The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: The Election of 1864

The War Before the Election of 1864 Told by Abraham Lincoln

As the summer of 1864 settled over the land, I felt the full burden of a nation still locked in deadly conflict. The war that had begun with hopes of a swift end had dragged into its fourth agonizing year. The air in Washington was thick not only with the humidity of the Potomac but with grief, exhaustion, and—more than anything—uncertainty.

Union armies had fought gallantly across multiple fronts, yet the rebellion endured. The public, once so eager for victory, now asked if any end was even possible. Some whispered that perhaps peace should come at the price of compromise. Others shouted that I had not done enough, or had done too much. And all the while, more boys in blue fell on the fields of Virginia, Georgia, and Mississippi. I read their names each day, and each one weighed upon me like a stone.

Grant’s Bloody Gamble

General Ulysses S. Grant had taken command of all Union forces earlier that year, and I gave him my full confidence. Unlike his predecessors, Grant understood that victory would not come with a single glorious battle, but with relentless pressure. He launched a massive campaign through Virginia, known now as the Overland Campaign, grinding away at General Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia.

But oh, the cost. Spotsylvania. The Wilderness. Cold Harbor. The names still haunt me. Thousands of men lost in trench-like conditions, fighting an enemy dug deep. It was not the romantic war some had envisioned in 1861. This was war as it truly is—brutal, grinding, and merciless.

By late summer, Grant had pinned Lee down near Richmond and Petersburg. The lines had hardened into siege warfare. And the people grew impatient. “Why can’t Grant take Richmond?” they asked. But I knew—we were slowly choking off the Confederacy’s heart, even if the progress was invisible to the naked eye.

Sherman in the South

To the west, General William Tecumseh Sherman pushed deep into Georgia, aiming for the prized city of Atlanta. But the march was slow. Confederate forces under General Johnston and later General Hood harassed Sherman’s every move. The papers back home printed each delay as if it were a defeat.

I feared for the morale of the people. I feared even more for the outcome of the war. If Sherman failed to break through, the people might decide that our efforts were in vain—and choose a new president who promised peace, even at the price of surrender or the continuation of slavery.

The Copperheads and McClellan

My political opposition grew bolder. Peace Democrats—often called Copperheads—spoke openly of ending the war by negotiation. Their leader in the upcoming election would be none other than General George B. McClellan, the same man I had once entrusted to lead our armies but had relieved for his hesitation and caution.

McClellan declared he would preserve the Union, but his party’s platform called for peace talks with the Confederacy. I knew such talks would mean recognition of the rebel states, and likely the continued existence of slavery. It was a path back—not forward. And yet, many Northerners, broken by grief, listened.

The Morale of a Nation

By August of 1864, I believed I would not be re-elected. I wrote a note to my Cabinet, sealing it, acknowledging that the people might soon choose someone else. But I also wrote that if I were defeated, I would still dedicate myself, in the months that remained, to saving the Union.

The Union Army remained strong and loyal. The soldiers, God bless them, seemed to understand the stakes better than some of the politicians or newspapermen. They had seen the suffering. They had seen what the rebellion had done to this land. And they knew what the war truly meant.

Then Came Atlanta

Everything changed on September 2, 1864. General Sherman finally broke through and captured Atlanta. The news exploded across the North like a thunderclap. Cheers erupted in the streets. Church bells rang. Hope, long dormant, stirred again in the hearts of the people. The momentum shifted. The people no longer looked for someone to end the war, but someone to finish it.

The People’s Burden: Struggles on the Home Front – Told by Abraham Lincoln

As the war stretched into its fourth year, the toll upon the battlefield was obvious—wounded men, shattered cities, and countless graves. But beyond the thunder of cannons, another war was being fought quietly across the North: the war of everyday life. Families, merchants, laborers, and farmers alike were wrestling with burdens they had never imagined when the first shots rang out at Fort Sumter. By the time the election of 1864 approached, these struggles had grown so heavy that I feared whether the people would have the strength to continue the fight.

Inflation and the Price of Patriotism

Wartime is costly—far beyond the price of bullets and uniforms. We had printed money to fund the war, greenbacks we called them, and while necessary, it came with consequences. The value of the dollar fell, and prices rose steadily. A pound of butter that once cost twenty cents might now cost fifty. Simple goods became luxuries. Housewives had to stretch every cent and still came up short. Factory workers, especially those earning fixed wages, watched helplessly as their pay bought less with each passing month.

I received letters from mothers unable to afford shoes for their children or enough coal to heat their homes. Farmers suffered from disrupted markets and high taxes. Merchants could not keep up with costs or find reliable transport for goods. Even those untouched by the draft or battlefield bore the bruises of this invisible economic war.

