Mystic Chords of Memory: The Lost Journal of William Wallace Lincoln

By Donald Motier

My father died in 1990 and in the process of going through his belongings I discovered an old wooden weather-beaten trunk in the attic that aroused my curiosity. Considering the layers of dust covering the lid, it appeared that it had not been opened in many years. The lid seemed to creak and strain with the weight of the ages as I lifted the heavy oak. A neatly-folded Union Civil War uniform, complete with cap, stared up at me from the lost past. Although obviously worn, great care had been taken in its preservation. I gingerly lifted up the jacket and immediately noticed the three sergeant stripes on the upper arm. I knew then who had worn it.

My great-grandfather, Sergeant Charles Powers, had served two tours of duty during the Civil War and in 1861-62 had been stationed in Washington with the thousands of other troops guarding the city from what many thought was an imminent invasion from the South. During that period of 1861-62 he was at various times assigned to guarding the White House, Capitol and Arsenal.

Sgt. Powers lived till 1918 and my father, born in 1908, used to travel with his parents from Harrisburg to Lancaster to visit his grandfather where he would sit on the old gentlemans knee and be regaled with stories of Civil War Washington and the Lincolns. My father than passed these stories down to me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467856836

Donald Motier

Donald Motier was born in 1943 and graduated from college in 1970 with a BA in Philosophy and minor in English. He did graduate work in Philosophy on Being and Time by Martin Heidegger under the distinguished Professor Dr. Rudolph Fischer of Vienna, Austria. Following his academic career, Mr. Motier worked in the library field first as an interlibrary loan librarian at a public library from 1970-76, and as a genealogy and reference librarian at a State library 1977-1993 when he retired to write full time. In 1970, while still in college, he began writing prose-poetry in the style of Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, publishing his first collection Faces of Being in 1971. After publishing several collection of poetry, he began writing novels, nonfiction and two works of “faction” based on the Civil War experiences of his great-grandfather who met Abraham Lincoln and his family while bivouaced on the White House lawn 1861-62 and was befriended by the president’s son William “Willie” Wallace Lincoln. On The Trak is his 15th book. I really enjoyed On The Trak. The pursuit of so many encounters, appreciation of so many human souls along the way, was very Kerouacian. - Gerald Nicosia, author, first definitive biography of Kerouac, Memory Babe.

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© 2009, 2012 Donald Motier. All rights reserved.

New edition with corrections and additions.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/19/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4389-7215-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-5683-6 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Preface

Foreword

Springfield

Washington

Sergeant Powers’ Dreams

Obituaries For Willie Lincoln

Contemporary Eulogies, Tributes and Letters of Sympathy for Willie

Afterward

Willie Lincoln’s Best Friends

Notes To Afterward

Notes to Willie Lincoln’s Best Friends

Willie’s Letters 1859 - 1861 In His Script

Transcriptions of Willie’s Letters 1859 - 1861

Saving Willie, An Alternate History

Postscript

Bibliography

List Of Credits For Photographs, Letters And Misc.

Also by Donald Motier:

FICTION

Just Friends, A Novella and Two Short Stories

Just Friends, A Love Story

Return to Sonville

The Book of Joel

Unfinished Business

POETRY

Co-Incidings: Collected Poems, 1965-1999

Faces of Being

Mnemonicons

On the Hound and Other Prose Poems

The Gray Day & Other Poems by Charles P. Patton, ed. by Donald Motier

and New Poems 2000-2008

BIOGRAPHY/LITERARY CRITICISM

Gerard: The Influence of Jack Kerouac’s Brother On His Life and Writing

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I want to thank my Research Assistant, Fred K. Owens, for his persistence in ferreting out details of the life of Willie Lincoln from obscure primary sources and the often times frustrating online, phone and mail searches he diligently pursued the last three years. Dr. Wayne C. Temple of the Illinois State Archives has been a continued inspirational and enthusiastic supporter of my research and has been invaluable in correcting factual errors. Molly Kennedy, researcher in Springfield went overboard in providing me with wonderful photographs and articles on Willie’s best friend in Springfield, Henry Remann, Oak Ridge Cemetery and the Lincoln Tomb and much other information. Dorothy Zaykowski of the Sag Harbor, NY, Historical Society for her obituaries, list of burials and photographs of the Taft family members buried in Oakland Cemetery.

