A Soldier's Hell: One Man's Journey into the Darkness

A Soldier’s Hell

One Man’s Journey into the Darkness

William A. King

Copyright © 2024 William A. King

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

KSLEH Publishing— Dinwiddie County, VA

ISBN: 979-8-218-50447-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024920521

A Soldier’s Hell: One Man’s Journey into the Darkness

Author: William A. King

Digital distribution | 2024

Paperback | 2024

This is a work of historical fiction. While many of the characters, names, places, and events are based on history, some of the characters, names, incidents, places, and all of the dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

Dedication

To my children and grandchildren with the hope they may better understand our family history and the sacrifices of our ancestors.

And

To all who have worn a uniform and experienced their own personal Soldier’s Hell.

Semper Fi

Contents

A Soldier’s Hell

Dedication

Prologue

The Seduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Metamorphosis

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

The Eve of Battle

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Baptism of Fire

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Purgatory

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

War on the River

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

January 1862 – Paducah, Kentucky

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Father of all Rivers

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Once More unto the Breach

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Armageddon

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Survival and Salvation

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

"And when I get to Heaven, Saint Peter I will tell.

Another soldier reporting Sir, I served my time in Hell."

Anonymous

September 1864 – Petersburg, Virginia.

T

he fall in Maine is the very best time of year, when the green shades of the pines and cedars mix with the reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of the hardwoods to create a palate of incredible beauty on the surrounding landscape. Warm, brightly lit days marry with cool, crisp nights and serve as the harbingers of the cold harsh winter yet to come.

The fall in Maine is that time after the crops have been harvested, the orchards picked, and the cooking, salting, smoking, and preserving complete. County fairs are in full swing and the air is filled with a general mood of thanksgiving for another successful season.

The fall in Maine is a time for hunting. Game is extremely essential to fill the larders and storehouses in preparation for the hard months to follow. How vividly I recall the thrill of those fall hunts when frost and snow at the higher elevations drove the game down in search of food. I learned to shoot as a youngster under the watchful eye of my father as we hunted squirrels, rabbits, and wild turkey. The harvested fields also provided a wonderful source of pheasants and grouse. My proficiency with his .36 caliber percussion cap musket and black powder shotgun provided some of the much-needed food for our growing family. As a teen, I graduated to hunting larger game, first with my father and later with one or two friends I considered equal as hunters. During these fall hunts there was always an abundance of deer and occasionally a moose, to augment the smaller game. I became a crack shot and seldom missed.

The fall in Maine is also a time for fishing. The Sheepscot River runs through Lincoln County and feeds the Patricktown Pond. This waterway provides a bountiful source of trout, pike, bass, and musky. Not far downriver are the seaports of Boothbay and Southport Island where striped bass, flounder, lobsters, and crabs are caught, cooked, and salted for the coming winter.

The fall in Maine really is the closest thing to paradise on earth. How well I can remember it. With eyes closed it was as if I was there, living in the memories of my childhood. I can see everything about the area: my family, the people, and the beauty of the landscape.

But as my eyes slowly opened and began to focus, the splendor of Maine started to disappear. What remained were the harsh realities of my current surroundings and the horrors of the life I knew for the past three years. It wasn’t Maine. It was Virginia. It was war, and I was a soldier.

Scarcely a living thing grew in the blood red clay soil of the Petersburg battle line. There were no trees left. Only charred stumps remained where majestic white and red oaks, pines, maples, hickories, and poplars once stood. The wood was used to erect shelters for soldiers, Union and Confederate alike, or form the fortifications and bomb-proofs that protect us from unremitting artillery and mortar bombardments.

After four months of siege activities around Petersburg, the fort where my unit was garrisoned and the surrounding terrain were pockmarked with the craters of thousands of exploded projectiles, all of which contributed to this apocalyptic nightmare. No green grass or woodlands; only red clay that turned into an ocean of mud during rainstorms or a barren, dusty wasteland during dry times. Even the sun contributed to this surreal world as it set in the evening. Its blood red rays cast an ominous glow over the battlefield: not the paradise of Maine but an accurate vision of hell on earth. The hell that was Petersburg, Virginia: a Soldier’s Hell.