Divided Homes, Weary Souls

Everywhere I turned, families were broken. Nearly every home had someone at war—or lost to it. A wife might go months without a letter. A mother might have sent three sons and buried two. Entire towns were altered by absence. Churches held prayer meetings daily, not just for victory, but for the safe return of loved ones.

There was sorrow, yes, but also bitterness. Some Northerners asked why their sons had to die to free slaves. Others blamed me personally for their hardship. I never took such anger to heart—it was the pain speaking. But I knew well the depth of the nation’s weariness.

Protests, Draft Riots, and Political Firestorms

Social unrest simmered just beneath the surface. The draft had torn at communities, especially among immigrants and the working class. In 1863, New York City had exploded in violent draft riots—an eruption of fear, resentment, and racism. Though quelled, the memory of those days still lingered. By 1864, resistance to the draft continued in quieter ways—desertions, evasion, and angry editorials.

Copperhead Democrats stirred the pot further, spreading rumors and half-truths, painting me as a tyrant who waged war for political gain. They accused my administration of trampling rights, destroying the Constitution, and forcing equality upon a people not ready for it. Newspapers often fanned the flames. I could not answer every lie, but I trusted that the truth, in time, would prevail.

The Changing Shape of Society

And yet, amidst the hardship, America was changing. Women stepped into new roles—managing farms, working in factories, nursing wounded soldiers. Freedmen in the South and contraband camps began to build communities and schools, even while war still raged. The war, in tearing apart the old ways, was planting the seeds of something new.

Still, the strain of change, uncertainty, and loss bore down heavily on all. The people were asked to sacrifice much, and many wondered when—if ever—the burden would be lifted.

My Silent Promise

I saw it in their eyes when I visited hospitals. I read it in their ink-stained letters and heard it in the tones of weary clergymen and widows. The people had given so much. My duty was not just to win battles—but to ensure that their suffering would lead to something greater.

Before election day, I did not ask for their votes. I asked for their faith. I asked them to believe that liberty, once kindled, could not be extinguished. That the bloodshed and grief were not in vain. That the Union, though bruised and bleeding, still had a heart strong enough to endure.

A Final Reflection

In the fall of 1864, America stood upon a razor’s edge—economically drained, socially divided, and emotionally exhausted. But from that depth of struggle, I believed we could rise again. For I had seen too many brave souls press forward when all hope seemed lost.

We were tired—but not broken. And I prayed the people would choose to endure, one more time, for the sake of the generations still to come.

A President in Wartime: My Road to Re-Election Told by Abraham Lincoln

When I first took the oath of office in 1861, the Union was already cracking. Four years later, in 1864, the crack had grown into a great chasm of blood, sacrifice, and sorrow. The Civil War still raged, though the tide had begun to turn in our favor. But the people were weary—war-weary, heart-weary, hope-weary. Thousands of letters crossed my desk every month—some pleading for peace, others urging a harder fist against the rebellion. And as the presidential election loomed, the question remained: would the people trust me once more to guide this battered nation?

Choosing to Stand Again

I did not seek re-election for glory or ambition. I sought it because the work was not yet done. Slavery had been struck with the Emancipation Proclamation, but it was not yet destroyed. The Union army had won battles, but peace was still far from certain. And I feared that, should I step aside, all that had been sacrificed might be undone. But even as I decided to run again, I faced strong opposition—not just from the Confederates, but from factions within my own countrymen.

The Radical Republicans criticized me for being too lenient. The Democrats, especially General McClellan—my former top general—accused me of prolonging the war unnecessarily. Some Northerners, exhausted by loss, simply wanted the conflict to end—on almost any terms. The political storm was thick as the battlefield smoke.

A Cabinet of Rivals and Realities

Many men in my cabinet had once been rivals, yet I needed their talents now more than ever. I listened to them all, even when they disagreed with me—and disagree they did, especially about the wisdom of continuing the war while also running a campaign. But I reminded them that in a republic, the people must choose, even amidst fire and fury.

I told my secretaries more than once that I did not expect to be re-elected. In August of that year, I wrote a memorandum acknowledging as much and sealed it—intending not to open it unless defeat came. Yet I resolved that if I lost, I would still do everything in my power during the remainder of my term to save the Union.

Military Victories and Public Sentiment

And then came a shift. General Sherman captured Atlanta in early September. That victory gave the North new hope and renewed belief in our cause. The newspapers turned. The voices of despair grew quieter. It was as if a wind had changed.

I did not want to politicize our military efforts. But I knew that the fate of our nation—and the future of millions in bondage—rested upon the outcome of this election. If McClellan were elected, peace might come quickly, but at the price of Union division and slavery’s survival. So we pressed on—both on the battlefield and at the ballot box.

