The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: The Emancipation Proclamation

Fredrick Douglass: Bondage to Freedom for All

I was born in February 1818, though I was never told the exact day. My birthplace was a small cabin on a plantation in Tuckahoe, Maryland. I was born into slavery, separated from my mother shortly after birth, and never knew the identity of my father for certain, though many believed he was a white man. I saw my mother only a few times before she died when I was very young. From the beginning, I understood what it meant to live in chains—not just physical ones, but the ones that tried to bind the mind and spirit.

Learning to Read and Breaking Mental Chains

When I was around eight years old, I was sent to Baltimore to live with Hugh and Sophia Auld. It was there that something extraordinary happened—Mrs. Auld began teaching me the alphabet. When her husband forbade her to continue, saying education would “ruin” a slave, I realized that learning was the key to freedom. I began teaching myself in secret, using old books, street signs, and even the Bible. I traded bread with poor white boys in exchange for reading lessons. Every word I learned made the chains around my mind weaker.

Determined to Be Free

As I grew older, the reality of slavery became more brutal. I was sent back to the countryside and hired out to a man named Edward Covey, known for breaking rebellious slaves. He beat me savagely, but one day I fought back—and won. That day, I felt like a man for the first time. Though I remained enslaved, I was no longer broken. That moment gave me the strength to plan my escape. And in 1838, dressed as a sailor and holding forged papers, I boarded a train in the dead of night and traveled north. At last, I was free.

A Voice for the Voiceless

In the North, I married my beloved Anna and settled in Massachusetts. I began speaking publicly about slavery, telling my story to anyone who would listen. My words shocked people. Some didn’t believe a Black man could be so articulate—so I wrote my autobiography, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. It became a bestseller, but it also put me in danger. Slave catchers could have dragged me back into bondage. I fled to England for a time, where kind supporters helped raise funds to buy my legal freedom.

Writing, Leading, and Fighting for Justice

I returned to the United States and launched my own anti-slavery newspaper, The North Star. My motto was: “Right is of no sex—Truth is of no color—God is the Father of us all, and we are all brethren.” I wrote articles, gave speeches, and challenged both racists and fellow reformers, even clashing with my friend William Lloyd Garrison when I chose to work within the political system. I knew that to change America, we had to change its laws and hearts together.

The Civil War and Emancipation

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, I declared that the war must become a war for freedom. I pushed President Lincoln to see that the Union could not survive half-free and half-slave. I called for Black men to fight for their liberty and their country—and they did. Two of my sons joined the 54th Massachusetts Regiment. I met with Lincoln at the White House, advocating for fair treatment of Black soldiers and urging emancipation. When Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863, it was a victory—but just the beginning.

The Fight for Equality

After the war, I continued the struggle—not just for freedom, but for full citizenship, education, and voting rights for all African Americans. I campaigned for the 14th and 15th Amendments and spoke out for women’s suffrage. I held government positions, including U.S. Marshal and Ambassador to Haiti. Yet I never forgot the pain of slavery or the voices of those still silenced by prejudice and poverty.

My Legacy and Hope for the Future

I spent my final years writing, mentoring young leaders, and continuing to speak truth to power. I died in 1895, but I hope my life proves that education is freedom, and that a single voice, lifted with courage and truth, can shake empires. I was born a slave, but I died a free man—and more than that, a witness to the power of perseverance, faith, and justice.

Waiting While Others Were Dying – Told by Fredrick Douglass

When the Civil War began in 1861, I saw it for what it truly was: not just a fight between North and South, but a struggle between slavery and freedom. Yet, I also saw a president who refused to name the enemy. Abraham Lincoln, a man of great moral sense in private, would not yet become that same moral leader in public. He spoke of saving the Union—not freeing the slave. He insisted he had no power to interfere with slavery where it already existed. That hesitation pained me. How could the leader of a free nation fail to see the evil at the center of our conflict?

Words Matter, Silence Wounds

While enslaved men and women risked everything to escape and others waited in chains, President Lincoln chose his words carefully. Too carefully. I used my voice to fill that silence. Through speeches, editorials, and public letters, I demanded clarity. In 1862, when Lincoln stated he would save the Union whether it meant freeing all, some, or none of the slaves, I replied with anger and sadness. I declared, “The Union will be worth saving, only when it is a Union of freedom.” I believed a war that refused to acknowledge slavery as its cause could never deliver true justice.

A War Without a Purpose

I watched the Union struggle on the battlefield, and I believed much of that struggle came from its lack of purpose. Soldiers marched and died, but what were they fighting for? I argued in my newspaper, Douglass’ Monthly, that the North must turn the war into a crusade for liberty. I urged Lincoln to arm Black men, to strike at the Confederacy’s greatest source of strength: its enslaved laborers. Instead, we saw generals like McClellan return fugitives to their enslavers, even while claiming to fight for the Union.

The Moral Thunder of the People

I was not alone. Across the North, abolitionists, ministers, editors, and ordinary citizens began demanding emancipation. I spoke in churches, in halls, and on street corners, stirring hearts and pointing to the contradiction between the Union’s goals and its actions. I knew the public was ready before the president was. I wrote again and again that the war could not be won unless it became a war for human freedom. A country divided could not stand, and neither could a country unwilling to recognize the humanity of four million of its people.

The Tide Turns at Antietam

Then came the Battle of Antietam in September 1862. It was a bloody, terrible day—more American lives lost than in any day before—but it brought a Union victory, or at least enough of one to give Lincoln the chance he had been waiting for. Within days, he issued the Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation. I praised it, though I noted its limitations. It freed only those enslaved in rebel territory, not in the loyal border states. Still, I called it a step forward—a signal that justice might yet rise from the nation’s turmoil.

From Protest to Partnership

Though I had once been Lincoln’s harshest critic, I now began to see in him a man who had grown into the demands of history. In time, he would become not just the president of a nation, but the president of a people—Black and white together. When I met him in 1863 and again in 1864, I saw not a distant politician, but a man willing to listen. I reminded him of the promises he had made to our people and pushed him to go further still.

