used=false;
//out = "win", "loss", or "tie" for your candidate
//totv = total votes in entire election
//aa = all final overall results data
//quickstats = relevant data on candidate performance (format: your candidate's electoral vote count, your candidate's popular vote share, your candidate's raw vote total)
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return "
Washington, 25 December, 1864.
“Can they stay, pa? Can they?”
You look up from the note you are reading. Your youngest son, Tad, is looking up at you with big eyes, the kind only a child could produce to guilt his father. Behind him, five poor-looking newsboys, crooked grins on all their faces.
You chuckle. “And what’s the meaning of this?” you ask, in your creaky, jestering voice.
“They’re newsies, y’see, and they all gone hungry this Christmastime. I told ‘em, my daddy’s the President, you should come over and eat!”
What a boy! You reach out with your bony fingers and ruffle his hair. What stirring generosity in the heart of your youngest.
“I reckon this house is just big enough to accommodate them,” you tell him, laughing. “You tell Slade these boys are welcome for dinner, if and they don’t break anything.”
Tad turns to his newfound friends and, together, they run off. If only Willie Johnson were there to see such kindness in his darling boy. If only Willie were here…
You rise from your chair, and walk out into the halls of the White House. The place is buzzing with commotion, and you cannot help but let the joy seep into you. Already, the guests are arriving for the reception. It will be a night of merriment and revelry for all, celebrating what is likely to be the last Christmas of the war. One last Christmas.
Your thoughts are broken by a messenger arriving in haste.
“Mr. President,” he greets you. “Boys at the War Department got something for you.”
Amusing. You are quite used to nightly strolls to the Winder building, where you would sometimes sit for hours, even sleeping over, in the most tense days of the war. Tonight would be inappropriate for such an occasion.
“What’s Eckert got to be accosting me at such an hour?” you inquire. The messenger smirks, and hands you a note.
“Written and ran by Fort Monroe sir, they say it’s urgent.”
You take the envelope, already knowing full well its contents. With a thank, you wheel about and walk back to your bedroom.
Mary is somewhere surely, preparing to greet the guests. Without Julia Grant, whom you had sent to be with her husband, there would hopefully be no disputes among them.
Sitting by your bedside, you cut open the envelope, and with caution, unfold the telegram.
Savannah, Dec 22 1864
To his Excellency, President Lincoln,
I beg to present you as a Christmas Gift the City of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about 25000 bales of cotton.
W.T. Sherman Maj Genl.
You smile broadly, letting out a laugh that no one will hear. A merry Christmas indeed, General Sherman. One last Christmas; the best Christmas of your life, to be sure.
Bully for you! You have won the presidential election, Mr. Lincoln, and with it the bounties of fate which presage an end to this cruel war. Four long, testing, and terrible years of strife have given way to a new era: a new nation, conceived in liberty, dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal—a nation which, thanks to your efforts, will now long endure.
The surrender of the traitorous Confederates is all but assured. In a few precious months, General Grant will accept the surrender of Robert E. Lee at Appomattox Court House, and the work of rebuilding these United States will commence. Despite your own doubts going into the summer, the American people have seen fit to place their confidence in the National Union to continue this war to its natural end.
Born in a log cabin in Kentucky, you have come a long way. The name Abraham Lincoln will pass into the annals of history, as the hand which once cut wood in rural Indiana will now sign the document proclaiming an end to the barbaric practice of slavery, and let freedom ring throughout the lands. At your destined hour, struck down by an assassin’s bullet, you will take your place among the greatest men in history, and witness the fruits of your efforts as future generations strive to fulfill that great promise.
“It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from this earth.”
Andrew Johnson will ascend to the Presidency following your untimely death. While initially pursuing vengeance against all traitors, his Southern convictions and desire to uphold your moderate policies will lead to conflict with the Republican caucus, and damn his administration in posterity after their irreconcilable split in 1866. Intending to satisfy the readmitted states that they may accept their defeat with grace, his leniency and inaction will only embolden them, ultimately leading to the return of Confederates to power across the South and the failure of the Reconstruction.