Preparing for a Democratic Election in a Time of War

It was no easy task to hold an election while the country was split in two. Some questioned whether we should postpone the vote. But I would not allow it. “We cannot have free government without elections,” I told a friend. “If the rebellion can force us to forgo or delay a national election, they may fairly claim to have already conquered and ruined us.”

To ensure fair voting, we arranged for Union soldiers in the field to cast their ballots. It was the first time in our history we had done so on this scale. Many soldiers voted for me—not because they loved politics, but because they had seen what this war was truly about. They had fought for the flag, for their brothers in arms, and increasingly, for the promise of freedom.

Upholding the Union and Restricting Slavery's Expansion – Told by Lincoln

Our foremost commitment was to the preservation of the Union. We recognized that the nation was deeply divided over the issue of slavery. While we pledged not to interfere with slavery where it already existed, we were resolute in preventing its extension into the western territories. We believed that halting the spread of slavery would place it on the path to ultimate extinction, aligning with the vision of our Founding Fathers.

Championing Economic Growth Through Protective Tariffs

We advocated for protective tariffs to shield American industry from foreign competition. By imposing duties on imported goods, we aimed to encourage the growth of domestic manufacturing, thereby creating jobs and fostering economic self-reliance. This policy was particularly vital for Northern industries that faced stiff competition from European manufacturers. ​

Promoting Western Settlement with the Homestead Act

The vast western frontier beckoned many, and we sought to facilitate its settlement through the Homestead Act. This legislation proposed granting free plots of land to settlers willing to cultivate and improve them. Our goal was to empower hardworking individuals and families to build prosperous lives, thereby expanding the nation's agrarian base and promoting democratic ideals. ​

Advocating for a Transcontinental Railroad

To bind our expansive nation more closely together, we supported the construction of a transcontinental railroad. Such an endeavor would facilitate commerce, enhance communication, and promote unity between the eastern states and the western territories. We envisioned a nation connected by iron rails, fostering economic growth and national cohesion. ​

Ensuring Immigrants' Rights and Encouraging Naturalization

Recognizing the valuable contributions of immigrants to our nation's fabric, we opposed any changes to laws that would abridge their rights. We believed that those who came to our shores seeking freedom and opportunity should be welcomed and provided with a clear path to citizenship. Embracing newcomers was essential to our national growth and reflected the inclusive spirit of our democracy. ​

Commitment to Internal Improvements

Beyond the railroad, we championed broader internal improvements, such as developing infrastructure projects like roads and canals. These initiatives were designed to facilitate trade, enhance mobility, and stimulate economic development across all regions of the country. By investing in our nation's physical framework, we aimed to lay the foundation for sustained prosperity. ​

These principles formed the bedrock of our platform in 1860. We sought to address the nation's economic and social challenges while steadfastly preserving the Union. The path was fraught with division and uncertainty, but we were guided by the belief that our nation's ideals could withstand the trials ahead.

The Young Engineer from Philadelphia – Told by George B. McClellan

I was born on December 3, 1826, in the vibrant city of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My father was a respected surgeon, and my family was comfortably placed among the city’s professional class. From an early age, I was drawn to order, precision, and discipline—traits that would later come to define my career, for better or worse. I entered the United States Military Academy at West Point when I was just fifteen years old—young, eager, and determined to make a mark. I graduated second in my class of 1846, behind only Charles S. Stewart, and was immediately commissioned into the Army Corps of Engineers.

Baptism by Fire in Mexico

My first true test came during the Mexican-American War. I served under General Winfield Scott, the grand old man of American arms, during the march from Veracruz to Mexico City. I witnessed firsthand the complexity of modern warfare—maneuver, supply, morale—all things I came to value greatly. The war gave me a taste of the battlefield and opened my eyes to both its cruelty and its necessity. I earned brevet promotions for bravery, and my passion for military organization and logistics only grew stronger.

From Army Officer to Railroad President

After the war, I returned to West Point to teach, and then served as an observer in the Crimean War, where I studied European tactics, technology, and command. Upon returning to the States, I resigned my commission in 1857, seeking success in the booming world of railroads. I became vice president and later president of the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad. Civilian life suited me in many ways—I enjoyed comfort, reputation, and influence—but I always knew that should war return, I would answer the call.

Called to Duty: The Civil War Begins

When Southern guns fired on Fort Sumter in 1861, I returned to uniform. I was given command in western Virginia and quickly secured key victories at Rich Mountain and other engagements. These early successes earned me praise in the press and trust in the capital. After the Union defeat at First Bull Run, I was summoned to Washington and given command of the Army of the Potomac.

I found the army disorganized and disheartened. I drilled them, clothed them, equipped them, and, I dare say, made them into a formidable force. I believed in preparation, in caution, in being ready. My men loved me for it. They called me “Little Mac,” and I took pride in their admiration. I believed a general’s first duty was to protect the lives of his soldiers.

The Peninsula Campaign and a Clash with the President

In 1862, I launched the Peninsula Campaign, a grand effort to capture Richmond by moving the army by water to the Virginia Peninsula. We advanced with care, but Confederate resistance stiffened. I was cautious—perhaps too cautious—awaiting reinforcements and fearing that I was outnumbered. President Lincoln and his cabinet grew frustrated with my delays. I, in turn, felt they did not understand the realities of command in the field.

After the Seven Days Battles, we were forced to withdraw. Though my men fought bravely, I was relieved of overall command. When General Lee invaded Maryland, I was recalled. At Antietam, we fought him to a standstill. It was the bloodiest single day in American history. I stopped Lee’s advance, but again, I did not pursue. I feared another trap. For this, I was once more relieved.

Into Politics: The Election of 1864

Disillusioned but still believing in my country’s future, I turned to politics. In 1864, the Democratic Party nominated me for President of the United States. I accepted the nomination, though I did not agree with all of my party’s positions—particularly the call for immediate peace. I believed in restoring the Union, though I also sought reconciliation and healing, not vengeance.

President Lincoln defeated me handily in that election, bolstered by recent Union victories and growing public support for emancipation. Though I disagreed with many of his choices, I respected the people’s voice and returned quietly to private life.

A Life Beyond War

In the years that followed, I traveled abroad and eventually returned to public service as governor of New Jersey from 1878 to 1881. I worked hard to improve education, infrastructure, and reform. I avoided the national stage, content to serve quietly and with dignity.

I died on October 29, 1885, at the age of 58. Though my career will forever be debated by historians—some calling me too cautious, others praising my preparation—I remain proud of my service. I trained an army when the nation had none. I loved my men. And I always acted with the hope that America might heal, not only win.

Final Reflection

History may remember me as the general who failed to seize victory, but I ask it also to remember the general who never forgot the cost of war. I believed war should be fought with precision, not haste—and with compassion for the lives entrusted to a commander’s care.

A General Turns Candidate – Told by George B. McClellan

In 1864, our country stood on the brink of exhaustion. I had already served the Union as a general, shaping and organizing the Army of the Potomac with every ounce of discipline I could muster. But as the war dragged on—bloody, brutal, and seemingly endless—I was approached by leaders of the Democratic Party to stand as their candidate for President of the United States.

It was no light decision. I had no personal vendetta against President Lincoln, but I disagreed with many of his policies—his wartime measures, his handling of civil liberties, and his embrace of emancipation as a war aim. I believed in restoring the Union, but not through the path of destruction.

The Democratic Platform: A Call for Peace

The official Democratic platform, written by party leaders—many of them so-called "Peace Democrats"—called for an immediate ceasefire and a negotiated peace with the Confederacy. It declared that "after four years of failure to restore the Union by the experiment of war... justice, humanity, liberty, and the public welfare demand that immediate efforts be made for a cessation of hostilities."

This plank put me in a difficult position. While I carried the Democratic banner, I could not in good conscience agree with abandoning the fight outright. I had seen too many soldiers die to allow disunion to stand. In my acceptance letter, I made it clear: I would only seek peace through a restored Union—not through recognition of the Confederacy.

Preserving the Union—But Not Through Revolution

My platform sought a middle road. I pledged to uphold the Constitution, restore civil liberties, and bring the seceded states back into the Union without abolishing the existing social order by force. I opposed the Emancipation Proclamation, not because I supported slavery as a moral institution, but because I believed it was unconstitutional for the president to free slaves by executive order during wartime. Slavery, I believed, could be ended lawfully—through gradual emancipation or compensation—by Congress and the states.

I also criticized Lincoln’s suspension of habeas corpus and the use of military tribunals against civilians. In my view, the Constitution was not a document to be cast aside in wartime, but a sacred charter to be preserved all the more tightly.

Bringing Order, Efficiency, and Reconciliation

Where Lincoln’s administration embraced what I considered radicalism and chaos, I promised order and reconciliation. I wanted to bring the Southern states back into the fold with respect—not punishment. I pledged to heal the wounds between North and South through diplomacy as much as strength. And I hoped to bring a swifter end to the conflict, preserving lives and property.

Though I respected the bravery of our soldiers and officers, I believed that too often the war was mismanaged from Washington. I offered a government run with military discipline—firm, measured, and loyal to constitutional bounds.

A Divided Party, A Difficult Campaign

Privately, I knew the Democratic Party was fractured. I stood for a Union preserved, but my running mate, George H. Pendleton, aligned more closely with the Peace Democrats. We presented a split image to the voters—one voice calling for immediate peace, the other for peace through victory.

The campaign was bitter. I was called a traitor, a sympathizer, a general who would undo the hard-fought gains of Union soldiers. Lincoln, with General Sherman’s victory in Atlanta fresh in the nation’s mind, carried the election with strength. But I held my head high. I had offered a different vision—a constitutional, reconciliatory path to peace.

Final Thoughts

Though I lost the election, I do not regret standing. I believed then—and still believe now—that the Constitution must be preserved even amidst civil war. A nation cannot save its soul by forsaking the very principles upon which it was founded.

I ran not to divide, but to unify. Not to surrender, but to restore. And though history may not have favored me, I offered the people a choice between two futures—and trusted them to decide.

The Man from Illinois: Our Foe and Our Final Hope – Told by Jefferson Davis

Before war tore us apart, long before cannon fire lit the skies over Charleston Harbor, we in the South had watched Abraham Lincoln’s rise with grave concern. His election in 1860 was, to us, not just a shift in political power—but a signal that the foundations of our way of life were no longer safe within the Union. He was not on our ballots. Not a single Southern state had given him their voice. Yet he ascended to the presidency of the entire United States.

He came from Illinois, a self-made man, a moderate in words perhaps—but one who represented a party built upon hostility toward slavery, the very institution upon which our economy and social order had been structured for generations. We did not see him as a tyrant—not at first—but as the final sign that our rights as states, as sovereign peoples, would no longer be honored by the Union.

Lincoln: Our Hope for Peace Before the First Gun

I must confess, many in the South had hoped—quietly, desperately—that President Lincoln might be the last chance for peace before secession turned to war. We thought that perhaps, after taking office, he would see the wisdom of compromise, that he might offer assurances to the Southern states—that the Constitution would be honored, that our rights to property, to self-government, and to commerce would not be trampled underfoot.

Instead, he declared the Union indivisible and denied our right to withdraw peacefully. When he called for troops after the fall of Fort Sumter, it confirmed what many Southerners feared: that the federal government would now use force to keep us bound to a Union we no longer consented to. Whatever hopes remained for negotiation died in those days. Yet, throughout the war, I never fully gave up the belief that reason might return to Washington. I always believed that Mr. Lincoln, if he had chosen to pursue peace over conquest, could have ended the bloodshed sooner.

The Economic Wounds of the South

While Northern factories hummed and their ports filled with goods from across the Atlantic, the South groaned under blockade and deprivation. The Union navy choked our trade, and without access to foreign markets, our cotton—the engine of Southern wealth—piled up, useless. Prices soared beyond imagination. A barrel of flour that once cost $8 could, by 1864, cost over $250 in Confederate currency.

Our people suffered not only from military hardship, but from hunger, disease, and want. Mothers could scarcely feed their children. Salt, shoes, coffee—once common items—became luxuries. The Confederate dollar lost its value as faith in its purchasing power eroded. Our railroads decayed. Our towns burned. Inflation and scarcity ruled the day.

Men fought on, not because they loved war, but because they loved their homes. The women of the South became our backbone, bearing burdens few could imagine. And still, they endured.

How the South Viewed Lincoln as the War Dragged On

To many in the South, Lincoln became the face of invasion—the iron will that refused to let us go in peace. His orders had brought Union armies to our fields, his policies had aimed to destroy the institution we believed the Constitution had once protected. With each Confederate city taken, with every proclamation and speech, he appeared less a statesman and more a conqueror to Southern eyes.

And yet—there was complexity in our perception. Some among us still hoped that Lincoln, especially as the war dragged into its later years, might be moved by the sheer human cost of the conflict. I myself believed, even as late as 1864, that an honorable peace could be struck between two sovereign peoples. We had no hatred for the Union itself—we simply wished to govern ourselves, as we believed the Founders intended. But Lincoln would accept no such terms.

Reflections from a Shattered Nation

I do not deny that history may judge me harshly. But I loved the South—not as a region to dominate, but as a people with a right to live according to their own laws and customs. I never believed that secession was rebellion, but rather the lawful exercise of a sovereign right.

President Lincoln, in his heart, may have believed himself preserving liberty. But from our view, he led an army that laid waste to cities, that freed our labor force without any compensation or support for the aftermath, and that stripped our states of the right to determine their own future. He was both our adversary and, in those early days, our last hope for reconciliation.

The South bore many scars—some self-inflicted, others delivered by cannon and hunger—but we held to the belief that we had fought, not for conquest, but for our right to stand, to govern, and to live as free states. History will tell its tale. This is mine.

From Tailor to President - Told by Andrew Johnson

I was born on December 29, 1808, in a humble log cabin in Raleigh, North Carolina. My father, Jacob, was a porter at an inn who died when I was just a boy. My mother, Mary, struggled to keep our family afloat, and when I was around ten years old, I was apprenticed to a tailor. I never had the luxury of formal schooling—not a single day. What education I earned, I gained by listening, watching, and reading on my own.