A Just War at Last

The Emancipation Proclamation, signed on January 1, 1863, changed the war forever. It gave the Union a moral cause. It invited Black men to join the fight, including two of my sons. It declared before all the world that freedom—not compromise—would be the legacy of this great struggle. I did not stop demanding more. I never ceased to push Lincoln and the nation to live up to its highest ideals. But in that moment, I knew: the tide had turned, and the war for union had become a war for justice.

Robert Smalls: Took My Chance and Won My Freedom

I was born into slavery on April 5, 1839, in Beaufort, South Carolina. My mother, Lydia Polite, was enslaved, and so was I. As a boy, I lived in the house of Henry McKee, who may have been my biological father. My mother had grown up working in the fields, and she feared I might not understand the harsh reality of slavery since I was treated more gently in the city. To open my eyes, she had me sent to the fields and even the whipping post to witness the suffering of others. It worked—I saw the truth of the system that claimed to own us. I learned early that I wanted freedom—not just for myself, but for my people.

Learning the Sea

When I was twelve, I was hired out in Charleston. I worked on the docks and in the harbor, doing any job I could find—longshoreman, rigger, sailmaker, and eventually wheelman, which was the highest position an enslaved Black man could hold on a Southern ship. I worked aboard the Planter, a Confederate transport ship. Over time, I learned everything about her—how she worked, how to pilot her, and how to navigate the waterways of the South Carolina coast. I watched the white officers closely. One day, I knew, I would take the wheel and not look back.

The Daring Escape

On the night of May 12, 1862, the opportunity came. The white officers of the Planter left the ship in Charleston for the evening, trusting that we—myself and the other enslaved crew—would stay put. Instead, I gathered the men and our families, and we put our plan into motion. Before dawn, I donned the captain’s uniform and hat and guided the Planter past five Confederate checkpoints, using the correct signals at each one. We sailed straight toward the Union blockade. I raised a white flag of surrender and delivered the Planter to the U.S. Navy. I gave them the ship, its cargo, and valuable Confederate codes and maps. I gave myself and my people our freedom.

Fighting for the Union

After the escape, I traveled North and began speaking about slavery and freedom, rallying support for the Union. I met President Abraham Lincoln and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. They were amazed by the escape and by my knowledge of the South. I worked with the Navy, helped recruit Black soldiers, and eventually returned to the South Carolina coast as a pilot for the Union Navy. I fought bravely in seventeen military engagements. In time, I was made captain of the Planter—the very ship I had once stolen to win my freedom. I was the first Black man to captain a U.S. military vessel during the war.

Rebuilding the South

After the war, I returned to Beaufort and bought the house where I was once enslaved. I educated myself, started businesses, and worked for change. I entered politics and helped rewrite South Carolina’s constitution during Reconstruction. In 1874, I was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. I fought for civil rights, equal education, and fair treatment for all citizens, Black and white. Though the tide of racism rose again and tried to undo our progress, I kept fighting for the promise of democracy.

A Life of Purpose

I served five terms in Congress and held other public offices, including U.S. Customs Collector in Beaufort. I lived long enough to see both victories and setbacks for Black Americans. I never stopped believing that freedom must be protected—not just taken once, but defended for all time. I died in 1915, in the same city where I was born into slavery. But I died a free man, a father, a public servant, and a symbol of what courage and determination can achieve. I took the wheel of a Confederate ship and steered it toward liberty—and I never let go of the course.

The Plan Begins to Steal a Confederate Military Ship – Told by Robert Smalls

I had been working on the Planter—a Confederate military transport ship—for over a year. I knew her well. I knew how she moved, how she sounded in the water, and how to steer her through Charleston Harbor and beyond. As a wheelman, the highest position an enslaved man could hold aboard a Confederate vessel, I listened closely and learned everything I could from the white officers. They thought they were clever, barking orders and assuming we didn’t understand. But I listened. I studied. And I waited.

In early May of 1862, I learned that the white officers would be spending the night ashore. That was our moment. I had been secretly planning with the other enslaved crew members—men like myself who were willing to risk everything. But it wasn’t just about us. We would bring our families too. If we were going to escape, we would do it right—together.

In Disguise at the Helm

In the early morning hours of May 13, 1862, while the city still slept, I put on the captain’s uniform and his straw hat. The darkness was our cover, and confidence was our disguise. The other men took their positions, just as they would on any other morning, and I stepped up to the helm as if I belonged there.

We pulled away from the wharf in Charleston and made our way down the harbor. Our wives and children waited at a designated spot, and we brought them aboard without drawing attention. From there, we approached the Confederate checkpoints—one after another. Each post required the correct signal. I had watched the captain give them dozens of times. Now I gave them myself. My heart pounded with every wave of my hand, every turn of the wheel. But the signals were accepted. We passed Fort Sumter itself—the symbol of secession—and no one stopped us.

Into the Hands of Freedom

Once we cleared the last Confederate gun battery, we were in open waters. The Union blockade lay just ahead. We hoisted a white sheet as a flag of surrender, hoping the Union ships wouldn’t fire before recognizing our signal. As we approached, the guns on the USS Onward began to move. I stood tall at the helm, arms raised, praying they would see that we came in peace.

At last, the Union sailors saw the sheet, saw the women and children on deck, and realized what we were doing. We were welcomed aboard not as captives, but as free men and women. I handed over the Planter, her cargo of cannons and military supplies, and—perhaps most valuable—Confederate maps, codes, and signals. But more than anything, I had delivered us from bondage with our own hands.

A Message to the Nation

News of our escape spread quickly. Some called it daring. Others couldn’t believe a Black man could pull off such a feat. But we had done it. I was summoned to Washington, D.C., where I met with Secretary of War Edwin Stanton and later with President Abraham Lincoln. They wanted to hear the story for themselves. I told them everything. I hoped my actions would prove what I had always known—that my people were not only capable but ready to fight for freedom, to serve with honor, and to claim our rightful place in this nation.

The Journey Was Just Beginning

That morning aboard the Planter changed everything for me—but it was just the beginning. I later returned to serve in the Union Navy, and eventually I was made captain of the Planter—the very ship I once stole. I fought in battles, recruited Black soldiers, and after the war, I fought for justice in Congress and beyond. But I will never forget that night when we turned a Confederate warship into a vessel of liberation. We didn’t just steal a ship. We seized our future.