Johnson will be remembered as one of the worst Presidents to ever govern the United States. A drunkard and a racist, his impeachment by the House will be the first of its kind in the nation’s history, and the Senate’s efforts to remove him from office will fail by just one vote. Historians will forever lament the golden opportunity that was wasted by your selection of Andrew Johnson, and it will be a century before America finally begins to reckon with the legacy of that relic of barbarism, slavery, and more still before the black man will ever be able to dream of being seen as the true equal of the white.
No candidate has captured a majority of electoral votes.
By way of your congressional majorities, it is all but guaranteed that you will be confirmed as President despite this outcome. However, this most unlikely of outcomes has heightened tensions across the Union. Already, word comes from New York City of unrest in the streets. McClellan’s motley coalition of War Democrats and Copperheads nearly managed to wrest the seat of power from your party’s hands, and they will see this outcome as a great vindication.
You know, however, that a negotiated peace as they demand is impossible. Your plan from the outset was to save this Union before the beginning of the next Presidential term, and save it you will, regardless of this disappointment. With the election out of the way, you have a free hand to focus on the war, and hopefully any damage done to your legitimacy will be remedied when Savannah is captured. Richmond will be next—you are sure of it.
Damned be. In our nation’s most fateful hour, accursed by war between the states, and with victory so close at hand, you have had the rug pulled out from under you. George McClellan, the Young Napoleon, has somehow bested you.
A terrible catastrophe has befallen these United States when, in time of most desperate need, her people turn away from reason and right, and veer to the whims of ego that will surely give way to a coward’s compromise. The Republican Party, so tenuously held together these months of late, is sure to split as the Radicals find vindication in their criticisms of you. While the capricious McClellan has vowed to see the war through, it is rather more surely to end in a negotiated peace, and thus the failure of your quest to eradicate slavery across the country.
It will be said in the years to come that your defeat was inflicted by incompetent generals and the competing ambitions of those in your party who sought to undermine you at every turn; for now, all you can do is hang your head and pray that the Lord sees fit to give other men the righteous zeal needed to carry out His will. You will retire to Springfield, and live out your years peacefully—a lot which the many men who died under your command will never grow to see.
If, after this defeat, you retain the Lincoln spirit of grit and determination, you may see fit to continue in politics, and complete that mission upon which you embarked four fateful years ago: to abolish slavery, and uphold the rights of all men, created equal in the image of God. That promise may go unfulfilled for now, Abraham Lincoln, but you have never been a man to quit even in the face of interminable hardship. Go now with God’s blessing.
You have failed, Mr. Lincoln, and miserably at that. Despite your spirited efforts to retain your post, your political instincts failed you, and not even the dogged persistence of your best generals could save the National Union from a total drubbing in this election. You have outraged those to your flank in the Radical wing, and it is certain that they will seize power within the party after your failure here. Jefferson Davis is rubbing his hands with glee, this result doubtlessly proving a relief at a time where his own prospects seemed to dwindle. Millions of black hands are surely outstretched in lamentation, their fates now sealed.
McClellan will take office in March, by which time you have previously vowed to have this War over and done with. That seems unlikely, as despite the capture of Atlanta, the Union Army appears unable to make further headway in the Western Theater. You have lost the faith of Americans the country over, who have lost so much only to gain so little.
The President-to-be is unqualified in every respect, and his dangerous incompetence will make him but a seatwarmer for the Copperheads who will be running his Administration.
The road ahead is dark. You can persist in your effort to win the War by way of unconditional surrender, but you are fast losing allies. You are increasingly likely to find naught but closed doors if you seek new ones. You could opt to begin negotiations now, as you are certain this is what will result anyway once McClellan takes the oath. You may have cause for hope, as such a resounding victory for him might redouble his own vow to win the War despite his party’s disagreement. If you are going to reach out, you had better get started now, before Daniel Voorhees and Fernando Wood get into that braggart’s skull and win his ear.
We are truly sorry to see this outcome for you, sir. Truly sorry.
“That buffoon, elected President? And by the machinations of General Spacebar, no less?” you said. “I don’t know, I—this cannot be. I must be having a bad dream.”
Soon enough, you had awoken from this most grave nightmare a victor in the election. And just moments thereafter, a summary of the latest telegraph returns detailing the scope of your sweeping re-election was in your hands."
} else {
return "
well this broke
send information of this to /u/astrohunch_o immediately. this cannot show up on your screen