Lincoln (83 page)

“So it is the other, Miss Ella.”

“It is Miss Ella who waits for me in room Twenty-nine of the National Hotel. You come there, too. No, not now, Davie. Tomorrow, at eight in the morning. We’ll have breakfast in the dining room.” Booth finished the last of the brandy. The ivory of his face was now coral pink, and the eyes were slightly glassy. But the voice had not become in any way loud or slurred; rather, it had become very low and precise, as he whispered to David, “You must poison Old Abe, and soon.”

“That’s what John said.” David was startled; did Booth know John? And if he did, why did he not say so?

“I know the arguments against.” Booth’s voice was that of Iago now; or, rather, of his brother Edwin playing Iago. “That he is good for us because he is so poor a President. This is true, of course. But the Yankees are starting to win victories in the West.”

“Nothing like ours …” David began.

“Nothing like ours. But we are short of men. Listen, David, the reason why we must kill him now is very simple. If he lives, he is bound to be reelected next November; and the war will go on and on, and we will run out of men long before the Yankees do.”

“But whoever they elect, the war will go on.”

Booth shook his head. “If Lincoln is not the candidate, the Democrats will win, and the new president, McClellan, will make peace on our terms.”

“Is he really one of us?” David had heard for years that McClellan was a Knight of the Golden Circle, a secret society of Northerners in sympathy with the South.

“I cannot say.” Wilkes Booth rose. “But I know that if he is president, he will give us what we want. So …” Booth raised an eyebrow. “Good-night, Davie. Say good-night to Old Ed, when he wakes up. Or good morning, it that’s more suitable.”

“Good-night, sir. Wilkes.” Booth was gone. David was surprised at how calm he himself was. He had been taken into the confidence of the famous star, who had asked him, in the most agreeable way, to murder the President. In theory, David was perfectly willing to remove Old Abe from
the vale of tears in which all were at present dwelling. But how? You did not put arsenic into a laxative. The President would taste it, and spit it out. Even if Lincoln did happen to take it and die, everyone would know that someone at Thompson’s Drug Store had poisoned his blue mass. Of course, David could just disappear as soon as the delivery was made to the Mansion. But where would he go? He did not fancy serving in the Confederate Army. Half the haggard ragged young men in Washington—not to mention at Sullivan’s—were deserters from the Confederate Army or captives who had been let go after taking the oath of allegiance to the Union. On the other hand, if he did succeed in poisoning Lincoln, he would be a hero at Richmond. So perhaps he really would take a night ride through the lines, and report to President Davis that his rival was dead; at David’s hands.

But what, he wondered, would be the best poison to use? It would have to have little or no taste; and act quickly. Ideally, its effects should resemble a familiar illness like bilious fever or the smallpox …

“YOU DON’T THINK
it’s the smallpox?” Mary stood beside Tad’s bed while the doctor took the boy’s pulse. Tad’s face was flushed with fever; and his usual odd babble was now incomprehensible even to Mary as he drifted in and out of fever-dreams.

“It’s too soon to say, Mrs. Lincoln. I doubt that it is. But we’ll know by tomorrow, when the symptoms start or, let us pray, don’t start.”

“My God! Poor Taddie!”

Lincoln appeared in the doorway. “What is wrong?”

“The smallpox!” she cried.

“No,” said the doctor. “There are no true signs as yet. Simply a fever.”

Keckley appeared. “Come, Mrs. Lincoln, you must get ready for the wedding.”

“No. I shall not go! Nor will you, Father. Not with Taddie so ill.”

“He is not that ill, Mrs. Lincoln,” said the doctor.

“You hear that?” Then Keckley motioned for Lincoln to remove Mary, which he did. More and more did Keckley manage Mrs. Lincoln, with the President’s connivance.

In the bedroom, Lincoln dressed for the wedding; but Mary did not. “You can say Taddie’s ill. Or I’m ill. Or I’m still in mourning. Tell the Chases anything. I don’t care. I won’t go.”

“As you like, Mother.” Lincoln stood in front of the pier glass and tied his white cravat.

“You ought not to go either.” Mary watched her husband’s reflection
in the mirror. He was now far too thin; but he would not eat. Tonight he had refused his favorite dish, fricassee of chicken with biscuits and gravy.

“Mr. Chase is my Secretary of the Treasury.”

“He is your rival for the nomination. He works against you every day. He’s as busy as a … as a …”

“As a bluebottle fly. Wherever there’s something gone bad or rotten, he lays his eggs.”