I was certainly no stranger to the concept of hell in the religious sense. Back home, the Reverend Mr. Hardin preached on the subject regularly. The sins committed in this world are determining factors for assignment to a specific level in that spiritual realm of evil and suffering. Even refusing the faith could commit one to the land of limbo with others deemed unfaithful or unbaptized.

In school, I learned of the literary existence of hell. Our teacher, Mr. Parsons, was quite fond of the subject particularly as it pertained to the various cantos from Dante’s Inferno. Guided by the Roman poet Virgil, Mr. Parsons, playing the role of Dante, would escort the class through the various levels of hell he experienced, pausing only to introduce the people he encountered.

Over the course of my three years in the Army, I have had a lot of time to contemplate the true meaning of hell, specifically the hell that surrounded me. This was a particular brand of hell brought about by man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. This was not the hell to keep the masses in line or to scare small children into behaving. Rather, it was a unique kind of hell created exclusively for a soldier.

In a soldier’s world, this was that special hell born in the experiences and desires of youth; cultivated by the methodical preparation and drill of basic training; fueled by an unholy baptism of fire; fortified by subsequent campaigns; and reinforced in the memories and dreams of old men. Unlike the hell of religion or literature that starts when life ends, a soldier’s hell is created during life and ends only when life ends and the eternal darkness of death releases the soldier from his burden.

The Seduction

The hottest places in Hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.

Dante Alighieri

Chapter One

May 1859 – Somerville, Maine

L

ike so many young men of this era, my descent into a soldier’s hell began at a young age around the family dinner table. At each clan gathering or holiday meal there was always talk of the heroes of our ancestors. This became extremely intoxicating conversation for a young impressionable mind. To hear the stories of William Wallace at Stirling Bridge or other Scottish heroes was truly awe-inspiring.

After these family gatherings, I would recreate images of the various stories over and over in my imagination. I became the avenging angel for Wallace and other Scots who were betrayed and executed by the British. In another scenario, I was mounted atop a large, gray charger striding across the Belgian countryside to reinforce the collapsing line. This advance saved the Gordons from certain annihilation and protected the entire British flank. Then, with saber flashing, I led the Scot’s Greys headlong into the French square, routing it. I saw myself capturing the eagle from the 45th Regiment of Line; Frenchmen fleeing everywhere from the boldness of the charge; the Emperor Napoleon soundly defeated at Waterloo.

There was always a somber mood of reverence when the discussion turned to Robert the First of Scotland. Now there was a man, a fellow clansman, and a true patriot. What an honor it would have been to fight with The Bruce in the First War of Scottish Independence. How glorious it would have been to stand with him at the Battle of Bannockburn when the heavily outnumbered clans united to defeat King Edward II and earn Scottish independence.

And, of course, there was the glorious victory at Prestonpans before the crushing defeat at Culloden. Like many of my family, I can still taste the agony of that defeat. I often visualize what it must have been like to stand in the battle line at Culloden. Culloden: the very mention of the name sends chills down my spine. Culloden: the end of the Jacobite Rebellion of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Culloden: the death knell of the clans in Scotland.

Not all of the tales of bravery and patriotism were of our ancestors or the clans in Scotland. The family also had a noble history of service in wars here in America that provided additional fuel for my over-active imagination. My father spoke proudly of Great Grandfather Isaiah, who heeded the call from Paul Revere and his riders and joined the other embattled farmers at Concord Bridge and Lexington. Another ancestor, Grandfather Barnard, shouldered a weapon with the militia during the War of 1812 and defended what was now the Maine coast from the invading British.

My mother was inclined to proudly remind everyone of the patriotism on her side of the family as well. Great Grandfather Squire Bishop, and his brother Isaiah marched with the Massachusetts Line from Boston to Yorktown and both were pensioned for wounds received in battle. What great stories of the heroes in my own family; the tales of their desperate struggles to create a free country independent of British tyranny or preserve the new nation from all enemies. This was a tough pedigree for a young man to live up to and the start of my seduction down the path into a soldier’s hell.