Pushing Southward: The Battle of Shiloh – Told by General Ulysses S. Grant

By the spring of 1862, we had seen early Union victories in Kentucky and Tennessee. I had led successful campaigns at Forts Henry and Donelson, opening up key rivers and securing vital ground for the North. But I knew the Confederacy wouldn’t give up so easily. The next target was deeper in the South—Corinth, Mississippi, a critical railroad junction. To reach it, we gathered our forces at Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River. Our position there wasn’t fortified, but we believed we had the time to prepare before the enemy came. We were wrong.

The Morning That Changed Everything

On the morning of April 6, 1862, the Confederate Army under General Albert Sidney Johnston launched a surprise attack. At dawn, the air exploded with musket fire and cannon blasts. Many of my men were still asleep in their tents. It was chaos. The enemy hit us hard, hoping to drive the Union Army into the river and destroy our foothold in the West.

I was staying miles away at the time, recovering from a leg injury, but when I heard the firing, I rushed to the battlefield. The Confederate forces pushed us back all day. We held our ground as best we could, but it was one of the bloodiest, fiercest days of fighting I had ever witnessed. Still, we did not retreat. That was my order.

Holding the Line and Turning the Tide

We fought desperately to hold Pittsburg Landing, and as night fell, Union reinforcements under General Don Carlos Buell arrived across the river. I stayed out in the rain all night, planning the next day’s counterattack. When morning broke on April 7, the tide began to turn. With fresh troops and renewed strength, we launched a full assault and pushed the Confederates back, reclaiming the ground we had lost.

By the end of the second day, the field was ours—but at a terrible cost. More than 23,000 men were killed, wounded, or missing. It was the bloodiest battle in American history up to that point.

Why We Had to Fight

Some asked why we fought so hard at Shiloh. My answer was simple: we had to. The South had to be broken not just physically, but logistically. The railroads at Corinth, the river routes in Tennessee—these were the lifelines of the Confederacy. If we gave up that ground, we would give them time to regroup and strengthen. We were not just fighting for land—we were fighting to cut the South off from its own ability to wage war.

Many in the North were shocked by the bloodshed and called for my removal, claiming I had been careless. But war is never neat, and freedom never comes without sacrifice. If we were going to win this war, the Union had to press forward, even when the price was high.

Lessons Carved in Blood

Shiloh taught me a harsh lesson: the war would not end quickly or cleanly. It would take determination, courage, and endurance. I did not waver after Shiloh—I became more resolved. I knew then what kind of war this would be, and I knew I had to see it through.

That battlefield near a small church named Shiloh became a symbol of both the horror and the necessity of war. We had faced the storm—and we had held. From that day forward, I resolved never to be caught unprepared again.

General George B McClellen: A Soldier at Heart

I was born in Philadelphia on December 3, 1826, into a family that valued learning and service. My father was a doctor, and my family expected excellence. At just 15 years old, I entered the United States Military Academy at West Point. I graduated second in my class of 1846—no small achievement—and was commissioned into the Corps of Engineers. My training and discipline prepared me for what would become a life shaped by war, duty, and command.

Tested in Mexico

Soon after graduation, I found myself in the heat of battle during the Mexican-American War. I served under General Winfield Scott and took part in the campaign that captured Mexico City. I witnessed firsthand the chaos and courage of warfare. I learned valuable lessons about leadership, logistics, and the cost of combat. My superiors noticed my skill in organization and strategy, traits that would define my military career.

Engineer, Observer, and Organizer

After Mexico, I worked as an engineer and served as an official military observer in Europe during the Crimean War. That experience exposed me to European military organization and tactics, which I would later try to bring to the Union Army. I eventually left the Army in 1857 and began working in the railroad industry. I found success there, especially in managing large systems and infrastructure. Still, my country would call me back when the storm of civil war broke over the nation.

Called to Lead the Union Army

When the Civil War erupted in 1861, I was appointed Major General of Ohio Volunteers, and quickly rose through the ranks due to my early organizational success. After the Union’s disastrous defeat at First Bull Run, President Lincoln summoned me to Washington. I was given command of the Army of the Potomac, and shortly after, I became General-in-Chief of the Union Army.

I took a demoralized, disorganized army and turned it into a fighting force. I drilled the men, improved discipline, and restored their confidence. The press praised me. The troops respected me. I became known as “The Young Napoleon.” But building an army is only half the task. The other half is using it—and that’s where my legacy grew more complicated.

The Peninsula Campaign and the Clash with Lincoln

In 1862, I launched the Peninsula Campaign, an attempt to capture Richmond by moving the Army of the Potomac up the Virginia Peninsula. My approach was cautious and methodical—some would say too cautious. I always believed in overwhelming force and precise timing, and I often overestimated the strength of my enemy.

President Lincoln grew frustrated with my slow progress and my reluctance to take bold action. I believed in careful preparation; he wanted results. Despite my planning, we were eventually pushed back by Confederate forces under Robert E. Lee. I was relieved of my title as General-in-Chief in March 1862, though I remained in command of the Army of the Potomac.

Antietam: A Bloody Turning Point

Later that year, I faced Lee again at the Battle of Antietam in Maryland. It was one of the bloodiest days in American history, and though I halted Lee’s invasion of the North, I did not pursue him aggressively after the battle. President Lincoln, once again frustrated, believed I had squandered an opportunity to destroy the Confederate army.

Still, Antietam gave Lincoln the victory he needed to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, transforming the war into a fight not just for union, but for freedom. I may not have approved of all his policies, but I recognize the moment's significance.

From General to Candidate

In November 1862, Lincoln removed me from command for the final time. I returned to civilian life and, in 1864, accepted the Democratic nomination to run for President of the United States against Lincoln. I campaigned on a platform of peace and reconciliation, but the tide of the war was turning, and Lincoln’s leadership won the people's trust. I lost the election and stepped away from national politics.

A Quiet Public Life

Though my days of commanding armies had passed, I continued to serve the public. I was elected Governor of New Jersey in 1877 and served one term. I remained a proud American, believing in unity and national service. I passed away in 1885, at the age of 58.