Staff at the following museums, libraries and institutions for their copies of Willie’s letters, articles and photographs, etc.: Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, Illinois State Archives, Lincoln Library (Springfield), Museum of Funeral Customs (Springfield), Lincoln Home National Historic Site (National Park Service, Springfield), Lincoln College Library & Museum (Lincoln, IL), Lincoln Heritage Public Library (Dale, IN), Lincoln Museum (Ft. Wayne, IN), Chicago Historical Museum, Chicago Public Library, University of Chicago Library, University of Illinois Library (Chicago), Rockford Public Library (IL), Champaign Public Library (IL), Urbana Free Library (IL), White House Historical Association, Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Library (Washington), Library of Congress, National Archives, Lincoln Library & Museum (National Park Service, Washington), Office of the County Historian, Wayne County, NY, Sag Harbor Public Library & Historical Society (NY), Harvard University Library, New York Public Library, New York State Library, Long Branch Free Public Library (NJ), Pasadena Public Library (CA), Niagara Falls Museum (ON), Friends of Hildene (Manchester, VT), Lancaster Historical Society (PA), Carlisle Barracks Military History Library (PA), University of Nebraska Press (Lincoln), Pennsylvania State Archives, State Library of Pennsylvania, Madeline L. Olewine Library (Harrisburg, PA), Kline Branch Library (Harrisburg, PA), SCI Camp Hill Library (PA).

Also, the following individuals: Drs. John & Elva Winter, James Young, David Herbert Donald, William B. Bushong, Mrs. Willoughby T. Davis (granddaughter of Willie Taft), Dr. Bryon Andreasen, Janet Birckhead, John Sellers, William Jamieson, Phil Wagner, Jennifer Ericson, Alice David, Elizabeth Flygare, Erin Tikovitch, Ron J. Keller, Kathryn Blackwell, Jean H. Baker, Barbara Hambly, Michael Sherbom, Evan Lattimer, Hillary Crehan, Susan M. Haake, Gloria Swift, Michelle Duell, Richard L. Baker, Mark Greek, Jason Meyers, Norma Bean, Jean H. Lythgoe, Christine Colburn, Arthur B. House, Jr., Jane Milem, Elaine Maruhn.

PREFACE

Willie has rare lights…rare lights.

- Abraham Lincoln to John Hay, Nov. 4th, 1861 after the publication of Willie’s poem Lines on the Death of Colonel Baker in the Washington newspaper National Republican.

The short life of William Lincoln has been given little attention in the biographies of his father, or in other writings on the Lincoln family. In 1850, in the Lincoln home in Springfield, Illinois, there came, just four days before Christmas, a real live Christmas present-a baby boy. This, the third child, was named William Wallace: he was, of course, promptly called Willie.

- from Willie Lincoln as Boy of Letters by Charlotte A. Dubois in a magazine entitled The Power of the Written Word, Illinois State Register (Springfield), August 27, 1922.

Of course, since that article was published in 1922 by Charlotte Dubois whose family were neighbors and friends of the Lincolns in Springfield, Ruth Painter Randall and Julia (Taft) Bayne have published books that do give some attention to Willie but still do not give Willie his due as a remarkably gifted boy, the favorite of his father and indeed most like him in temperament, intelligence, empathy and wit. Tad, who only lived nine years longer than Willie has had at least four books written about him in addition to children’s books.

Willie’s life would seem too short to many, but to those who were touched by him understood that quality of existence far exceeds the quantity of time in which you live it.

It is time that Willie’s life is honored in a full-length book.

- Donald Motier

FOREWORD

My father died in 1990 and in the process of going through his belongings I discovered an old wooden weather-beaten trunk in the attic that aroused my curiosity. Considering the layers of dust covering the lid, it appeared that it had not been opened in many years. The lid seemed to creak and strain with the weight of the ages as I lifted the heavy oak. A neatly-folded Union Civil War uniform, complete with cap, stared up at me from the lost past. Although obviously worn, great care had been taken in its preservation. I gingerly lifted up the jacket and immediately noticed the three sergeant stripes on the upper arm. I knew then who had worn it.

My great-grandfather, Sergeant Charles Powers, had served two tours of duty during the Civil War and in 1861-62 had been stationed in Washington with the thousands of other troops guarding the city from what many thought was an imminent invasion from the South. During that period of 1861-62 he was at various times assigned to guarding the White House, Capitol and Arsenal.

Sgt. Powers lived till 1918 and my father, born in 1908, used to travel with his parents from Harrisburg to Lancaster to visit his grandfather where he would sit on the old gentleman’s knee and be regaled with stories of Civil War Washington and the Lincolns. My father then passed these stories down to me.

Underneath the uniform was a canteen, slightly dented with the letters US still clearly visible, his pension papers that described him as having a fair complexion, blue eyes, light hair and 5 feet 4 inches tall and two letters dated 1861 written from Washington home to his mother in Lancaster. One letter in particular caught my immediate attention as it was dated Dec, 25, 1861. I carefully took the yellowed paper out of the envelope and read:

Washington, Dec. 25, 1861

Dear Mother:

I miss you all very deeply, especially on this day. I am fortunate to be assigned to the Executive Mansion grounds as so many of the fellows are down by the River living in very squalid conditions and the Pox and Typhoid are rampant down there.