Surprisingly, it was my mother who provided the impetus for the next step in the seduction process. When I was about four, she insisted that I, and later my brothers and sisters, learn to read and write. At first, the reading lessons came from the family bible, but the bible soon gave way to a host of other reading materials. I read everything I could lay my hands on, from the local newspapers to penny novels from the general store. I found not only a degree of comfort in reading but also an escape from the daily routines of farm life.

These penny novels further stimulated the formative imagination of a young, naïve farm boy. There were the stories of heroes from the American Revolution and the War of 1812 and tales of the men who made America. I fantasized about fighting Indians with Daniel Boone on the Kentucky frontier or Mexicans with Crockett and Bowie at the Alamo. I was there with Washington in the cold at Valley Forge or fighting alongside pirates with Jackson at New Orleans. There were even exploits at sea with John Paul Jones, another Scotsman, or aboard Old Ironsides. These were truly powerful stories for my impressionable mind.

At school, my teachers recognized this zeal for reading and began to introduce me to the wonderful world of real literature. There were stories of mythology and tales of ancient civilizations. I saw myself riding into battle with Alexander, or with Caesar crossing the Rubicon. These stories paled in comparison however, to my favorite, fighting side by side with Leonidas and the brave three hundred at Thermopylae. The accounts of ancient times and places further awakened a deep-seated desire for adventure in the great world outside of Maine.

When I was a teenager, our teacher, Mr. Parsons, introduced me to authors from the first golden age of American literature. I was soon absorbed in a variety of new adventures or thinking about innovative ideas and theories. There were great stories from Washington Irving and James Russell Lowell depicting experiences in the American wilds, although in a very romanticized way. There was the assertion of personal independence and the spiritual discovery of simplistic living as Thoreau described his life at Walden.

Emerson’s Concord Bridge became a favorite because of our family’s connection. I was also an ardent fan of the works of Edgar Allen Poe and his tales of the macabre. But it was Mr. Parsons who introduced me to the greatest of all possible adventures, the works of Herman Melville. Battling a goliath sea creature halfway around the world or interacting with native populations capped an already hyperactive imagination and further lured me towards a life filled with travel and adventure. During my teen years, it was literature that provided an outlet for exploration and discovery but the real impetus for the move along the path toward a soldier’s hell came from Maine itself.

Early in its history, the part of Massachusetts that became Maine was predominately agrarian. Only after achieving statehood in 1820 did the forest and mineral products industries as well as the shipbuilding and fishing industries experience tremendous growth. Farming, on the other hand, did not flourish as did those other industries. Maine’s geographic location coupled with its poor soil conditions, extensive forests, and wholly unpredictable weather were substantial obstacles to any farmer.

For most Maine farmers there were no true cash crops like those found in other areas of the country. The potatoes grown in Aroostook County were the only crop actually exported outside of Maine. Since most of the farms in other regions of Maine were relatively small, family run operations of around one hundred to one hundred fifty acres, farmers relied on what could be grown and harvested to provide enough foodstuffs to see the family and the livestock through the long winter months. If the winter was especially long or severe, farmers were often forced to turn to other sources of income to survive. Many of the menfolk sought work in the forests harvesting trees, in the quarries harvesting granite, or making bricks. Still others turned to more craft-oriented sources of income: making furniture, barrels, shingles, or farm related implements.

The women also pitched in, making brooms, baskets, and other crafts to earn additional income. They wove cloth or sewed fabric and leather into clothes and shoes. Men and women alike bartered various goods and services in an effort to limit outside purchases and maintain a self-sufficient lifestyle. Blacksmithing, weaving, dressmaking, health care, and carpentry were all highly sought after skills that were easily bartered, all in the name of subsisting through the harsh Maine winters.

I was ten when my mother passed away from the rigors of childbirth and the hardships of Maine living. The baby brother she bore before she died followed her to Sand Hill Cemetery a year later. After waiting a suitable period of time, my father took a new wife. Although our stepmother was a pleasant enough sort, she was twenty years younger than my father. Soon enough, new brothers and sisters began arriving at the rate of about one per year. As the eldest male child, the responsibility for the farm and the family fell to me.