My Legacy

I am remembered as a brilliant organizer, a beloved leader among troops, and a man whose caution may have cost him the greatness history offered. I always believed that war should be fought wisely, not rashly, and that lives were too valuable to waste on reckless decisions. Whether history sees me as cautious or careful, hesitant or humane, I gave my life to serving my country as best I knew how.

A Threat to the North: The Battle of Antietam – Told by General McClellan

In September of 1862, intelligence reached me that General Robert E. Lee had boldly crossed the Potomac River into Maryland. It was his first invasion of Union soil, and his goal was clear: to inspire uprisings in the North, win foreign recognition for the Confederacy, and possibly force peace on Southern terms. I could not allow that to happen. As the commander of the Army of the Potomac, it was my duty to protect the Union and drive the enemy back.

Then came an extraordinary stroke of luck—a copy of Lee’s orders was found wrapped around some cigars, left behind in a Confederate camp. It was sent to me, and for a moment, I had what few generals ever get: insight into the enemy’s exact plans. I saw that Lee’s forces were divided, and I knew I had to act quickly before they could reunite. The opportunity was rare—but I also knew that to move carelessly could end in disaster.

The Eve of Battle

On the night of September 16, I positioned my army near the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland, just east of a small creek called Antietam. Lee had taken a defensive position with his back to the Potomac River. My men were tired, but their spirits were high. I had nearly 75,000 men, while Lee had around 40,000, many of them hungry, wounded, or poorly equipped. The advantage was ours.

But I also knew Lee was cunning. He had turned back larger forces before. So I developed a plan to strike in stages, applying pressure up and down his line and forcing him to shift his weakened forces until his defenses broke.

The Morning Assault

At dawn on September 17, 1862, the battle began. Major General Joseph Hooker led the attack on the Confederate left, through a cornfield that would soon be soaked in blood. The fighting there was savage—men fired blindly through the tall stalks, unaware of how close the enemy was. That stretch of land, just outside a small white church, would become known as The Cornfield—one of the bloodiest places on the battlefield.

We attacked again and again, from north to south. General Sumner’s corps advanced, only to meet fierce Confederate counterattacks. By mid-morning, the fields were choked with the wounded and dying. Neither side gave ground easily. We struck next at what became known as The Sunken Road—a farm lane that, by day’s end, had become a trench filled with the fallen. That place earned the grim name "Bloody Lane."

Holding the Center, Fighting for the Right

In the afternoon, I ordered attacks on the Confederate right. General Ambrose Burnside led a charge across a narrow stone bridge—later called Burnside’s Bridge—spanning Antietam Creek. His men faced deadly fire from the cliffs above and suffered greatly before they finally broke through. Just as Burnside was about to push Lee’s army to the brink, Confederate reinforcements under A.P. Hill arrived from Harpers Ferry and threw our troops back. The timing was devastating.

The Aftermath

By nightfall, the fields fell silent. The Confederates had held their ground, but just barely. Nearly 23,000 men had been killed, wounded, or gone missing in a single day—making it the bloodiest day in American history.

Though the battle was not the decisive blow I had hoped for, Lee’s invasion was over. On the night of the 18th, he withdrew his army across the Potomac back into Virginia. I did not pursue immediately. My men were exhausted, our supplies were stretched thin, and I feared Lee might be planning a trap. For this, I was criticized, especially by President Lincoln. But I had driven the enemy from Union soil and ended their attempt to bring the war to the North.

A Turning Point in a Larger War

Despite what some say, Antietam was a victory. It may not have been complete, but it was critical. It gave President Lincoln the confidence he needed to issue the Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation, turning the war into a fight for freedom as well as for union. That proclamation reshaped the purpose of the conflict—and changed history.

My role in that moment is often debated. Some see my caution as a fault; others recognize the complexity of commanding such a vast force in a chaotic and bloody war. I did what I believed was right for my men and my country. Antietam was not the end, but it was a turning point—and I was proud to have stood at the head of the Army of the Potomac in that defining hour.

A War Without a Moral Direction – Told By President Lincoln

When the Civil War began in 1861, my primary goal was to preserve the Union. I said it many times—and I meant it. The Constitution had to survive. The American experiment had to continue. I knew slavery was a great evil, but I also knew that the country was divided not only by region but by belief. There were those in the North who would fight to keep the Union whole, but who would not fight to end slavery. There were border states still loyal to the Union, yet still holding men, women, and children in chains. If I moved too quickly on emancipation, I feared I might lose them—and with them, the war.

Waiting for the Right Moment

Still, I could not remain silent. I had already begun drafting the Emancipation Proclamation by the summer of 1862. I saw clearly that slavery was the fuel feeding the Confederate fire. It supported their economy, sustained their armies, and contradicted everything our nation claimed to stand for. But issuing the proclamation without a Union victory behind it would look like desperation. If I acted too soon—after a defeat or while our armies were struggling—it would seem like a last gasp, not a confident stride toward justice.

I needed a military success. I needed to show the nation and the world that the Union was not only morally right, but militarily strong. Only then could the message of emancipation carry the weight it deserved.

Lee’s Gamble and the Coming Clash

In September 1862, General Robert E. Lee made a bold move. He crossed into Maryland, bringing the Confederate Army onto Union soil for the first time. He hoped to spark rebellion in the North, win support from foreign nations like Britain and France, and perhaps force peace on Confederate terms. I saw his invasion not only as a threat—but as an opportunity.

If our forces could stop Lee, if we could push the Confederates back across the Potomac, then the time would be right. A Union victory on our own ground would give me the moment I had waited for.

Antietam: A Bloody Answer

On September 17, 1862, the Union and Confederate armies clashed near the quiet town of Sharpsburg, Maryland, beside a creek called Antietam. The battle was horrific. The sun rose on men who would not see it set. Over 23,000 Americans were killed, wounded, or went missing in a single day. It was the bloodiest day in our nation’s history.

But General McClellan and the Army of the Potomac had done what I needed most: they stopped Lee’s invasion. Though McClellan did not pursue the enemy as I had hoped, Lee’s retreat back into Virginia gave me what I required—not a perfect victory, but a firm step forward.