“He’ll be nominated, Father. He’ll be elected!”

“May we never have a worse president,” said Lincoln, idly. He changed the subject. “I can find out nothing about Little Emilie. She’s not in Lexington. I suppose she’s still at the deep South some place.”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Ben. Poor Little Sister, a widow at her age.”

“There are many young widows now. It is the brutal fashion.”

Mary helped Lincoln into his coat. “I have lost
three
brothers,” she said, more with wonder than with sorrow.

For Chase, this was a day of both wonder and sorrow; of pride, as well. Kate seemed to radiate light from her own person. She wore a gown of white velvet and real point lace; and a veil in which had been worked orange flowers. On her head, she wore not a tiara but a crown of diamonds and pearls, the gift of Sprague. Everyone had remarked that she was now even more splendid than the French empress.

Fifty friends were in the rear parlor, which had been decorated in red and white and blue. Later, five hundred guests would come for the wedding reception. In the rooms upstairs, Gautier and his waiters had laid out a splendid buffet. For the last time, Chase was a hundred dollars overdrawn at the bank. From now on, as Sprague had made clear, all expenses at Sixth and E would be met by him.

In the sealed-off front parlor, an altar had been placed before the fireplace, where stood a clergyman in full vestments. Sprague and his cousin Byron stood to the left of the altar, while Chase, sporting a new silk grenadine waistcoat from France, stood next to Kate, his arm through hers. Nettie, also in white, was bridesmaid. In silence, they waited until the hands of the clock settled at thirty minutes past eight; then servants threw open the doors between the parlors.

There was applause from the guests when they saw the brilliant tableau. Kate suddenly shuddered. Chase looked at her from the corner of his right eye, whose peripheral vision was perfect. She appeared, as always, serene. Perhaps she had felt a draft. Certainly, this was a happy moment for the
two of them, since they would never now, on this earth at least, be separated.

The minister proceed to marry Kate Chase to William Sprague the Fourth. Chase then gave his daughter to Sprague, whose cousin gave him the ring which he, eventually, got onto her finger. Once they were married, it was Chase not Sprague who kissed the bride. “God blesh you, my child,” he heard himself, with horror, lisp.

As the room filled up with people, from the dining room the Marine Band struck up “The Kate Chase Wedding March,” written especially for the occasion.

Seward arrived with his daughter-in-law. “We shall see,” he said, rather roguishly, “just who is here and who is not.”

But to Seward’s disappointment, the entire Cabinet was in attendance, except for Montgomery Blair, now the sworn enemy of Chase and all his works. The President was planning to come, Hay assured the premier, as they watched Kate do the quadrille with Mercier in the dining room, where the entire Marine Band had been crowded into one small alcove.

“It is curious,” said Seward, as he was shoved back against a wall, “how reluctant we are in these states to acknowledge that grand entertainments are now the rule not the exception.”

“You mean, sir,” said Hay, “there are no ballrooms?”

“I mean exactly that. We empty the bedrooms to accommodate the buffet tables, and we turn the dining room into a place to dance.”

“And the front parlor,” said Hay, “into a chapel.”

Seward laughed delightedly. “Exactly! What other nation’s minister of the treasury would not have his own private chapel, frescoed by Michelangelo?”

To Seward’s surprise, Henry D. Cooke approached him as if they were the best of friends, and Henry D. himself not under a cloud no darker than a Union soldier’s tunic. Hay slipped away: he wanted no part of Mr. Cooke.

“Mr. Seward!” Henry D. shook the premier’s unenthusiastic and so entirely limp hand. “I have wanted to talk to you for some time now about all that nonsense back in Ohio.”

“Surely Mr. Stanton is more apt to be … useful when it comes to what you call nonsense and the world calls embezzlement.”

Henry D. took this calmly. “There has been no trial, Mr. Seward, so we don’t know what my partner really did as opposed to what the Democratic papers say that he did.”

“In July,” said Seward, suddenly precise, “he was arrested by General Burnside for having stolen government funds.” Lincoln had been appalled
when the word reached Washington of the arrest of F. W. Hurtt, who, together with Henry D. Cooke and Isaac J. Allen, owned the
Ohio State Journal
, a pro-Lincoln newspaper in the state’s capital.

