Mark Powell is on family leave. This column is reprinted from 2017.
President Lincoln was conferring one day with Union officers during the Civil War. One asked, “Is is true you once went out to fight a duel for the sake of the lady by your side?” Lincoln answered, “I do not deny it. But if you desire my friendship, you will never mention it again.” The conversation swiftly shifted to another topic.
Nearly 20 years before he reached the White House, Lincoln was indeed involved in an “affair of honor.” Given the response you just read, it’s no surprise you’ve probably never heard of it.
So here’s what happened.
Summer of 1842. Lincoln was an up and coming attorney in Springfield, Illinois’ young, rough and tumble state capital. His on-again, off-again courtship of Mary Todd was on again. Things looked bright for the lanky 33-year-old state representative.
For years, Whig Lincoln had a friendly working relationship with a fellow state rep, Democrat James Shields.
When Shields was elected State Auditor, things soured. They seriously worsened when Shields stopped accepting Illinois’ own paper money as payment for taxes in an effort to prop up the state’s shaky finances. That created hardship for farmers and working people. Lincoln and Shields parted ways over it and things quickly turned personal.
Lincoln put his dispute with Shields into words. Anonymously, which was an accepted practice at the time. Shields was known around Springfield for being pompous, quirky, even vain. And Lincoln went at him mercilessly in a letter printed under an assumed name in the Sangamon Journal.
“Dear girls, it is distressing, but I cannot marry you all,” Lincoln’s letter had Shields fictitiously saying. “Too well I know how much you suffer; but do, do remember it is not my fault that I am so handsome and so interesting!” There was lots more, but you get the idea. 
Lincoln let Mary read the letter before sending it to the newspaper. She thought it was a hoot and a half and suggested good barbs for his next one.
The problem was, Lincoln didn’t write the next letter. Mary did.
Without telling her boyfriend, she wrote under the pen name “Cathleen” and took mocking Shields to a whole new level. It understandably pushed Shields over the edge when it appeared in the newspaper.
He stormed into the paper’s office, demanding to know who had authored the letters. Lincoln had instructed the editor in advance that if Shields asked, his identity should be revealed. But that was before Mary got in on the act. Wanting to protect her from controversy, he accepted responsibility for both letters.
Shields wrote a letter that said, “I have become the object of slander, vituperation and personal abuse. Only a full retraction may prevent consequences which no one will regret more than myself.” 
Lincoln returned Shields’ letter, demanding that he be addressed in “a more gentlemanly manner.” 
Shields responded the way men in 1842 often did: he challenged Lincoln to a duel.
Abraham Lincoln had many qualities, both good and bad; but cowardice wasn’t among them. Just look at the string of tough guys who challenged him to none-too-genteel wrestling matches (all of whom were defeated, by the way). Yet Lincoln thought dueling as a means of settling disagreements was ridiculous in general, with this one in particular being especially so. However, he didn’t want to appear cowardly by backing down.
Dueling was illegal in Illinois, but it wasn’t in nearby Missouri. So the two agreed to meet on Bloody Island in the Mississippi River near St. Louis. The spot got its name from all the duels fought on it.
Because Lincoln had been challenged, he had the right to select weapons. He picked huge, heavy cavalry broadswords. Since he was 6’4” and his opponent stood only 5’9”, Lincoln knew the big cumbersome sword in his extra long arm would give him an advantage. “I didn’t want the damned fellow to kill me,” the future president later recalled, “which I think he would have done if we had selected pistols.” 
The men faced each other on opposite sides of a wooden plank, which they weren’t allowed to cross. The mood was tense. The handful of spectators allowed on the island were worried. “I … began to believe he [Lincoln] was getting frightened,” one remembered.
Suddenly and without warning, Lincoln hoisted his broadsword over his head, cutting off a tree branch with little effort.
Shaken, Shields was still willing to go ahead with the duel. But Shields’ friends weren’t. They pulled him aside and huddled. Although what they said was lost to history, it was probably something like, “Are you crazy? You saw what he just did. He’ll kill you. Call it off!”)
A face-saving compromise was quickly reached. Lincoln did a mea culpa and accepted responsibility for the whole matter. Shields, with the display of Lincoln’s upper arm strength still fresh in his mind, swiftly accepted. The matter was settled.
As the people back in Alton anxiously awaited word of the duel’s outcome, a boat came into view. They were horrified to see a bloody body slumped over the bow. Folks surged forward as the boat docked. Up close, they discovered it was a log with a bright red shirt pulled over it. Lincoln and Shields stepped onto the dock, howling in laughter at having pulled a fast one.