This week we consider key occurrences in the turbulent years leading up to the American Civil War.
May 21, 1856
It can be disheartening to watch what appears to be the complete, fiery tailspin of American Democracy replayed on news channels each day.
Of the three branches of our government, none catches the most ire from everyday Americans than the legislative. Our distrust of our legislature has almost become a stereotype, Congress itself the punchline to some sad joke about the dysfunctional nature of politics.
As sad as the gridlock in D.C. appears to us now, we can at least rest assured that we haven’t reached rock bottom quite yet. Let’s take some time today to remember that on this day in 1856, if we did not actually reach it, we came dangerously close to that bottom.
The decades leading up to the American Civil War read today like one long wailing cry of warning. Hindsight, they say, is 20/20 and from our clear-eyed perspective it’s difficult not to see each mistake made by politicians and radicals on both sides of the argument as inexorable stumbles towards the bloody conflict. That’s not to say that the war “had” to happen, just that given what led up to it, it’s no wonder that it did.
Although later it would become the foundation for the war, the “casus belli” for the victorious Union looking back on the conflict, slavery at the time was just one of many sore points between southern and northern politicians.
Both sides had their champions who, for the most part, fought with rhetoric and op-eds in newspapers rather than with fists and feet. As the war approached, however, that began to change.
Standing on the floor of the U.S. Senate on May 19, 1856, Sen. Charles Sumner harangued the pro-slavery politicians in what was admittedly one of the most brutal tongue-lashings given on either side of the argument.
In what today we remember as his “Crime Against Kansas” speech, Sen. Sumner lambasted his opponents for their illegal attempts to extend slavery to the territory of Kansas by sending wagons-full of southern settlers to the territory (among many other things).
Targeting two senators in particular – Stephen Douglas (future opponent to Lincoln in the 1860 Presidential race) and Andrew Butler – Sen. Sumner laid into them mercilessly. Butler was absent from the Senate and so he was spared some embarrassment, but Douglas sat nearby and received the full brunt of the five-hour long assault. You can read the speech in its entirety here.
In an age not far removed from the notions of courteous honor and chivalry, Sumner’s public words of criticism outraged the pro-slavery politicians. So much so, that one of them acted.
On this day in 1856, a kinsman of Butler, one Congressman Preston S. Brooks, approached Sumner on the floor of the Senate.
It was just days after his lecture and Sumner was attaching postage to copies of his “Crime Against Kansas” speech that he was going to send people when Congressman Brooks approached.
Without warning, Brooks slammed the heavy cane he was carrying against Sen. Sumner’s head. What followed was a cowardly beating of the unarmed Sumner.
Although he attempted to defend himself, the initial blow to the head had dazed Sen. Sumner.
After the minute-long assault, the triumphant Brooks walked unmolested from the Senate floor while his victim was carted out by friends.
Brooks survived a censure from the Senate, willingly resigned his post from the House and was promptly reelected by his adoring fans shortly thereafter. He later died at the young age of 37.
Meanwhile, after a long recovery, Sen. Sumner returned to the floor and served another 18 years in national politics.
Some have since pointed to this incident as a major shift in the argument over slavery. It is true, once something has broken, it can never be wholly mended – a line gets crossed that cannot be recrossed, at least not at the same place.
The assault on Sen. Sumner was certainly a breakdown of American politics, but no one can honestly say that it was an isolated incident.
In September of 1859, two prominent public figures in California went further than Brooks and Sumner over the argument against slavery.
Behind a barn near Lake Merced just outside the city limits of San Francisco two California politicians fought to the death.
The duel itself was instigated, at least on the surface, by insults hurled in the newspaper. David S. Terry, chief justice of the state Supreme Court and a fervent pro-slavery southerner, was no stranger to violence. Always a gentleman to speak his mind, it all started when Terry threw insults at the free-soil Democrats of the state, which were recorded by a journalist.
Terry then turned his venom to U.S. Senator from California David Broderick, a free-soil Democrat.
Terry insinuated that Broderick and his ilk took their orders from Frederick Douglas, the controversial escaped-slave-turned abolitionist. That proved too much for Broderick and he responded in kind, escalating the verbal repartee.
In response, Terry challenged Broderick to a duel. Broderick agreed. Unfortunately for him, that day in September did not go his way and the bullet he fired at Terry buried itself in the ground well short of its target. Terry landed a shot in Broderick’s lungs. Broderick died three days later.
The symbolism of the death of Broderick, an anti-slavery politician, at the hands of the pro-slavery Terry was not lost on those following politics in the state.
At Broderick’s funeral, Republican E.D. Baker, who eulogized the late senator, remarked: “What was his public crime? The answer is in his own words: ‘I die because I was opposed to a corrupt administration and the extension of slavery.’….his death was a political necessity, poorly veiled beneath the guise of a private quarrel.”
The breakdown that led to the war was like the slow fissuring of an iceberg. Those days in 1856 and 1859 were just two of many small pops and snaps felt by America as the nation slowly split in two.
For modern citizens, these incidences should represent the low bar – the worst of government. Rock bottom in American politics sounds like the dull thud of club against skull and the crack of dueling pistols echoing off a lake. Violence begets violence, as the saying goes.
Today our politicians may spend an inordinate amount of time in front of cameras, taking snipes at each other but at least Paul Ryan and Chuck Schumer aren’t beating each other with canes. Small comfort, I know, but we have to take what we can get.
Antone Pierucci is the former curator of the Lake County Museum in Lake County, Calif., and a freelance writer whose work has been featured in such magazines as Archaeology and Wild West as well as regional California newspapers.
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