By the time of my eighteenth birthday, any aspirations I had about becoming a farmer were at an all-time low. The family had grown with the birth of five new half brothers and sisters. Two others joined my mother in Sand Hill Cemetery and our stepmother was once again in the family way. My formal schooling was at an end and that ever-present adventure bug was, once again, gnawing at my soul. After some serious discussions with my father, we agreed that my two younger brothers would assume additional responsibilities around the farm along with our half brothers and sisters. This freed me to start planning a future away from the farm.

Unfortunately, the options for eighteen year olds in Maine at the time were somewhat limited. Workers in the fishing and lumber industries suffered from many of the same issues as the farmers when it came to winter and work. Another option was to use my carpentry skills and apply as an apprentice boat builder at one of the many maritime shipbuilding facilities along the coast. If I felt really daring, I could travel to New Bedford, Massachusetts and follow Herman Melville into the whaling business. In the end, on the counsel of my father and Mr. Parsons, I left the family farm and traveled fifteen miles from Somerville to Augusta to become an apprentice in an apothecary shop.

Chapter Two

July 1859 – Augusta, Maine

T

he next phase of my seduction into a soldier’s hell began in late May 1859 as I boarded the stage for Augusta and began to experience and understand the national political climate of the late 1850s and early 1860s.Somerville was far enough off the beaten path to remain fairly isolated from the outside world.If it didn’t concern farming, or the local and state elections, it wasn’t really that important.Augusta, on the other hand, was front and center in knowledge and communications concerning not only what was happening in Maine, but also the politics and policy of the nation.Decisions made there impacted not just Maine, but the rest of the country as well.I was about to become a part of that world.

It really wasn’t much of an adventure to take a stage ride to the State Capitol.I had been there several times before with my father.However, this time I was going to Augusta to become an apprentice in the apothecary shop of Henry Hartwell.Mr. Hartwell was a lifelong friend and classmate at Bowdoin College of my old teacher, Mr. Parsons.On the ride over, I took time to reflect on what I remembered about Augusta from our Maine history classes in school.

It was hard to believe that members of the ill-fated Popham Colony had first explored this area of Maine in 1607.After the colony was abandoned some fourteen months later, Augusta reverted to the wilds until 1628 when it was inhabited by settlers from the Plymouth Bay Colony and served as a trading post on the Kennebec River.

Originally called Cushnoc, after the Indian term for head of the tide, the area remained a critical trading station for lumber and furs until it was incorporated into the City of Hallowell in 1771.In February of 1797, the Cushnoc area was set off and included into the newly formed Town of Harrington.Later that year, the name was officially changed to Augusta after the infant daughter of Henry Dearborn, Revolutionary War General, former Marshal of Maine, and Secretary of War under Jefferson.

The stage passed old Fort Western and slowed to cross the bridge into the station.The traitorous Benedict Arnold and his troops visited Fort Western on their way to attack Quebec during the American Revolution.These days, the old Fort was the home for some of the local mill workers and their families.As the stage lumbered into the station and I climbed down, I could see the dam across the Kennebec River and the multitude of sailing ships, mostly coastal freighters, tied to the quay walls along Water Street.

Walking up Water Street to Green Street I spotted the Arsenal across the river and the top of the State Capitol.Normally a peaceful city of about seventy-five hundred residents, Augusta became a different place when the legislature was in session.Taking the turn onto State Street my destination lay ahead, Hartwell’s Apothecary, Henry Hartwell, Druggist.As I approached the shop, I realized that this trip would be much different than any other previously taken.On this trip, I would be starting an adventure away from the farm.On this trip, I would not be returning home.

Working in Hartwell’s Apothecary was not at all what I expected.Mr. Hartwell and his family were decent, Christian folks who welcomed me into their home and their business.Mr. Hartwell’s wife Mary tried to make me as comfortable as possible during my tenure as their apprentice.There was a pleasant attic room to live in and a place set for me at breakfast before work and at dinner after the shop closed.

The Hartwells had two children, William, aged twelve, and Elizabeth, aged ten.They also went out of their way to make me feel at home and welcome.After a time, they began to view me as the older brother they did not have.

Mr. Hartwell was a fair employer, taking a couple of hours of each day to instruct me in the various tasks associated with being a druggist.These sessions included some detailed discussions about the various medicines kept in the shop.What did this drug heal?What did that drug prevent?Which of these drugs could be sold outright and which required a physician’s prescription?