The Proclamation Unleashed

Five days later, on September 22, 1862, I issued the Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation. I declared that as of January 1, 1863, all enslaved persons in states still in rebellion would be forever free. I did not do this lightly. I knew it would change the nature of the war. I knew it would anger some and embolden others. But I believed it was necessary—not only as a blow against slavery, but as a new birth of purpose for the Union.

Now the war would be about more than territory—it would be about freedom. It would be about what America meant and would mean for generations to come. Without Antietam, I could not have done it. But with that costly field behind us, the Union could march forward with both sword and principle.

A Nation Reborn in Purpose

Antietam allowed me to align our cause with our conscience. It gave me the ground to stand on when I told the world: this nation will not be half slave and half free. From that point on, the fight was not just to preserve the Union, but to purify it. The Emancipation Proclamation did not end slavery everywhere, but it began a transformation—one that would only be completed with perseverance, sacrifice, and the will to finish what we had begun.

History would judge us, I knew, by what we did in our most trying hour. I chose to wait, not out of fear, but out of strategy. And when the moment came, I acted—so that liberty, not bondage, would shape the soul of this nation.

An Evolving View of Slavery – Told by President Lincoln

I was born in a log cabin in Kentucky in 1809, a place where slavery was legal and common. As a boy, I saw enough of it to know it was wrong. I didn’t grow up with wealth, and my family moved to Indiana, a free state, when I was still young. There, I watched slavery from a distance—but I never forgot what I had seen. I believed, even then, that if slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong. But I also understood that slavery was embedded deeply into the fabric of our nation—economically, socially, and politically.

A Lawyer and a Legislator

When I became a lawyer and later a legislator, I took my stand cautiously. I was not an abolitionist in the way men like William Lloyd Garrison or Frederick Douglass were. I did not call for the immediate end of slavery everywhere it existed—not because I didn’t want it to end, but because I feared it would tear the country apart before we were ready to do anything about it.

In Congress and on the campaign trail, I spoke firmly against the spread of slavery into new territories, believing that if it was restricted, it would eventually die out. I believed the Founders had intended it to disappear in time. I wanted to preserve the Union, and I believed the Constitution gave me no power to touch slavery where it already existed.

The Presidency and the Burden of War

When I was elected president in 1860, the South saw my opposition to slavery’s expansion as a threat. One by one, states seceded, and before I even took the oath of office, the nation was unraveling. When war broke out in 1861, I stated plainly that my goal was to save the Union. If I could do it without freeing a single slave, I said, I would. If I could do it by freeing all the slaves, I would do that too. That statement troubled many—but I meant it in the context of war. My official duty, under the Constitution, was to preserve the nation.

But privately, my heart was changing. I began to see more clearly what the war was really about. Each letter from the front, each meeting with soldiers, each word from escaped slaves who sought our lines—these things convinced me that we could not win the war without striking at its root: slavery.

Listening and Learning

I listened to the abolitionists. I met with Frederick Douglass and other Black leaders who challenged me to go further, faster. I learned from generals who told me that enslaved people were escaping and undermining the Southern war effort. I realized that emancipation was not only a moral necessity but a military one. Freedom could be a weapon against rebellion.

Yet, I also knew that timing mattered. If I acted too soon, without the support of the people or the strength of the army behind me, it might backfire. I had to bring the country with me.

The Turning Point: Antietam

By the summer of 1862, I had drafted the Emancipation Proclamation. It declared that slaves in areas still in rebellion would be free. But I held it in my desk drawer, waiting for the right moment. I could not afford to announce it after a Union defeat—it would seem like an act of desperation.

Then came the Battle of Antietam in September. Our forces stopped General Lee’s invasion of the North. Though it was not the sweeping victory I had hoped for, it was enough. Five days later, I issued the Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation.

The Proclamation and a New Purpose

On January 1, 1863, the Emancipation Proclamation took effect. It freed the slaves in Confederate territory, and it transformed the meaning of the war. From that day forward, the Union fought not only to preserve itself, but to cleanse itself—to become something better than it had been.

It did not end slavery everywhere—that would come later, with the Thirteenth Amendment—but it was a step, and it was a turning point. It allowed Black men to join the Union Army, gave hope to the enslaved, and told the world that America had chosen the path of justice.

Looking Back

I did not come to these decisions all at once. I wrestled with the law, the Constitution, the people, and my own conscience. But I grew, as the nation grew. My views on slavery evolved because I saw the human cost of inaction. I saw what slavery did to the soul of this country, and I knew that to truly preserve the Union, we had to remake it in the image of its founding promise: that all men are created equal.

That belief carried me forward through the war, through the trials of office, and to the moment I signed the Proclamation—not as a politician seeking applause, but as a president fulfilling a duty both legal and moral.

My Speech of the Emancipation Proclamation – Told by President Lincoln

By the dawn of 1863, I had carried the burden of war on my shoulders for nearly two years. The Civil War was unlike any conflict our young republic had ever seen. Thousands of young men lay buried beneath the soil of Virginia, Tennessee, and Maryland. The Union—this grand idea of one nation, indivisible—had been tested, and tested harshly.

But the war, as I came to understand, was not just about lines on a map or preserving the Constitution. It was about human freedom. The longer it dragged on, the more clearly I saw that slavery was not only the cause of the war—it was its sustaining force. The Confederacy drew its strength from the labor of enslaved people. Their bondage fed the economy, supported the armies, and shaped the very society we fought against. And so, I concluded, to win the war—and to win it justly—we had to strike at the root.

Preparing the Proclamation

In the summer of 1862, I began drafting a proclamation that would alter the course of the war and the moral foundation of the nation. It was not written with flourish or rhetorical drama—it was a legal document, rooted in my authority as Commander-in-Chief. I was cautious. I was deliberate. I consulted with my Cabinet. Secretary of State William Seward advised me to wait for a Union victory, for fear that it might otherwise appear an act of desperation. I agreed.

That victory came at Antietam, in September. Though it was a brutal and costly battle, we had halted Lee’s advance into the North. With that, the moment had arrived. On September 22, 1862, I issued a Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation, giving the rebelling states one hundred days to return to the Union—else, on the first day of the new year, their slaves would be declared free.