In my early teens, I ran away from that apprenticeship, wandering with my brother and finally settling in Greeneville, Tennessee. It was there, in that small Appalachian town, that I opened my own tailor shop—and where I found my voice among the working men.

Finding My Voice in Politics

Greeneville was where I began speaking out—not just with a needle and thread, but with ideas. I joined debating societies, stood up in town meetings, and spoke on behalf of the common man. I despised aristocracy, privilege, and the plantation elite who dominated Southern politics. In 1827, I married Eliza McCardle, a schoolteacher who helped me improve my reading and writing. She became my closest confidante and the steady hand behind my public life.

I started in local politics and was elected to the Tennessee House of Representatives, then to the state senate, and eventually to the U.S. House of Representatives. I served there for five terms before returning to Tennessee to serve as governor, and later as a U.S. senator. I was a Democrat, through and through—but a Democrat of a different stripe: I championed the poor and opposed secession, even when nearly every voice in the South demanded it.

A Southern Unionist in a Time of Rebellion

When the Southern states broke away from the Union in 1861, I was the only U.S. senator from a seceding state who refused to resign. I stood firm for the Union, even as Tennessee turned against me. Some called me a traitor to my section—I considered myself a patriot to the nation. President Lincoln took note of my loyalty and appointed me Military Governor of Tennessee when Union forces reclaimed parts of the state. It was there I ruled with a strong hand, keeping order and crushing Confederate resistance.

In 1864, as the war entered its darkest hours, Lincoln chose me as his running mate for re-election on the National Union ticket. A Southern Unionist and a self-made man—paired with the Great Emancipator—it was a strange but symbolic choice. Together, we won the election, and I became Vice President of the United States.

From Vice President to Tragedy and Turmoil

I served just six weeks as Vice President before the unthinkable happened. On April 14, 1865, President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. I was thrust into the presidency during the most delicate moment in American history. The Civil War had ended, but the work of Reconstruction had only begun.

I swore to carry on Lincoln’s vision of restoring the Union, but I had my own way of going about it. I favored rapid reunification and leniency toward the Southern states. But I also resisted the Radical Republicans in Congress who demanded full civil rights and protections for freedmen. I vetoed bills meant to secure those rights, including the Civil Rights Act of 1866—only to be overridden.

Impeached, but Not Removed

My conflict with Congress deepened, and when I removed Secretary of War Edwin Stanton—against their wishes—they struck back. The House of Representatives impeached me, charging that I had violated the Tenure of Office Act. It was a political maneuver, not a criminal one. I stood trial in the Senate, and by a single vote—one vote—I was acquitted.

I remained in office, wounded but unbroken. History would remember me as the first president to be impeached, though not convicted. I served out my term isolated and embattled, and I left the White House in 1869 with few allies in Washington.

A Final Return and Reflection

After my presidency, I returned home to Tennessee, still defiant, still believing I had done what was right. In 1875, the people of Tennessee returned me to the U.S. Senate—making me the only former president to serve in the Senate after leaving office. It was a final act of vindication, though I did not live long to see its fruits. I died that July, at the age of 66.

I was born in poverty, and I rose—by my own hands—to the highest office in the land. I was never polished. I was never favored by elites. But I always spoke for those who had none. History will judge me, perhaps harshly. But I acted as I believed a man of principle must act—in defiance of tyranny, whether from kings or Congress.

A Calculated Choice in a Nation Torn – Told by Abraham Lincoln

The year was 1864, and the nation was still gripped by war—brother against brother, state against state. The Union had endured three long years of struggle, and though the tide had begun to turn, I knew that victory alone would not save the country. We would also have to rebuild it. Re-election was not guaranteed, and even if it came, healing would be far harder than warring.

When I considered my next running mate, it wasn’t merely about winning votes—it was about sending a message. I needed a man who could reach across the divide, someone who could symbolize a bridge between North and South. That is what first led me to Andrew Johnson, the military governor of Tennessee, the only Southern senator who had refused to leave the Union when his state seceded.

A Southern Unionist on a Northern Ticket

Johnson was a Democrat. I was a Republican. He was born poor and had clawed his way up with nothing but a needle, thread, and fire in his belly. He had no love for aristocrats, whether in the North or South, and no allegiance to the slave-owning elite who had led the Confederacy. When he denounced secession and stood loyal to the flag, even while Tennessee burned, I took notice.

Choosing him as my Vice President was a symbolic gamble—one that said this war is not North against South, but Union against disunion. A National Union ticket, we called it. A Republican president with a Southern Democrat running mate. It was bold, it was controversial, and many in my own party grumbled. But I believed it would show the country that reunion was possible—that a Southern man loyal to the Constitution could still have a future in the government of the United States.