After a while these instructional sessions began to include aspects of running an apothecary business.How did you order this item or that medicine?What kind of paperwork was required to order and sell what medicines?How do you keep track of what had sold in order to keep a well-stocked inventory?

When the apprentice training sessions were over for the day, my responsibilities were to clean up the shop and stock the shelves.After a short time and under the watchful eye of Mr. or Mrs. Hartwell, I began to interact with customers.I listened to their maladies and made recommendations for their treatment.I also assisted Mr. Hartwell in preparing special medicines that were prescribed by the customer’s doctor.I learned which of these special medicines required close supervision when administering or using, which caused what side effects or hallucinations, and which became addictive if not used properly.

In the afternoon when things were slow in the store, William and Elizabeth would come by after school for a visit or stay with me if their parents had business outside the shop.I especially liked helping them with their schoolwork when I could.Both children were avid readers and I found myself enjoying the times we spent together discussing various books.William had developed a fascination with the world of Greek and Roman mythology and other aspects of ancient times.Some of these discussions brought out old feelings about travels and adventures yet to be taken and awakened somewhat dormant yearnings brought on by years of the seduction.

Not all aspects of my current situation were work oriented.In addition to room and board, Mr. Hartwell provided me with a small weekly salary.I wasn’t going to get rich on the money but it did provide an opportunity to go out and experience Augusta.The shop closed promptly at seven and after the evening meal I was free until the shop opened again the next morning.This was time I could catch up on reading, get to know Augusta better, or socialize with new friends at one of Augusta’s quaint watering holes.

Since arriving in Augusta I made several new friends, all of whom were apprenticed in various trades.Charles Clark migrated upriver from Farmingdale in late 1858 to work for the Kennebec Journal as an apprentice typesetter and printer.Charlie, as his friends knew him, had aspirations of becoming a reporter or writer and exercised his desired profession regularly, often regaling his mates with stories and articles he had written.

John Lewis hailed from Boothbay and, after finishing school, had the choice of an apprenticeship or a career on the deep blue sea.John’s father owned one of the coastal freighters that plied its trade along the Kennebec River and as far south as Boston, New York City, Philadelphia, and Baltimore.His education however, provided him with the opportunity to apprentice in one of the shipping offices working the quays off Water Street.John was a master in tracking shipments and with two older brothers to assist his father aboard ship, he was ordained to run the business aspects of the operation.

While Charlie and John were considered friends, I found a true kindred spirit in Jim Ross.We were both suckled on the hardships common to all Maine farmers and decided on other career paths.Unlike me, Jim was the youngest of six and held no hope of inheriting the family farm.Jim’s family farm was larger than most by comparison, over two hundred acres in Androscoggin County not far from the city of Monmouth.

The four of us met two or three times a week to relax from the grind of our apprenticeships and, over a couple of pints, talk or argue about books, news, politics, girls, or any subject under the sun.Charlie would bring the group up to date on various stories from the Kennebec Journal or read aloud a story he was working on.When encouraged, John entertained us with tales of adventures aboard his father’s ship and the ports of call she made.As my friends talked, I listened with great enthusiasm to the news or to John’s adventures, while that old seduction bug once again began gnawing at my soul.

When the legislature was in session, I would tell my friends of the important people who frequented the store and the politics they professed.When things were quiet in the shop, I would ask Mr. Hartwell about the myriad of issues overheard when these politicians stopped in.While Mr. Hartwell harbored some definite Republican oriented opinions about various subjects, he presented both sides of most issues and enabled me to make up my own mind.Like many of the politicians who visited, Mr. Hartwell spoke of his utter distain for the government in Washington in general, and specifically, the Buchanan administration.

Chapter Three

December 1859 – Augusta, Maine

I

n the election of 1856, Democratic nominee James Buchanan of Pennsylvania defeated President Millard Fillmore of the American Party and John C. Fremont of the newly formed Republican party to become the fifteenth President of the United States.Old Buck wasted no time in fanning the fires of the opposition as he tried to bring an end to the slavery question.

In his March 4th, 1857 inaugural speech, Buchanan spoke of slavery as a state issue and not one for the federal government.His political position was to leave the people of the emerging territories free of all outside interference and allow them to decide their own destiny.In his speech, he also argued that the slave code protected the rights of slave owners and alluded to his support of the pending Supreme Court decision in the case of Dred Scott versus Sanford.