What the Proclamation Says

On January 1, 1863, I signed the Emancipation Proclamation. It began with a reaffirmation of that earlier warning: that the time had come, and the cause was now clear. Then, in precise language, the Proclamation declared:

“That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three... all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.”

It did not apply to all enslaved people—not yet. It applied only to those living in states actively rebelling against the Union. Border states like Kentucky and Maryland, which still allowed slavery but had not seceded, were not included. That fact drew criticism from some abolitionists, but I reminded them: the Proclamation was a war measure. Its foundation was military necessity, not legislative reform. Yet, despite its limits, it struck a mighty blow against the institution of slavery.

It further declared that the government and military of the United States would recognize and maintain the freedom of these individuals, and that “suitable persons among those freed” would be accepted into the armed services of the United States. For the first time, African American men were officially invited to fight for their freedom—to take up arms in defense of the Union and the cause of liberty.

Why It Mattered

The Emancipation Proclamation did not end slavery—not immediately, and not completely. But it did something far greater than any single stroke of the pen could accomplish: it changed the character of the war. From that day forward, the conflict was no longer simply a battle to preserve the Union—it was a battle to transform it. To make the words “all men are created equal” ring true, not just in theory, but in law and life.

It gave moral clarity to the Union cause. It denied the Confederacy any hope of foreign recognition, as nations like Britain and France—who had long since abolished slavery—would not support a rebellion founded on human bondage. And it gave hope to millions of enslaved people across the South. Even in places where the Proclamation could not be immediately enforced, the news traveled. Men and women fled to Union lines, risking everything for the promise of freedom. Families prayed, soldiers cheered, and the great cloud of doubt hanging over the war began to lift.

From Law to Legacy

The Emancipation Proclamation was not perfect. It was a beginning, not an end. That is why I knew, even as I signed it, that we would need a constitutional amendment—a lasting, irreversible guarantee of freedom. That would come later, with the Thirteenth Amendment, abolishing slavery in all corners of the nation. But the Proclamation was the opening door—the legal and symbolic shift that made such a change possible.

People often ask how I felt that day, as I signed my name. My hand, tired from the New Year’s receptions earlier that morning, trembled slightly. I paused. Then I said, “If my name ever goes into history, it’ll be for this act, and my whole soul is in it.” I signed carefully, knowing the world would read that signature.

A Nation Reborn

I did not free the slaves alone. They freed themselves, through courage and determination, by seizing the opportunity that the Proclamation provided. They fled their masters, joined our armies, and lifted this country toward its better self. The Emancipation Proclamation was our call to rise, our statement that the American promise belonged to all, not just some.

The work was not finished—but a new course had been set. The Union would be preserved, yes—but more importantly, it would be redeemed. Through hardship and war, we took one great step closer to what the Founders had promised: liberty and justice for all.

What the Emancipation Proclamation Meant to Us – Told by Fredrick Douglass

On the first morning of January, 1863, I sat in quiet anticipation. The snow lay heavy on the rooftops of Washington and Boston, and in the hearts of millions, hope and fear wrestled for control. I had waited years—no, decades—for such a day. A day when the government of the United States would at last declare itself against the cruel institution that had scarred our nation’s soul. The war had raged for nearly two years, and though its initial aim was union, I had long demanded it become a war for freedom.

When word came that President Abraham Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation, I wept—not for joy alone, but for the weight of it. For the four million souls held in bondage. For the generations who had suffered without hope. And for the truth that justice, though delayed, might finally be advancing.

More Than Words

The Emancipation Proclamation, as I saw it, was not perfect—but it was powerful. It did not free every slave; it freed those in the rebellious Southern states, where the Union had no immediate control. But what mattered most was its meaning. For the first time in history, the federal government had declared slavery an enemy of the state. For the first time, the war had a moral spine.

It changed everything. It told the enslaved, “Run.” It told the Union generals, “Protect them.” It told the world that this war was not just about borders—it was about human dignity.

I Would Not Stand Still

Though I had spent decades writing, speaking, and pleading for freedom, I knew my work was not done. In fact, it had only just begun. The Proclamation opened the door for Black men to fight in the Union Army, and I determined to help lead them through it.

I threw myself into recruitment. I traveled from town to town, city to city, urging young Black men to take up arms—not just to fight for the North, but to fight for themselves, their families, and the future. I told them that this war was our moment—the moment to prove our manhood, our loyalty, and our courage.

“Men of Color, To Arms!”

I wrote editorials and gave speeches with that title: “Men of Color, To Arms!” It was not just a rallying cry—it was a challenge. I said to them:

“This is our golden opportunity. Let us rise in the dignity of our manhood, and show by our own right arms that we are worthy to be free.”

I reminded them that if we did not fight for our freedom, we might be denied it even in victory. I knew, as did every man who bore the scars of slavery, that freedom must be claimed, not just granted.

My Sons and the 54th

I was not merely a speaker in this cause—I was a father. Two of my sons, Charles and Lewis Douglass, enlisted in the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, one of the first official Black regiments in the Union Army. I watched them march off in uniform, proud and fearful. They, and the men beside them, knew they might be captured or killed—not just as soldiers, but as Black men in a war that had only just begun to recognize their worth.

When the 54th stormed Fort Wagner in South Carolina, they fought with valor. Many fell. Though the fort did not fall that day, history remembered their courage, and the tide of public opinion began to shift. White men saw what we already knew: that Black men would fight, bleed, and die for this country, just as fiercely as anyone.

Meeting with Lincoln

The Emancipation Proclamation brought me into closer contact with President Lincoln himself. I met with him on more than one occasion, urging him to enforce the Proclamation, to ensure fair treatment for Black soldiers, and to push forward toward full equality. I did not always agree with his pace, but I came to respect his resolve. When he told me he would stand by the Proclamation and never retreat from it, I believed him.

Later, in 1864, when Lincoln feared he might lose reelection and the Proclamation might be overturned, he asked me to prepare a plan to help slaves escape from the South before a new president could take office. Though the plan was never needed, it showed me that he meant to finish what he had started.