Quiet Doubts in the Back of My Mind

But I would be dishonest if I said I had no worries about the man. Johnson was strong-willed, often defiant, and though firm in his loyalty to the Union, he was less certain when it came to the question of race and freedom. He believed slavery was a burden on poor white laborers—and that it gave undue power to the Southern elite—but he did not view the formerly enslaved as equals in the way that men like Charles Sumner or Frederick Douglass hoped we all might, in time.

I supported the Thirteenth Amendment, the abolition of slavery altogether. Johnson, while publicly aligned with me during the campaign, had once expressed views suggesting he favored gradual emancipation or even compensated freedom. He did not share the same moral conviction about slavery’s evil—his opposition to it was rooted in economics and class tension, not in the belief that every man, Black or white, was entitled to liberty as a God-given right.

The Unspoken Fear of Mortality

I must admit there were nights—quiet moments when I looked at the war map in my study and listened to the news of fresh battles—when I thought, What if I do not live to finish the work? What then? I knew I had enemies. I knew that assassination, though rare in our republic, was not unthinkable in times as bitter as these. And when those thoughts crept in, I would sometimes stare out the window and wonder if Johnson could carry the burden.

I feared that his Southern roots, though useful politically, might pull him toward leniency too soon, or worse, vengeance in the wrong direction—toward old feuds with the planter class, and not toward justice for the freedman or reconciliation with the loyalists in the North. I wondered if he would understand that freedom was not merely a military victory but a moral transformation.

Still, the Best Choice for That Hour

Despite my misgivings, I believed that Johnson was the best choice for that moment in history. His selection told the nation that not all Southerners were traitors, that loyalty could rise above region, and that the Union was a home that even the prodigal states could return to.

In politics, one must often choose not between the perfect and the unacceptable, but between what is right for the time and what is disastrous. I believed Johnson would be firm in preserving the Union—but I also hoped that, should the burden of the presidency fall to him, he would learn to lead with the compassion and vision that the times required.

Final Thoughts

As I look back, I pray that the cause—the cause of liberty, equality, and a reborn Union—will be strong enough to survive any man’s imperfections, including my own and Johnson’s. For in the end, it is the people, not a single president, who determine the future of the nation.

Still, I do hope that if I am remembered, it is not merely for freeing men from chains, but for trusting in a country that could learn to live free together—even after so much death tried to divide it.

A Meeting of Rivals: Lincoln and McClellan Speak on Politics and the Press

It was a cold October evening in Washington, weeks before the people of the United States would cast their votes in one of the most consequential elections in the nation’s history. By a quiet arrangement, President Abraham Lincoln and his former general—and current Democratic opponent—George B. McClellan met privately in a small study off the War Department, far from the newspapers and crowds. Their conversation was civil, even if their philosophies diverged. What follows is the recollection of that extraordinary exchange.

Opening the Conversation

Lincoln, tall and gaunt, spoke first, his voice gentle but firm: “General McClellan, I appreciate your willingness to sit across from me—not as foes, but as countrymen. Whatever divides us, the Republic must endure past this election.”

McClellan, stiff but composed, nodded: “Mr. President, I accept your invitation with that same sentiment. Though I stand against your administration's course, I’ve never wished to see the Union destroyed. Only restored—lawfully, and with dignity.”

The Media as the New Battlefield

The conversation turned quickly to the press, which had become a powerful force during the war.

McClellan leaned forward, a trace of frustration in his tone: “It is not merely the battlefield we contend with, sir—it is the editorial page. I cannot open a paper in the North without reading accusations that I seek to surrender, that I harbor Confederate sympathies. I pledged to preserve the Union—but the press has twisted it into treachery.”

Lincoln, folding his long fingers together, responded slowly: “You’re not wrong, General. The press has teeth. But it also has a voice the people trust. They judge our intentions through ink more often than through speeches. I have been called a tyrant, a dictator, a baboon... yet I do not suppress these voices. If liberty means anything, it means enduring even the harshest criticisms.”

McClellan frowned: “But is it liberty when some papers serve only to echo your cabinet? Harper’s Weekly, The New York Tribune—they have become arms of your administration. Meanwhile, Democratic presses face raids and arrests.”

Lincoln raised a brow but did not grow angry: “You forget, General, that it was Democratic mobs who burned Republican newspapers in the North at the war’s outset. Freedom of the press must be mutual, or it is meaningless. I have not shut down the Tribune any more than I’ve spared the Chicago Times. But when sedition endangers national survival, the line between opinion and rebellion grows thin.”

Political Machines and Public Perception

They shifted to the political organizations rising behind the scenes.