If Buchanan’s inaugural speech fanned the flames of the slavery question, then the Dred Scott case stoked the fire into an inferno.Dr. John Emerson, an Army surgeon, took Scott and his family, slaves from Missouri, to the free states of Illinois and Wisconsin then back to Missouri.Scott claimed that under the Missouri Compromise, slavery was outlawed in both Illinois and Wisconsin and having spent five years outside of Missouri, he and his family were entitled to be free.

The case worked its way through the judicial system until, in 1857, two days after the inauguration, Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, himself from a slave owning family in Maryland, issued the Court’s decision.In a seven to two vote the Supreme Court held that people of African descent were not American citizens and, therefore, Scott had no grounds to claim his freedom.Buchanan’s inaugural remarks and his strong support of the Supreme Court’s decision led his opposition to believe that Taney divulged the decision before it was publicly announced.

Buchanan’s southern leanings were also very apparent in his Cabinet selections.In addition to Vice President John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky, four other members of the Cabinet were from the South: Secretary of the Treasury Howell Cobb of Georgia, Secretary of War John B. Floyd of Virginia, Postmaster General Aaron V. Brown of Tennessee, and Secretary of the Interior Jacob Thompson of Mississippi.One of the three Northern Cabinet members, Secretary of the Navy Isaac Toucey of Connecticut, was often viewed as a doughface or Southern sympathizer.

Another doughface was Buchanan’s only Supreme Court nominee, Nathan Clifford of Maine.Clifford served as Speaker of the Maine House of Representatives and Maine’s Attorney General before finding his way to Washington as a Congressman and in 1846, United States Attorney General.When Buchanan announced Clifford’s nomination shortly after the Dred Scott decision, those who labeled Clifford a political hack due to his pro-slavery history met the President’s choice with fierce opposition.

Another issue plaguing the Buchanan administration was the economy.The California gold rush of 1848 had ushered in a period of prosperity in the early 1850s, especially as it involved the westward expansion of the railroads.By the mid-1850s this overexpansion of the domestic economy coupled with a declining international economy caused the first worldwide economic crisis.This financial crisis, dubbed the Panic of 1857, spread quickly as over five thousand businesses began to fail.The banking industry was especially hard hit with the failure of over fourteen thousand state banks. The railroad industry also experienced heavy financial declines forcing hundreds of railway workers to be laid off.Hardest hit by these economic failures was the Midwest, the railway and banking hub of the westward migration.The largely agrarian South, with limited industry and no significant rail infrastructure, suffered the least.

The Panic of 1857 led many in the South to believe that the North needed Southern interests to maintain a stabilized economy.For a short period of time, the economic situation temporarily softened threats of secession in the South.By 1859 however, much of the economy in the North and the entire South had recovered with the exception of the banking industry.Opponents of the Buchanan government continued to cite the poor economic policies of the Democrats in general and the administration in particular as the fundamental reasons for the economic woes that plagued the country.

In 1857, the slavery question in the territories also came to a head, particularly in Kansas.Anti-slave settlers established their government in Topeka while pro-slavers established their government in Lecompton.In October of 1857, Buchanan declared his support for Kansas entering the Union as a pro-slave state and backed the Lecompton government.Pro-slavery advocates then drafted the Lecompton Constitution, a document that included provisions to protect slaveholding in the state and exclude any and all free blacks from its bill of rights.

The government in Topeka rejected the Lecompton Constitution but Buchanan accepted it as the legitimate constitution of the state.After much discussion in Congress, a recommendation was made to allow the people of Kansas to put the Lecompton Constitution to a vote.In January of 1858, the people overwhelmingly rejected the Lecompton Constitution.Buchanan however, insisted Congress approve it and admit Kansas as a slave state.His dogged support alienated many Democrats, including Stephen Douglas, who felt any federal government support for the Lecompton Constitution violated the entire electoral process established by the law of the land.

Douglas’ position represented a growing trend among northern Democrats in the late 1850s.It was becoming increasingly difficult for the Democratic Party to sell the concept of slavery as