Earlier in the year, Hurtt had turned the paper’s editorship over to Allen; then he had been commissioned an army captain and stationed at Cincinnati. As an army quartermaster, Hurtt then proceeded to steal everything in sight. Unknown to Henry D., Seward had read letters between the partners. From these letters, it was clear that Henry D. was not only very much aware of what was going on but he may well have diverted government funds to Hurtt. Fortunately, the scandal had not affected the October election. Hurtt was now due to go to trial in February. Chase had asked the President to intervene, which had delighted Seward. Let Chase appear as Hurtt’s sponsor, and that would be the end of Chase’s increasingly furious drive for the presidency.

To Seward’s amazement, Henry D. now said, “We think it might be a good idea if our partner Mr. Allen were to go abroad for a while. Since the consulship at Bangkok is unfilled, my brother and I wondered if you might not send Mr. Allen there.”

Seward had spent the better part of a lifetime in never being taken aback. But this was dizzying. “Mr. Cooke, in the midst of a scandal involving God knows how many people, you would have me … the Administration, that is … assign a post of honor”—Seward quite liked the phrase, particularly when applied to swampy Bangkok—“to one of the principals?”

“Well, Governor, it’s not all that bad—just yet, anyway.” Henry D. was cool. “What we have to remember is that my brother, Jay, single-handedly, is financing this war.”

“He himself is not doing too badly out of the war.” Seward knew that Chase often passed on to Jay Cooke news of military victories or defeats before the press reports, so that Cooke’s bank could then buy or sell bonds and gold in advance of the market. Seward had wanted Lincoln to expose this practise, but Lincoln had taken the line that there was nothing illegal in what might be no more than indiscretion. On the other hand, if Seward could prove that Chase was being paid for information, that was another matter. To date, Seward had found no instance of outright dishonesty on Chase’s part.

“Jay’s business is open to inspection,” said Henry D. “He has nothing to hide. But the point is this. We are all Republicans. We’re going to have enough trouble next year with the Democrats without a major scandal in Ohio. Drop the charges against Hurtt, and he’ll go abroad. Send Allen to Siam.”

“And what about you, Mr. Cooke?” Seward cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I make you minister to Spain?”

“Oh, I’d like that, Governor. But I’m otherwise engaged with … my brother.”

“And with Mr. Chase,” Seward could not resist adding.

“We think the world of Mr. Chase,” said Henry D., smoothly. Then the butler in the front parlor shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President!”

Lincoln stood tall and fragile in the doorway. The President looked most elegant, thought Chase, as he hurried forward to greet the First Magistrate. But Hay, in the second parlor, thought that the Ancient was looking most unwell.

Chase said, “Welcome, sir! Our joy is now complete. Katie …” Mrs. William Sprague and consort were duly presented to the President, who gave Kate a small package, which she opened, to reveal an ivory fan. “I brought it myself, since someone forgot to send it along with your other presents.” Lincoln smiled at Kate, who opened the fan and exclaimed, “It is very beautiful.”

Congratulations were given and received. Wedding presents were discussed. Chase had been amazed by the extent of the presents, not to mention the value—over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth had been the estimate of a Treasury aide.

Then Fanny Sprague, small and imperious, fell upon the President. “
I
would vote for you,” she said, “if women could vote. But I suppose you’ll go let the niggers vote before we do!” Chase maintained his dignity, as did the President, who observed, “You know, back in Illinois, I sort of favored giving the ladies the vote.”

“But now you’ve changed.
You
do something about it!” She rounded on her son.

“I can’t, Mother.”

“Yes, you can. But you never do anything right. Why is there such a draft in here?”

The style of the son had plainly been formed by the mother, thought Chase. Happily, the President was amused. “Perhaps we’ll give the vote first to the white women and then to the Negro women. Then we’ll include the Negro men …”

Sprague abandoned new wife and old mother; and went upstairs, where he found what he wanted in the first of Gautier’s well-stocked rooms. As Sprague received a glass of the Widow from a waiter, he was joined by Hiram Barney, the collector of customs at the port of New York. Barney was a Republican attorney, who had raised thirty-five thousand dollars for
Lincoln’s campaign in 1860, for which he had been rewarded with the lucrative collectorship. Although Barney was a member of the Treasury Department, he was not yet a part of the Chase-for-president movement. Nevertheless, Barney maintained the most friendly relations with Chase; he had even lent him five thousand dollars. In exchange, Chase had threatened to resign if the President should insist on Barney’s replacement. Lincoln had given way, even though he feared that the Administration would one day be embarrassed by Barney, whose conduct of his office was slipshod, while his political views were radical, and so anathema to New York’s Republicans.