Differ We Must, my biography of Lincoln, is coming out in a presidential election season. I suppose that would be true regardless, since campaigns never end; but I’m glad it will be published October 3, after debates have begun but before the first primaries. It’s a good time to set a baseline for what we expect from our leaders.
The book tells Lincoln’s life story through his meetings with people who disagreed with him. To build a majority in a big, diverse and divided nation, he had to get some use out of people he felt were wrong. Almost everything he does in the book feels relevant today.
You can preorder now through your local bookseller, or at Amazon, which is offering bargains at this link for the hardcover, ebook or audio book, which I will read to you.
Today I am sharing a story I cut from the book, though it’s among my favorites: his near-duel with a political rival in Springfield, Illinois.
As Hamilton fans know, prominent nineteenth-century men sometimes resolved disagreements on the dueling ground. Andrew Jackson of Tennessee killed a man in a duel, standing his ground and shooting straight after the antagonist shot him first. Jackson later tried to kill Thomas Hart Benton in a gunfight, which Benton survived, going on to be elected to the Senate from Missouri and also killing a man in a duel. Polite society frowned on this but didn’t often punish it. Far from it: the duels added to Jackson’s and Benton’s reputations. They had the outlaw luster of some modern-day country or rap stars, and they didn’t even have to go to prison.
Lincoln was not a fan of dueling culture, but knew that if he was caught up in an affair of honor, he would be expected to play by its rules.
In the early 1840’s Lincoln was an ambitious young state legislator living in Springfield. He also was a kind of newspaperman. As a member of the Whig party, he wrote hundreds of anonymous articles for the Sangamo Journal, a Whig newspaper.
In September 1842 he let his sense of humor get the better of him. He published a “letter” from a fictional character named “Aunt Rebecca,” a farmer’s wife who recounted her conversation with a neighbor. They talked about James Shields, the state auditor.
Shields was a dapper and mustached man who, like Lincoln, had come from humble beginnings to push into the state’s elite. Lincoln could have felt kinship with his fellow striver, but instead saw a rival for power who was both unserious and a Democrat.
His fictional characters described the state auditor as self-interested and self-absorbed, convinced he was irresistible to women. “It is not my fault,” they quoted him telling female admirers, “that I am so handsome and so interesting.” Aunt Rebecca said she had seen Shields at a party, “floatin about on the air, without heft or earthly substance, just like a lock of cat-fur where cats had been fightin.” Lincoln had, in fact, seen Shields at parties in Springfield; and his description would have been all the more biting for having some basis in truth.
The article caused mirth around Springfield, and Lincoln’s fiancée, Mary Todd, published a follow-up “letter” that compounded the mockery. Shields soon confronted the newspaper editor, demanding to know the author of the letters.
Shields was, in reality, a formidable and resilient figure—an Irish immigrant who survived a shipwreck on his way to America. Later finding work as a sailor, he fell from a ship’s rigging and broke both legs, but recovered to join the Army, fighting in Florida swamps in a war against the Seminole nation. Then he became a self-educated lawyer, as Lincoln was, and began winning elections. In later years he achieved the unprecedented feat of representing three states in the U.S. Senate: Illinois first, then Minnesota, and finally Missouri.
Figuring out that Lincoln was his tormentor, Shields wrote him a note demanding satisfaction for attacking his honor. Lincoln took offense at Shields’ note, feeling its “menacing” tone offended his honor.
The future president replied like the lawyer he was, questioning the accuser’s evidence. He said Shields had made his demand “without stopping to enquire whether I really am the author, or to point out what is really offensive” in the articles. He did not admit to have written anything, nor did he say who had. But eventually Lincoln acknowledged writing the first letter; and because he would not apologize, a duel seemed inevitable.
As the man challenged, Lincoln had the choice of weapons, and made an unconventional decision. Rather than dueling pistols, his instructions specified “cavalry broad swords of the largest size, precisely equal in all respects.” Writing with a lawyer’s precision, he dictated that the swordsmen must stand on opposite sides of a board laid on the ground, never crossing on pain of death.
Lincoln’s choice was almost comically extreme—as if a modern man had proposed to duel with flamethrowers or hand grenades. Given the difficulty of shooting another man at any distance with a single shot from a pistol, many duels ended without serious injury. This one surely would have drawn blood. Lincoln’s raising of the stakes may have been his way to highlight the absurdity of the whole affair, making sure it never happened at all—but if so, it didn’t work. Shields accepted his terms. He was a trained swordsman.
Negotiating through their seconds—each man had a friend who handled the details of the affair—they traveled a hundred miles out of Springfield, and took boats across the Mississippi River into Missouri. It was common to cross state lines so the antagonists could not be accused of violating their own state laws. Yet these two swordsmen never stepped up to the board. An increasing number of friends of both men had rushed to the scene, determined to end the matter without bloodshed. They finally negotiated a breakthrough. The elaborate terms required Shields to “withdraw” his “menacing” note to Lincoln, and for Lincoln to give an explanation of his conduct, though not an apology.
This resolution required the precision of an international peace treaty. Shields would not want the withdrawal of his note to imply that he was wrong to send it, so the parties agreed that all correspondence would be withdrawn. Lincoln would not want to admit that there was anything wrong with his article, so his explanation merely said he never intended a personal insult. His satire was only for “political effect.” Mary Todd’s role was never mentioned.
It was hard to talk of this incident without it coming across as a farce. Two grown men had risked their lives over words in a newspaper. That the confrontation came to nothing almost made the story worse. Jackson and Benton had legends about their duels; Lincoln had a Monty Python skit. Asked more than twenty years later if the incident had really taken place, Lincoln replied: “I do not deny it, but if you desire my friendship, you will never mention it again.”
Having put this material into a chapter of Differ We Must, I eventually cut it. I wanted to tell meaningful stories there about Lincoln’s rise to power and his management of people; and this tale, delicious as it is, seemed almost pointless, as violence often does.
I still find it a relatable and humanizing story. Lincoln’s words got him into a jam, and the careful use of words brought him safely out.
There is also a meaningful postscript. It 1855 Shields and Lincoln had a different sort of duel: Shields was a U.S. Senator seeking re-election and Lincoln tried to take his seat. They both lost, as a different candidate prevailed.
Then, when Lincoln’s 1860 election to the presidency led to the South’s rebellion, Shields volunteered to serve in the army. Lincoln commissioned his old rival as a general, and he served honorably. In the country’s greatest crisis, Lincoln made use of anyone who could help him. Which is a lesson for our time.
So that’s a lost chapter of Differ We Must. I’d like to think that better material made the cut. You will judge whether I tell the story well, but the story itself is a great one, which exhilarated and sometimes moved me as I learned it. You can preorder now to receive it October 3.
Wonderful anecdote. I have pre-ordered.