McClellan sighed: “The political machines grind on both sides. Your Union League clubs distribute pamphlets that glorify you as a savior and slander my every breath. I’ve met voters who believe I would hand the country to Jefferson Davis with a bow, all because they read it in a broadsheet.”

Lincoln leaned back: “I do not deny that politics, especially in wartime, is messy. But I never ordered such worship of myself. If anything, I worry the country sees me too much as a symbol and not as a man of many flaws, doing his utmost. But, George—may I call you that?”

McClellan, after a pause, nodded: “You may.”

Lincoln continued: “George, your party’s platform declares the war a failure. Yet your letter of acceptance declares you will fight on to restore the Union. That contradiction gives rise to confusion, and in confusion, newspapers flourish.”

The People’s Mood and the Power of Fear

McClellan responded sharply, though not disrespectfully: “Then let me clarify: I wish to end the war through negotiation if possible, but never at the cost of the Union. Still, do you not see how fear drives votes more than principle? The press tells the people to fear compromise. That if they elect me, they will see Richmond triumphant and Washington in flames.”

Lincoln nodded solemnly: “Fear is indeed powerful. But hope must outshine it. I believe the Union can only endure if we stay the course. You believe we must pivot. Both views must pass through the fire of public opinion. I trust the people.”

McClellan, quieter now, said: “And so do I. I only pray they have not been misled beyond reason.”

A Moment of Mutual Understanding

Silence fell for a moment as the fire crackled nearby. For all their differences—of party, of principle, of path—each man had borne the weight of command, the sorrow of death, and the hopes of millions.

Lincoln, rising to his feet, offered a hand: “No matter who wins this election, the war must end with the Union preserved. I hope we can both agree on that.”

McClellan, standing as well, shook it firmly: “On that, we are united.”

Final Reflection

Though divided by politics, Lincoln and McClellan were bound by the war's burden and a shared yearning for peace—one through perseverance, the other through reconciliation. In the 1864 election, they became symbols of two futures. But in that quiet room, they were simply two men trying to lead a fractured nation back to itself.

And history, in its wisdom, would choose.

The People Have Spoken: The Election of 1864 – Told by Abraham Lincoln

The night of November 8, 1864, arrived not with fanfare, but with a kind of quiet suspense that hung over the capital like a fog. I had spent the earlier part of the day in thought—meeting with advisors, hearing reports, and walking the White House halls, pausing often to read telegrams trickling in from across the states. That evening, I made no grand pronouncements. I waited, as every citizen must, to hear the voice of the people.

Votes were cast from Maine to California—and from the front lines as well. For the first time in our nation’s history, soldiers were allowed to vote from the battlefield. Their ballots came back with remarkable clarity: they overwhelmingly stood with me. That moved me more than I can express. These men had borne the cost of this war with their blood and still believed in the cause we fought for. Their faith humbled me.

A Mandate from a Nation at War

When the final tallies came in, I was deeply struck—not only by victory, but by the margin of it. I won 212 electoral votes to General George B. McClellan’s 21. I carried all but three states. The popular vote, too, was decisive. Millions had risen above fear and war-weariness to declare their will—that the Union must stand, and that we must finish the great work we had begun.

This election was more than a contest between two men. It was a referendum on the future of the country. The people had chosen to continue the war until the Union was restored and slavery extinguished. They had rejected the temptation of premature peace, of division disguised as compromise.

What the Vote Truly Meant

I do not see the results as a personal triumph, but rather a testament to the enduring strength of our republican system. That we could hold a free election amidst a civil war—while armies clashed, cities smoldered, and families mourned—was itself a miracle of democracy. The Confederacy believed our Union to be fragile, a temporary pact doomed to fracture. But the election proved them wrong. The people had shown that even in great peril, they would uphold their right to choose their leaders.

It also signaled a new chapter in our struggle. The Emancipation Proclamation had already turned the war into a moral battle as much as a military one. Now, with the voice of the people behind me, I felt a renewed obligation to see it through—not only to restore the Union, but to birth a more just and lasting peace, where liberty would no longer be bounded by race or region.

My Personal Reflection

When I first wrote my secret memorandum that summer, I was convinced I would lose. I told my Cabinet that if that happened, I would still use every day left in my term to preserve the Union. But the people—despite their grief, despite their exhaustion—gave me another chance to finish what we started.

I was not jubilant. The road ahead was still hard. More would die before peace came. But I felt strengthened—not by personal pride, but by the knowledge that the heart of the nation still beat strong. The people had chosen unity. They had chosen perseverance. They had chosen hope.

The Work Yet to Come

The election of 1864 told us that democracy was not a fleeting ideal—it was a promise worth defending, even at the highest cost. The task before us now was to heal the nation and to ensure that the sacrifices made were not in vain.

The Union would endure. And with God’s help, we would make it better than it had been before.