1861_ The Civil War Awakening - Adam Goodheart [49]
Floyd himself, while believing in the justice of slavery and loathing the Black Republicans, may not yet have been fully convinced that secession was in the South’s best interests. Still, if hostilities did break out, he was in little doubt as to which side he would support. It was not difficult for the glib Trescot to maneuver him—and, through him, the president.58
Buchanan was now beset from several sides at once. A delegation of South Carolina congressmen, knowing that their days in Washington were numbered, visited the White House. They sought Buchanan’s assurance that Major Anderson would stay where he was until an amicable settlement could be worked out, while the other two Charleston forts would be left unoccupied. In return, they said, they would try to ensure that no one attacked Moultrie—at least for the next ten days, until South Carolina could secede officially. Ever the courteous diplomat, Buchanan nodded, smiled gravely, and assured them that he was in complete sympathy with their views. “After all, this is a matter of honor among gentlemen,” he told his visitors as they rose to depart. “We understand each other.”
No doubt Buchanan was satisfied with himself: he had won at least an extra week and a half of peace with little more than a handshake and a few reassuring words. But what exactly had he promised in return? The Carolinians were certain that they understood the arrangement, but there is little evidence that Buchanan did.59
The tacitly arranged truce—unknown, of course, to Major Anderson and his officers at Charleston—did last the ten days until South Carolina’s secession, and even a week after that. Then one morning at the end of the month, President Buchanan was upstairs in the White House when a servant brought him word that three gentlemen were calling unexpectedly: Assistant Secretary Trescot, Senator Davis, and another Southern senator, R. M. T. Hunter of Virginia. Buchanan found the visitors seated in his office. Anxious that something unpleasant was afoot, he began toying with his cigar, making nervous small talk about a certain thorny problem he had just been addressing, a vexing issue that concerned the American consul at Liverpool. Jefferson Davis cut him off. “Mr. President,” he said, “we have called upon you about an infinitely greater matter than any consulate.” “What is it?” Buchanan asked. Davis asked if he had heard any reports from Charleston in the past two or three hours. The president had not. “Then,” said Davis, “I have a great calamity to announce to you.”
As the president listened to Davis’s news—that Major Anderson had transferred his force to Fort Sumter—he slumped against the marble mantelpiece, crumpling the cigar between his fingers. “My God,” Buchanan said, “are misfortunes never to come singly? I call God to witness—you gentlemen better than anybody know—that this is not only without, but against my orders. It is against my policy.”60
But the following days would show that all Buchanan’s assurances and apologies were in vain. It was not long before the South Carolina congressmen complained publicly that the president had broken his solemn word. He had tried to be a friend to all, to settle things as a matter of honor among gentlemen. Now both sides called him not merely a weakling, but a traitor. There was not much left for James Buchanan to do but wait—like millions of other Americans—and see what other hands might arrange.
IN THOSE LAST ANTEBELLUM DAYS, the White House was overshadowed in its role of governing the country by another institution, two blocks away. This was the Willard Hotel. The folds and ravels of its endless corridors sheltered more political intrigue than the presidential mansion, while on any given morning, far more business was legislated at its breakfast tables than in either chamber of Congress. A morning repast at the Willard might include oysters, roast pigeons, fresh shad, pigs’ feet, and robins on toast—all washed down, perhaps, with official Washington’s two favorite digestifs: