegraph operator. Those not busy cheering and reveling noticed that a change had come over the man. He did not shout for joy or give any indication that he was pleased by the results of the election. Rather, he seemed deflated. Most wrote it off to relief and exhaustion from the day’s proceedings but to others, it looked as if Lincoln had just cast off a role that he had been playing all day; perhaps for months. It lasted but a moment; his quiet confidence resumed almost immediately. He walked towards the door, but paused as he opened it. He turned back to the room, a small smile on his face.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I thank you for your support this day, and the days preceding the election, and my entire career. Truly, this victory would not have been possible were it not for you. You are supporters and colleagues, but most importantly, you are all my friends.”
The men erupted in applause again, shouting huzzahs. As one, they rushed forward to congratulate Lincoln anew; to shake his hand. Then, seeing that Lincoln was tired and nearly overwhelmed by their exuberance, they pulled back and gave the man some room.
“Thank you,” Lincoln said. “I truly thank you. Now, if you will please excuse me. It is about time that I went home and told the news to a tired woman who is sitting up for me.”
At this the men laughed and said their goodbyes. “Good night, Abe!” “Good night, Mr. Lincoln!” “Good night, Mr. President!” New cheers arose.

It was 2:30 in the morning, and though the general crowd in the square had thinned somewhat, the revelry across the city continued as strong as ever. It would not fully cease until well after dawn broke. People still danced in the streets; fired pistols and rifles into the air; some had rolled out the cannon that had fired in the morning to announce the coming election and were firing it again, this time in celebration of its end, and of the favorable result. The entire city was alive. On the steps of the telegraph office, Lincoln stood and surveyed the scene. His demeanor had returned to that of the defeated man.
As Lincoln descended the steps, some in the crowd took notice of him, and rushed in his direction. But they too saw that the man was not himself, and certainly did not have the look of a victorious presidential candidate and even through the haze of their revelry they realized that perhaps the man had had enough for one day. Though they still cheered him and wished him well, they mostly left him alone and did not impede his way as he walked home, disappearing down the street and into the night. For that, he was greatful.
Arriving at his house, he took some moments to be alone, for the first time that day. Looking up at his house, he could scarcely believe that this morning – the previous morning now – he had been a mere lawyer, and now he was the President-Elect of the United States. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel some amount of joy and pride at the feat. Perhaps he could actually change things; perhaps he could manage to salvage the Union. As is the case with every election, those of the losing party threaten to “move to Canada” or some such, and several states in the South had promised to secede were Lincoln elected. They had done their best to stop him, not even putting him on the ballot in nine states, and hardly voting for him in any of the others. But, perhaps it was possible.
It was a brief reverie, standing there, his hand on the picket fence that surrounded his home. It did not last long. The reality – the deeply troubling reality – of the situation sank back in. He tapped the fence twice, gathered himself and went indoors.
Inside, the house was quiet. Willie and Tad were somehow asleep, despite the noise outside. Indeed, Mary, the tired woman he thought would be sitting up for him, was asleep in her room. Lincoln knelt on the floor at the side of her bed.
“Mary,” he whispered. She did not stir. He touched her arm and spoke her name again, louder this time. Her eyes slowly opened.
“Abe?” she asked, sleepily. “What is it?”
“We’re elected, Mary,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, somehow, even in that dark room able to see the solemnity that her husband felt, thinking it was grave reverence for the job or apprehension of the task before him, she clasped his hand in hers, but made no sound.
“We’re elected,” he repeated. “And God help me.”