Did local doctor help Lincoln?
Smith Fuller was a Uniontown doctor and politician who may have pulled off the greatest coup in the history of party conventions. Then again, his claim about the convention may have been an attempt to get one over on the president-elect of the United States.
If the latter is the case, he was barking at the wrong pol. In this case, the politician was Abraham Lincoln, a seasoned pro who knew every political wrinkle there was, try as Fuller might to show him a new one.
On the eve of the 2016 conventions, it might be useful to look back at the Fuller gambit.
Fuller was a Republican state senator in good enough standing with the party to be named a delegate to the 1860 Republican convention at the 20,000-seat arena known as the Wigwam in Chicago.
The head of the Pennsylvania delegation was party boss Simon Cameron. Elected a U.S. senator in 1856, Cameron was in the running for the presidential nomination. His competitors, in addition to Lincoln, included William Seward of New York, Ohio’s Salmon Chase and one or two others.
It’s useful to mention here that party conventions were decision-making bodies in those days, a role they would play through 1968. Convention delegates actually had a voice in the selection of candidates for president. In that sense, all 19th and most 20th century conventions were “brokered” conventions.
Most histories of the 1860 Republican gathering report Cameron eventually swung the Pennsylvanians to Lincoln in exchange for a Cabinet seat, or at least consideration for a seat. (Cameron was eventually appointed secretary of war by President Lincoln. He didn’t serve long, but that’s another story).
If Fuller was right, however, that’s not how things went down. In a letter to Lincoln in January 1861, Fuller stated, “I, at least, know that I was chiefly instrumental in securing you this state’s vote.”
According to Fuller, Cameron had packed the Pennsylvania delegation with yes men. Several times, Fuller wrote, he and several others had incurred Cameron’s displeasure for their rebellious ways.
“Mr. Cameron’s opponents submitted to it, until there came an application from Mr. (Norman) Judd of your (Illinois) delegation for a conference committee,” Fuller proclaimed to Lincoln, who hadn’t been in Chicago for the convention; he was back home in Springfield sweating out the results.
“George Rudder, true to his instincts for unfairness, appointed to that committee three men (who) proclaimed that no man but Mr. Cameron could carry Pennsylvania (in the general election), men who it was well-known to some us were determined to pick Mr. Cameron, regardless of the risk of having to shoulder Mr. Seward.”
Fuller claimed that he forced Rudder to reconsider. “Upon my motion the chairman … did appoint a committee reflecting the sentiments of the whole committee, said committee reporting in your favor as the most available to defeat Mr. Seward.
“The action of our delegation nominated you.”
This is the stuff of legend: an otherwise obscure state politician sticks to his guns and plays a major role in making Lincoln, himself relatively obscure, the Republican nominee for president.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Or is it? What makes Fuller’s letter smell a little fishy is that he was writing to Lincoln to endorse Cameron for a place in the Lincoln administration. Hmm.
Fuller’s purported convention heroics make some sense, especially if he thought William (“irrepressible conflict”) Seward was too radical for the country and would lose the November election.
Perhaps Fuller thought he delivered the nomination to Lincoln without actually doing so. David Davis, who led the Lincoln forces at the convention, told a newsman, “Damned if we haven’t gotten” the Pennsylvania delegation.
Asked by the reporter how Pennsylvania had been “gotten”, Davis replied, “By paying their price,” meaning a high government position for Cameron. Adding to the confusion, Davis’s biographer insists that Cameron was never proffered a direct pledge of a job.
“Make no contracts that will bind me,” Lincoln wired his convention managers. Exasperated, Davis exclaimed, “Lincoln ain’t here, and don’t know what we have to meet …”
That’s the thing about decision-making conventions: they were big, complicated affairs. It was impossible for any one person to keep track of what was going on because many things were going on all at the same time.
It must haven maddening, and oh so interesting. Maybe this year’s Republican convention in Cleveland will give us a taste of the possibilities.
Richard Robbins lives in Uniontown and is the author of two books: “Grand Salute: Stories of the World War II Generation” and “Our People.” He can be reached at grandsalutebook@gmail.com.