The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (24 page)

“Hilliman,” snapped Dennard. “Miss Canner. We have just come from the President.” He had his hands linked behind his back. His great bulk swayed a bit. “He has decided to undertake further negotiations with the Radicals.”

“He is
considering
further negotiations,” Speed murmured.

“The President is acting in this matter against my advice,” Dennard resumed, glaring at Speed. “I do not believe that we have anything to offer that the Radicals would find of interest.”

Again Speed interjected softly. “There is, however, the suggestion of a
slightly
different approach to the matter of reconstructing the defeated South.”

“Not enough. They are confident.
Too
confident.” He took a step toward his office. “Go over every piece of evidence we are expecting. Speed and I will go to the Hill tomorrow and try to get them to give us more. They have something. I am sure of it. They will not negotiate.” He pointed at Jonathan. “Study the rules they have adopted for the trial. The Managers are not required to give us an advance look at their case, but there might be some rule we can twist against them.” He turned to Rellman. “Dig out those precedents from when they tried to impeach Tyler.” And he eyed Abigail. “Miss Canner, we will see you tomorrow.”

She was stunned; and Jonathan, upset on her behalf, forgot entirely to mention that he had found additional Chanticleer letters in McShane’s files.

It would be some days before anyone realized how large an error he had just made.

I

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
, just as dusk began to gray the city, a military runner arrived at the law office to deliver an official note—not to Dennard or Speed, but to Jonathan. Abigail and Rellman could not conceal their surprise. Jonathan fumbled with the envelope. The officer waited patiently, eyes on the middle distance. The missive, in the handwriting of Noah Brooks, asked Jonathan to come to the Executive Mansion at once to see the President.

“Just you?” said Rellman doubtfully when Jonathan read the note aloud.

“Evidently.”

“Does he say why?” the fat man persisted.

Jonathan ignored him. He told the officer that he naturally was prepared to serve at the President’s pleasure and would be along directly, then watched through the window as the man mounted his horse. If Mr. Lincoln was using soldiers to run his errands, matters had turned decidedly worse. Too many of the civilians around the Mansion, from stewards to doorkeepers to clerks, were Ben Wade’s men now.

“You have to tell us something,” Rellman said while Little was helping Jonathan into his coat. “The President doesn’t just send for people.”

Abigail shushed him. “If Mr. Lincoln doesn’t want Jonathan to tell, then he must not tell.” But her eyes, too, were curious.

Jonathan said, “I have no idea what this is about.”

The other clerks’ faces said they did not believe him.

Stepping into the street, Jonathan at once jumped aside to avoid a spray of mud kicked up by a passing carriage. Washingmud, some of the Southern papers had taken to calling the place. There were streets where the muck was waist-deep. He wondered whether the Congress would ever get around to properly grading the avenues. Mr. Lincoln had been elected to the Congress back in the forties on the promise of internal improvements. Every state wanted its share of the nation’s revenues to build bridges and canals and roads. Odd how none of the money ever seemed to be spent here in Washington City—unless, of course, one counted the fabulous marble palace the Congress had built for itself, as though the first duty of the legislature was to the comfort of its own members.

At the Mansion, a pair of sentries gave Jonathan a scare. Or perhaps he gave them a scare, because, even in the midst of impeachment, assassination plots were rumored on every hand. Jonathan showed them the note. One of the guards went to find his lieutenant, who got one of the stewards to bring Noah Brooks, the President’s secretary, who vouched for Jonathan’s bona fides.

Nobody apologized.

II

“Why would Mr. Lincoln ask for Jonathan?” said Rellman, very cross. “He isn’t a lawyer. He’s a clerk. What would the President want with him?”

“I have no idea,” said Abigail.

“He tells you everything.” A heavy pause. “Even things he shouldn’t.”

She tried to make her tone as arch as Dinah Berryhill would be at this moment. “And what things are those exactly, Mr. Rellman?”

“When Mr. Dennard gets here, he’ll want to know why his clerk has a private meeting with our client. He’ll ask you same question.”

“And I’ll give him the same answer: I have no idea.”

“Just as you have no idea what happened to Mr. McShane.”

She put down her pencil. “I beg your pardon.”

“Inspector Varak seems to think you know more than you are saying.”

“Have you been talking to the inspector? What did he tell you?”

But Rellman preferred asking questions to answering them; he seemed immune to charm, reason, or simple offers of friendship. Now,
suspicions kindled, the dark, unfriendly gaze promised a reckoning for crimes she did not know she had committed.

III

“He’s in that much better a mood today,” said Noah, leading the way up the rickety stairs.

Better than what?
Jonathan wondered, but did not say.

“Wait, please,” said Noah, and went ahead into the office. Through the opened door, Jonathan glimpsed Stanton’s furious profile. Noah returned, shut the door, said the President would not be long.

But it was another hour, and Stanton was long gone, before Jonathan was summoned.

The President was sitting on the edge of his desk, one bony leg rattling. He was wearing half-glasses, and scarcely looked up when Jonathan walked in. “Young Mr. Hilliman,” he murmured, offering that crooked smile as he read. Noah stood by, holding a sheaf of papers. He was obviously waiting for Mr. Lincoln to hand him the letter he was reading, so that it could be returned to the appropriate file. “Sit,” the President ordered.

Still not sure why he had been invited to visit the President alone, and still nervous in his presence, Jonathan, swiftly, sat.

The President turned to Noah, who had a blank sheet of paper at ready. Mr. Lincoln signed his name, with a large flourish, the way he did when relaxed. He blotted it, then frowned. “The longer this struggle goes on,” he said, “the sloppier my signature seems to get.”

“It looks wonderful,” said Brooks. “Mr. Kinney will be delighted.”