The Long Fight Beyond the Battlefield

Even as the war neared its end, I kept speaking, writing, and urging the nation to see that freedom must be full and complete. I fought for equal pay for Black soldiers, for their right to rise in rank, for their recognition as men—not merely tools of war.

The Emancipation Proclamation was a beginning, not an end. It was a moral compass, but not yet a finished journey. We would need the Thirteenth Amendment to abolish slavery entirely, and even that would not win us full citizenship. But the Proclamation set the tone. It told the world that America had turned a corner. That we could no longer be a land of liberty and chains at the same time.

My Voice Remains

I did not rest after the war. I fought for the right to vote, for education, for land, for justice. The Emancipation Proclamation had lit a fire, and I would not let it die. It gave our people a taste of what was possible—and my mission was to make that taste permanent.

I have always said: “Without a struggle, there can be no progress.” The Proclamation was born of struggle. It was shaped by loss and hope, by politics and principle. But it gave us, at last, a weapon of freedom—and with it, we marched not just into battle, but into history.

Did Congress Played a Role in Ending Slavery – Told by Fredrick Douglass

From the earliest days of my life as a free man, I knew that the fate of my people would not be settled in backwoods towns or on the battlefield alone—but in the marble halls of Congress, where the laws of the land are written and the spirit of the Constitution either lives or withers. I paid close attention to every debate, every vote, and every stumbling effort that lawmakers made to deal with the question of slavery.

When the Civil War began in 1861, I knew the time had come for the United States to face its greatest moral failing. But I also knew that Congress, like the country itself, was divided—not simply North against South, but among those who wanted immediate emancipation, those who feared the consequences of it, and those who refused to act altogether.

The Early Steps Toward Freedom

Though the Emancipation Proclamation was issued by President Lincoln as a war measure, Congress laid much of the groundwork that made such a bold action politically and practically possible. In those early years of war, Congress passed a number of acts that undermined slavery’s hold, often under the cover of military necessity.

The First Confiscation Act of 1861 declared that any enslaved person used by the Confederacy for military purposes could be seized by Union forces and declared free. It was a cautious step, but a symbolic one. The following year, the Second Confiscation Act of 1862 went further, declaring all enslaved people belonging to rebel slaveholders free—forever—if they came into Union lines. That, to me, was a signal: Congress was moving, slowly but surely, toward embracing emancipation as a weapon of war—and perhaps, of justice.

Congress and the Constitution

I often said that the Constitution could be wielded either as “a covenant with death” or as a charter of liberty, depending on the courage of those who interpreted it. Congress, in the midst of war, had to decide what it was willing to become. Could it support the end of slavery while still staying within its constitutional boundaries?

Some radicals in Congress—Thaddeus Stevens, Charles Sumner, Benjamin Wade, and others—believed it not only could but must. These men became champions of emancipation before Lincoln was ready to act. They pressured the President, held the line against moderates, and drafted laws that slowly eroded slavery’s protections.

I watched them closely, wrote about them in my newspaper, and met with several of them in person. They did not move fast enough for my liking—but they moved.

The District of Columbia and Beyond

One moment in particular stood out to me. In April of 1862, Congress passed a bill abolishing slavery in the District of Columbia. The capital itself—just miles from rebel territory—was no longer a city where human beings could be bought and sold. That act had great symbolic weight. If Congress could free the enslaved in its own jurisdiction, it was only a matter of time before it would support doing so more broadly.

Later, Congress outlawed slavery in all federal territories, and ended the practice of returning fugitive slaves under military command. With every law, every repeal, and every amendment proposed, the winds of change grew stronger. And though Lincoln alone signed the Emancipation Proclamation, Congress helped make the political ground firm enough for him to stand on.

Supporting Lincoln’s Hand

When President Lincoln prepared to issue the Preliminary Emancipation Proclamation, he did not do so in isolation. He did it knowing that the legal foundation had been set by Congress. The Confiscation Acts gave his Proclamation teeth. The abolition of slavery in D.C. gave it precedent. The shift in public opinion—shaped in no small part by Congressional speeches and debates—gave it momentum.

I do not pretend that all members of Congress were united. Many feared what emancipation would bring. Some doubted the loyalty or the courage of Black men. But enough of them stood up—enough of them pushed the nation forward so that when the time came, Lincoln could declare that all enslaved persons in areas of rebellion were, and henceforth would be, free.

My Message to Congress

After the Proclamation, my work continued—and part of that was urging Congress not to stop there. I gave speeches, wrote editorials, and petitioned lawmakers to ensure that freedom was followed by citizenship. I urged them to pass laws granting equal pay to Black soldiers, to open schools for freedmen, and, eventually, to write freedom into the very Constitution through the Thirteenth Amendment.

I always believed that no true emancipation could survive without Congressional action. A proclamation can declare a truth, but Congress must codify it into law. And they did. Slowly. Sometimes reluctantly. But they did.

A Nation Learning to Walk Upright

The Emancipation Proclamation was a blow to slavery, but Congress delivered many of the supporting strikes. They gave it legal standing, political defense, and, most importantly, continuity. I never lost faith in the power of words—but I knew, too, that words on parchment mean little unless backed by law and action.

Congress, for all its failures and delays, played its part in the great work of liberation. It passed laws that broke chains, opened doors, and prepared the way for a new birth of freedom. And I, for my part, remained ever their watchman—reminding them, in voice and pen, that the work of justice must not be delayed.

Harriet Tubman: Born Into Bondage, Escaped to Freedom

I was born around 1822 in Dorchester County, Maryland, though I cannot tell you the exact day. We didn’t get birthdays where I came from—we were born to be worked, not celebrated. My birth name was Araminta Ross, but everyone called me “Minty” back then. My mother, Harriet Green, was a strong woman, and my father, Ben Ross, worked in the timber fields. We were enslaved, living under the constant threat of being whipped, sold, or torn from our loved ones. From the moment I could walk, I knew I was not free.

The Blow That Changed My Life

When I was still a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, I was sent to a dry goods store on an errand. There, I stood near a man trying to escape, and when the overseer threw a two-pound weight to stop him, it missed and struck me in the head. I nearly died. For days I lay unconscious. After that, I suffered seizures and visions for the rest of my life. But I didn’t see them as afflictions—I saw them as messages from God. I believed He had chosen me to do His work. I believed He would protect me, no matter what.