One of the President’s sons, William, who prefers to be called Willie, has taken a shine to me. I think because his namesake and uncle Dr. William Wallace who married Mrs. Lincoln’s sister is also from Lancaster and Willie’s brother Robert, who is away at school is my age. He is an unusually bright boy and although I am eight years his senior, it seems like I am talking to a comrade my age and he is almost as tall as I and will probably take after his father that way.

This evening I was invited along with a throng of people from all walks of life from Springfield and Washington, to Christmas dinner. It was a welcome respite from the cold of the camp. After dinner, Willie and Tad came back from their friends’ the Taft’s and had a jolly time firing of Crackers .

Dear Mother, I don’t know what the future holds; there is talk of an invasion from the Rebs, and I may be called to fight. Please give my love to brothers and sisters.

Your Loving Son,

Charlie

After carefully removing those items, I came to what appeared to be a false cardboard bottom as it was several inches above the floor of what should have been the trunk bottom. I slid my fingers under one end that was slightly warped and lifted the cardboard out. All that was under there was a small old brown book tied with a faded blue ribbon and the word Journal embossed in barely visible gold lettering on the cover. With great anticipation and excitement I untied the ribbon. Barely able to contain my excitement, my hands shaking, I gingerly opened the Journal to the first page. Expecting to see my Grandfather’s name, I was astonished to read the following: Journal of William W. Lincoln, written in obviously juvenile, but very well-formed handwriting typical of the pride teachers took in instructing their charges in the fine art of penmanship in the 19th century. As I was leafing through the journal out fell two coins: a mint 1861 penny and a mint 1961 penny. I wondered what a 1961 penny was doing in the journal? I guessed my father must have put it there although it looked like the journal hadn’t been touched in a hundred years.

I had been interested in the Civil War and the Lincolns since I was very young when my father had told me the stories that Sgt. Powers had told him. I remember my father telling me of Sgt. Powers’ friendship with Willie Lincoln and the great sadness that befell all who knew the boy when he died at age of eleven. However, my father never mentioned anything about any journal. Unless, he never knew about the false bottom and the journal after inheriting the trunk when his mother, my grandmother Ella, Sgt. Powers’ daughter, died in 1934.

But how and why did my great-grandfather obtain Willie’s journal? The letter Sgt. Powers had sent home on Christmas 1861 stated that he was befriended by Willie but I imagine both Willie and Tad had befriended many of the soldiers stationed on the White House grounds, so why would Willie entrust something so private and precious as his journal with Sgt. Powers?

The answer appeared on the next page of the journal. A loose sheet of obviously much later paper had been inserted into the journal. In a shaky, but certainly adult handwriting was written the following:

I, Charles Powers received this Journal from Willie Lincoln, son of our beloved President, Abraham Lincoln on the morning of February 20, 1862. I was only 18 in 1861 when I first met Willie. He was the little brother that any young man would have loved to have and reminded me of my brother back home. I became very attached to him as he did to me. I think I was the humble replacement for his beloved friend Colonel Elmer Ellsworth who had been killed early in the War and his brother Bob who was away at school. Willie would often come out to the Stable when I was on guard duty there and talk to me of many things. He was so bright and inquisitive and concerned about everyone in his family and the terrible toll the War was taking on the families of both sides Union and Secesch. He showed me the poem he had written about Colonel Edward Baker, a close family friend who had been killed at the Battle of Ball’s Bluff. He had sent it to the newspaper The National Republican. The Editor had said it was quite credible, for a first effort and from one so young. I was very impressed when he read it out loud to me with an obvious sense of pride and with a touch of sadness in his voice. I grew to love the boy very much. In January of 1862 a comrade of mine sold me a pony that had been confiscated from a Reb farm over near Alexandria. It was a beautiful chocolate with big, sad doe-eyes. When Willie came out to the Stable that morning I told him I had a surprise for him. I gave it to Willie on January 25th. His blue eyes got as big as saucers and he hugged me. I’ll never forget that day and the President’s and Mrs. Lincoln’s smiles of gratitude. Willie would ride that pony which he named Ned every day thereafter come rain, snow or sleet, against his mother’s wishes. Willie came down with a cold in early February that turned into Ague or Bilious Fever-then Typhoid, although I heard a rumor later that it was really Small Pox and had been kept quiet for fear of a panic. I went to see him almost every day in his sickroom at the end of the hall on the second floor in what was called the Prince of Wales Room as that Prince had stayed there while visiting the Executive Mansion in President Buchanan’s administration. Some days he seemed alert and appeared to be rallying and others he was sleeping with the anxious vigil of Mrs. Keckly and one or both his parents constantly at his side. In his last days he was often delirious and groaning with pain and it was very hard to watch him suffer so. On his good days he would smile at me and give me his small pale hand to hold. But each day he seemed to be fading away. It broke my heart. At about 9 o’clock on the morning of Thursday, February 20 I went to see him for the last time. I passed Mrs. Keckly in the hall and she said he appeared to be better this morning but her voice did not sound very confident. Willie‘s best friend, Bud Taft was asleep in the little chair next to the bed. Bud, although four years older than Willie at 15, was like Willie a very bright, sensitive boy who shared Willie’s interest in reading and Willie had called for him a week ago and Bud had rarely left his side. Willie was awake and smiling weakly at me whispered, Hi, Charlie, sit on the edge of the bed… Bud’s in the dream-world as you can see so let’s talk quietly so as not to disturb him. Then Willie reached under his pillow and brought out a small book. He told me that since arriving in Washington last March he’s been writing a journal. The first part was about his memories of his beloved Springfield and the second part about all the fun, sadness and happenings since he came to live in the Executive Mansion. He told me about the dreams he’d been having since last Fall about getting real sick and (just as he was now) in bed in a little room of the Mansion. They were always the same and they always ended with everything fading into blackness and then he would wake up covered with sweat and heart pounding. He said he thought they were about death and he was worried and scared but resigned that it was actually happening and that he would soon be in Heaven with his brother Eddie, Colonel Ellsworth and Colonel Baker. He then handed me the little book and said, I want you to keep this for me Charlie in case something does happen to me then people can read it someday in the future and know what it was really like being the son of the President and living in these times. Very surprised, I replied, But why ME Willie? Why not give it to your Father or Mother for safekeeping, and nothing is going to happen to you—don’t say that! He looked at me, or I should say through me, with those big, sad blue eyes and said, You’all have to understand… I can’t bother Father… you know how worrisome he is with the War and everything, and Mother too, she’s just so unpredictable-, very happy one minute and very angry the next, and Tad, you know how he is… he acts just like Mother sometimes and he’s too young and irresponsible. I thought of giving it to Bud or Julie, but neither is family although I love them both, so I thought of you because, well, you’re like my special older brother and the same age as Bob who’s away at school and I hardly ever see him anymore, so PLEASE take it Charlie, I trust you! He said that with such pleading in his blue eyes as if he was looking into my very soul that I could not say no. Who could? I said OK, Willie, I’ll hold it for you and give it back when you’re well. Willie suddenly looked very tired and didn’t reply and closed his eyes. Bud stirred, woke up and took Willie’s hand, said Hi" to me and I excused myself. A little after 5 o’clock that same day I heard the news; Willie had died. I was devastated. I had talked to him that morning and he seemed better. How could that be? He must have known all along, I thought. Fighting back tears, I raged against the silence. That sweet little boy never hurt a solitary soul! Not a one!

The funeral was almost unbearable for me, disciplined soldier taught to hide my feelings. As I write this many years later it is still as fresh and as painful a memory as if it happened yesterday. He lay in his coffin in the Green Room of the Mansion. He looked like he was sleeping and I expected him at any moment to sit up and with that great smile say, Hi, Charlie. It was very windy as we marched out to Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown where Willie was to be entombed in the Carroll family vault lent to the Lincolns by that family.

But that’s not the end of the story. A week after the funeral I began having the dreams. But, future reader, please read Willie’s story as he tells it in his Journal first, then you will read about my dreams, that, unbelievably, continue his story beyond the barrier of death.

- Charles Powers, February 20, 1883

The journal was in remarkably good condition considering it was 146 years old. There were only a few places where I had to interpolate what Willie was saying. I have left his 19th century capitalization, grammar and punctuation intact and have only inserted brackets around names of the 19th century people that I was able to identify where he only gave a first or last name and dates I was able to identify. It is interesting that Willie referred to his parents using the more formal Father and Mother in both his letters and Journal and even capitalized them, unlike Tad who most likely referred to them as pa and ma. Willie had initially used the ampersand (&) in his first few surviving letters from Washington but switched to and in his later letters and journal probably influenced by his father or tutor. The ampersand seems to be used frequently as a substitute in the 19th century. The vast majority of the incidents and events he described I was able to corroborate from primary sources such as Lincoln’s Sons by Ruth Painter Randall, Tad Lincoln’s Father by Julia, Taft Bayne, Lincoln Day By Day ed. By Earl Schenck Miers and The Civil War Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, Sr. and the many recollections of those that knew him. There is one section from June 1861 that I have no explanation for, as it is beyond the imagination of even the most gifted of ten-year-olds… can it be true? You, the reader must decide.

- Donald Motier February 20, 2008

JOURNAL

OF

WILLIAM W. LINCOLN

SPRINGFIELD

I was born December 21, 1850 in our house at 8th and Jackson Streets in Springfield, Illinois. I was named after my Uncle Dr. William Wallace who was born in