Lincoln nodded. His secretary collected the page, and, smirking at Jonathan, vanished from the room. “It is a most peculiar thing,” said the President, mostly to the air, “that the autograph of a man as unpopular as I should be thought to have value.” He continued to swing the long leg. “The gentleman who asked for my autograph—I have never met him. His name is Ezra Kinney. He is a man of the cloth, up at the North, in Connecticut. His son was graduated at Yale—not your year, a year or two later—and then enlisted. When his three years were up, he re-enlisted. He was wounded twice in battle. He fought in New Orleans, in Pennsylvania, all over. All in the name of the Union. Kinney’s son risked his life for his native land, and all his father asks in return is the autograph of the man who sent him and lots of others like him out to
be blown to bits!” He shook his head. “All these young men. So many killed, so many maimed forever, so many just vanished from the face of the earth. Had I known the cost when we began this great enterprise—”

The President stopped, and stood up, and seemed aware of Jonathan for the first time. Or perhaps he was aware that his visitor had heard this speech before. Mr. Lincoln’s countrymen saw him, according to their several prejudices, as a monster or a giant, the tyrant who had crushed the Southern way of life or the demigod who had saved the Union. But, the more time Jonathan spent in his company, the more he saw a deeply conflicted man, certain that his course was right, uncertain that the means required to achieve it were honorable.

“You have done what needed to be done,” Jonathan said, “both morally and legally.” The President’s eyebrows went up, in what Jonathan had not yet come to realize was a sign of irritation. He floundered on. “Dr. Woolsey often says, sir, that you are as wise as good.” In repeating praise, Jonathan knew he must sound sycophantish. Yet, having taken the first step on the road, he saw no turning point. “Your Emancipation Proclamation, according to Dr. Woolsey, was a masterpiece, written neither too soon nor too late—”

Lincoln waved the young man silent. “When the president of Yale lauds a backwoods lawyer without formal education,” he said, “it’s time to lock up the silver.” The words entirely lacked the President’s usual jocular tone. His voice was frigid. Jonathan remembered too late how much Lincoln hated flattery. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Hilliman.”

“It is my pleasure, sir.”

“Well, I imagine that it is your duty. I could even believe that doing your duty might give you some pleasure. But if you are like the other young men of my experience, doing your duty at this time of evening is not terribly high on your list of pleasures.” His stony expression did not invite response. “Let me explain exactly why you are here. I assume that Dennard told you that I am inclined to do a little more horse-trading.”

“He did, sir.”

“Good.” Sometimes Lincoln’s eyes could be so sleepy you thought you had lost him; other times, they hunted like a predator’s. This evening he looked predatory. “I want to ask you a favor, Mr. Hilliman. A presidential favor.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I assume that you know who August Belmont is.”

“The head of the Democratic Party in the North,” Jonathan said
promptly. Then, seeing from Lincoln’s face that more was expected, he added, “He is very rich.”

“Among other things.” A thin-lipped smile, somewhere between mocking and disapproving. On a side table was a plate with an apple, the President’s dinner. He had taken only a single bite. “I would have assumed that the Hillimans and the Belmonts traveled in much the same circles.”

“Not really, sir. I mean—that is—well, we’ve never actually met,” Jonathan concluded, feeling silly.

“Well, you’re going to meet him soon,” said the President, mysteriously. “Mr. Belmont doesn’t think much of me. He doesn’t think much of the Republican Party. He supported the war, which naturally endears him to me, but not so much that I am unaware of the sort of comments he makes about me every time he opens his mouth. And he opens his mouth a lot.” The hard face softened suddenly, and the President gave a small chuckle. “Matter of fact, he sort of reminds me of the two brothers who went hunting one day. The younger brother started firing, over and over again, and the older brother asked what he was shooting at. The younger boy said he was sure he saw a squirrel, and pulled the trigger again. His brother knew there was nothing there, so he took a look at the younger brother’s eye. Sure enough, there was a big louse in there, crawling around. He imagined he saw squirrels everywhere, when he had nothing but lice.” Lincoln sighed. “That is our Mr. Belmont. He sees squirrels every time he looks my way, and he fires off a round or two.”

Jonathan this time had the wit to stay silent.

“I have never understood the ways of the rich,” said the President. A sudden smile. “But I’ll tell you. Early on in the war, a group of wealthy New Yorkers came down to see me. They were introduced as being worth, together, more than one hundred millions of dollars. I myself cannot conceive of such a sum, although I am told the war cost the nation that very sum every month—and that was just the share of the North! What the South, with its smaller resources, must have gone through, and all to defend a system of production that was doomed in any case!” With a shake of his head, Lincoln returned to his tale. “Anyway, these rich men came to see me. They were worried that a rebel gunboat might steam into New York Harbor and sink all the ships that carry the goods that make rich men rich. And so they asked me to assign a Union gunboat to protect New York. I explained to them that I had no
boats to spare. But I also pointed out that, if they were really worth one hundred millions, and they were so worried about protecting the city, they could easily arrange to buy a gunboat, and give it to the government, and I would be more than happy to send the sailors to man it and guard the harbor!”

By this time the President was gasping with laughter at his own story; and so was Jonathan, not out of politeness, but because Lincoln had a talent for delivering even the blandest of his tales in a way that drew you in so completely that laughter was your only way out.

“They left, of course,” said the President, still smiling. “They never bought a gunboat, and they never again complained about their undefended harbor. The ways of the rich.” He shook his head. “A very strange breed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan when it became plain that Lincoln was waiting for a response.

“And Mr. Belmont, they say, is pretty nearly the richest of them all.”

“So I understand, sir.”

“That should make him, I suppose, very nearly the strangest of them all.”