Escaping to Freedom

In 1849, after years of back-breaking labor and watching friends and family sold away, I made my choice. I would run. My master had died, and I knew I’d be sold next. I left behind everything I knew and walked out of bondage—alone, in the dead of night, using the stars to guide me north. I crossed rivers, hid in woods, and followed paths laid by others who had run before me. And by God’s grace, I made it to Philadelphia. I was free—but I couldn’t rest. Not while my people were still in chains.

Becoming the Conductor

Freedom meant nothing if I kept it to myself. I joined the Underground Railroad, a secret network of abolitionists, safe houses, and brave souls helping the enslaved escape. I returned to the South again and again—at least thirteen times—and I guided over seventy people to freedom, including family, friends, and strangers. I never lost a passenger. Some called me Moses, for leading my people to liberty.

There were rewards for my capture. I traveled by night, often dressed as a man, carrying a pistol and my Bible. I trusted no one but the Lord. If anyone tried to turn back, I warned them: "You’ll be free or die." There was no room for fear.

Serving in the Civil War

When the Civil War came, I knew where I belonged—with the Union. I worked as a nurse, caring for sick and wounded Black soldiers. But I also served as a scout and a spy. I led missions behind enemy lines, gathering intelligence and helping guide enslaved people to Union camps. In 1863, I helped lead the Combahee River Raid in South Carolina, which freed over 700 enslaved men, women, and children in a single night. I was the first woman to lead an armed expedition in the war. Still, I was never paid what I was owed by the government, and I fought for years to receive any compensation.

Life After War

After the war, I settled in Auburn, New York, on land I bought from Senator William H. Seward. I married a Union veteran, Nelson Davis, and raised a family. But my work didn’t end. I gave speeches, opened my home to those in need, and worked to establish the Harriet Tubman Home for the Aged, a place where elderly and poor Black people could find dignity in their final days.

I also fought for women’s suffrage. I stood beside women like Susan B. Anthony and Sojourner Truth, reminding the world that Black women, too, deserved the right to vote.

My Legacy

I lived a long life, and I gave all I had to the cause of freedom. I never sought fame or riches. My mission was clear: to obey God, to rescue the oppressed, and to strike a blow against the evil of slavery. I died in 1913, at the age of about ninety-one, in the very home I founded for others.

They called me a conductor, a nurse, a soldier, and a spy—but I was just a woman who refused to stand by while others suffered. “I never ran my train off the track, and I never lost a passenger.” That, I pray, is what I will be remembered for.

A New Sound in the Land – Told by Harriet Tubman

When President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, I knew something had shifted—not just in law, but in spirit. I had been fighting for freedom long before this war, leading my people out of bondage one by one. But that day, the very government of the United States declared that the enslaved in Confederate states were now free. That was a powerful thing. It didn’t mean that every man, woman, and child in chains was suddenly safe—it didn’t have the power to free those still under Confederate control—but it gave hope, and hope is what people need to keep moving forward.

I called it “a new sound in the land.” Word spread like fire through the fields, whispered in cabins, sung in hymns. People began to believe that maybe, just maybe, freedom was not a dream but a promise—one that had been delayed for far too long. And I knew then that I could not stop. I had to do more, go further, and fight harder.

I Did Not Rest

Before the Proclamation, I had led dozens to freedom on the Underground Railroad, often at great risk to my own life. But now, with the war in full swing and the Proclamation offering a beacon of hope, I saw my mission growing. No longer was I just rescuing people one by one—I saw an opportunity to help destroy the system of slavery from within, to strike at its heart, and to bring thousands out of darkness into the light.

I had always trusted in God to guide my steps, and now I felt He had opened a new path. I left the safe houses and backwoods trails and turned to the battlefields, swamps, and rivers of the South. The fight was not just for freedom—it was for victory.

My Service in the War

During the Civil War, I worked for the Union Army in many roles, depending on what was needed most. At first, I served as a nurse in the South, tending to wounded Black soldiers and newly freed men and women. I used herbs and roots, old remedies I had learned from my mother and from the land, to treat infection and disease. I saw suffering every day—but I also saw courage, and I knew the cause was righteous.

But I was not meant to stay behind the lines for long. My real strength was in the field. I became a scout, spy, and guide for Union forces, using the very knowledge I had gained as a conductor on the Underground Railroad. I knew the waterways, the hiding places, the rhythms of plantation life. I knew where the rebels hid their supplies and where they stationed their pickets.

The Combahee River Raid

One of the proudest moments of my life came in June of 1863, when I helped lead the Combahee River Raid in South Carolina. Working alongside Colonel James Montgomery, I guided three Union gunboats through the mine-filled waters of the river, deep into enemy territory.

We struck hard and fast—burning plantations, destroying Confederate supplies, and most importantly, freeing over 700 enslaved men, women, and children. Some ran before we even reached the shore, grabbing their children and wading into the river toward the sound of Union voices. Others had to be convinced that we were truly there to liberate them. But when it was over, they came by the hundreds. Some of the men picked up arms and joined the fight for freedom. That day was a victory not only of war, but of spirit.

Fighting On All Fronts

Even after that raid, my work continued. I carried messages, gave intelligence to Union officers, and helped newly freed families find food, shelter, and direction. I fought in my own way—not with a musket, but with faith, knowledge, and action.

I also continued to speak and write, urging the North to stay committed to the cause. I reminded them that the Emancipation Proclamation was only the beginning. Real freedom would require real action—equal pay for Black soldiers, education for freed children, and land for families to build new lives. I never stopped pushing for those things, even long after the war had ended.

The Work of Freedom

The Emancipation Proclamation changed the course of history—but it did not end the struggle. It gave Black people in the South hope, but it also gave me and others like me a responsibility: to help fulfill its promise.

During the war, I did what I had always done—served, guided, healed, and fought. But I did it now with the backing of a cause larger than myself. I was no longer just freeing the few—I was helping tear down the walls of slavery, one mission, one soul at a time.

Freedom, I have always said, is not given. It is fought for, taken, and lived. And with God’s help, I did my part.