The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (30 page)

BOOK: The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln
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Again Abigail dropped her gaze. “Mrs. McShane, I apologize. I am not here to add to your pain—”

“Then tell me why you are here, Miss Canner.”

“Ma’am?”

“You didn’t come to bring the parcel.” Slapping it. “Any messenger could have done that. And although I appreciate your condolences, I don’t think the desire to pay your respects was quite enough. No. You want something, Miss Canner. Now, suppose you tell me what it is.”

In another age, Abigail decided, it was Virginia McShane who would likely have been the lawyer in her family; and, given her gift for reading people, probably quite a good one.

“Ma’am, I did come to pay my respects. And I am truly sorry that I was not able to attend the funeral—”

“That was just Rufus Dennard worrying too much.” She laughed; and drained the cup. “He believes women to be fragile.”

“Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Dennard is also the reason I am here. He has mentioned, twice now, that your husband was pursuing an unusual idea about what is going on.” She straightened. “Ma’am, you were not in the least surprised when I spoke of a conspiracy. I think your husband
suspected one. I would like to know, if I could, just what he thought was going on.”

“And you think I would know?”

“I do.”

She waited.

“Yes,” Mrs. McShane finally said. “Yes, Arthur did have a few silly ideas. He didn’t share many of them with me. He knew that I was not enamored of Mr. Lincoln, and that I had doubts about whether the firm should be involved in the impeachment at all.” She was gazing out at the bare winter trees. “Perhaps I wanted the impeachment to succeed. Perhaps I still do.” Her attention shifted back to Abigail. “Arthur did indeed believe that there was a conspiracy. Not to assassinate him, but to put him out of the way by legal means. That was Arthur’s phrase. ‘Put him out of the way by legal means.’ He did not know who it involved, but he doubted that the Radicals were part of it. Do you know what he used to say? ‘Good men and evil men often have different motives for the same mischief.’ ” She took up the teacup again, forgetting that it was no longer warm. “He thought that the conspiracy reached the heights of the President’s closest friends and advisers. I told him that was silly, that Mr. Lincoln, whatever his failings, was far too shrewd. But that was what Arthur said. And one more thing.” She gave Abigail a long look. “He said he wished Mrs. Lincoln had not died. If she were here to explain herself, he said, the worst would be behind us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But that was what he said.”

“Did he say whether—”

“He said nothing more.” Mrs. McShane nibbled on a slice of toast, then rang the bell. The maid appeared at once, followed by Mrs. Huntley. Abigail and Virginia McShane both stood. “Miss Canner is leaving. I do not believe she will visit us again, will she?”

“No, ma’am,” said Abigail after a moment.

“Good.” She handed the Chanticleer parcel back. “You may take this.”

“I couldn’t, ma’am. It’s yours.”

“I have no need of it, dear. But I fear you do.”

She would say no more.

V

Heading back to the office with Mr. Little, Abigail reviewed the little she knew about the last years of Mrs. Lincoln’s life. After the assassination attempt on her husband, she had quit Washington, returning to Springfield with Tad, the youngest Lincoln son. She had been ill, Abigail remembered. There were stories that she was in and out of hospital. Her husband had visited often, and some had expected him to resign his office to care for her. Then she drowned—

If she were here to explain herself, the worst would be behind us
.

One of McShane’s silly notions, as Dennard thought? Or the key to the conspiracy he had died believing in?

That night, Abigail took the Chanticleer parcel home with her, opened all the folders, and began to read.

CHAPTER 23

Interruption

I


YOU ARE LATE,
” said Abigail, and it was true: usually Jonathan was at the office by eight-thirty, but on Wednesday morning, five days before the trial, he arrived closer to ten, looking haggard. Pudgy Rellman sat across from her, and followed him with those froggy eyes; Rellman, who never said a word himself, but doubtless repeated to James Speed every word spoken in his presence.

Little took Jonathan’s coat and scarf. The young man yawned as he moved toward the table. “Where is Mr. Sickles?” he asked, without preamble.

Abigail was surprised. No banter. No teasing. He was as serious as she had ever seen him. He had arrived from the North yesterday morning, gone at once to the White House, then returned to the office and spent the rest of the day closeted with Dennard. She knew he had been out with Bessie Hale last night, and refused absolutely to speculate on what relationship that fact might have to his exhaustion. Abigail herself had been at the office since eight, trying to complete her research on leaders all through history who had been threatened with overthrow by their legislatures: Dennard said their arguments were rather abstract and needed a bit of color. It was a fair day at last, the sparkling sunshine bringing brightness if not warmth.

“I do not believe that Mr. Sickles has returned.”

“Returned from where?”

“He said he was going to visit Grant. I suspect that he may be making
other stops as well.” The blankness in Jonathan’s eyes worried her: what had happened in Philadelphia? “Mr. Speed and Mr. Dennard are on Capitol Hill.” She waited a beat, then gave him the rest. “You were supposed to go with them, Mr. Hilliman. They waited as long as they could. Mr. Dennard was quite cross. They are working out the final rules of procedure for the trial.”

“If there is a trial,” said Jonathan. “I believe that matters may follow an unexpected path.”

“What do you mean?” asked Abigail. “Why are you being so cryptic?”

He glanced at Rellman, whose flabby face said he had known all along that Jonathan was unreliable. “I am not being cryptic at all.” He went to the peg, took down the coat that Little had just hung. “I had better get up to the Hill,” he said, and went out.

Abigail could not help herself. If Rellman was going to tell stories, then he would tell stories. She hurried into the hall, calling Jonathan’s name, and caught him at the top of the stair.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What happened?”

The shadows beneath his eyes told her that he had slept poorly, if at all. When he spoke, his voice was toneless. “Remember what Stanton said? About the letter that supposedly doesn’t exist? The one that will convict Mr. Lincoln? Well, Miss Hale says they have one. She says it was given them by one of the President’s close associates. A written order instructing a general to ignore congressional statutes.”

“Do you know who the general is?” she asked, not unreasonably. “Will he be testifying in person?”

“I don’t know. Bessie—Miss Hale—doesn’t know.”

“What is her source?”

“She is not in a position to say.”

Abigail tapped a long finger against her chin. “That means her father, I suspect. Mr. Bannerman says his loyalties are unclear.”

“Mr. Bannerman? Do you mean Fielding?”

“We met at the Eameses’.”

Jonathan was hardly listening. “I wish Sickles were here. Dennard thinks only of legal argument, and Speed is a fool.” He was inching toward the stair. “And both of them would dismiss the tale as rumor. Dan Sickles understands politics. More important, he understands Washington. He will know what to do.”

What Abigail said next, she said kindly. “You know, Jonathan, we have to consider the possibility that there is no letter.” He stopped in
mid-stride. “Miss Hale may be scattering these breadcrumbs to keep you, as it were, on her trail.”

Jonathan opened his mouth, shut it again. “I suppose that is possible. Still, when she speaks of it, she is very persuasive.” He realized how he must sound. “Perhaps you are right. But we cannot afford to assume that the letter is chimerical. We must plan for the possibility that it has turned up.”

II

Dan Sickles arrived late in the afternoon. Rellman had disappeared, so Abigail was holding the fort. Sickles listened to her repetition of Jonathan’s tale, and told her not to worry about it. “But if there is a letter—”

“If there is, there is. No point in worrying about what you can’t change.”

He lounged on the settee with his bad leg up and hummed a couple of popular tunes, beating time with his walking stick. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

“Mr. Sickles,” she finally said, “I am trying to work.”

He nodded. “The sheer power of my presence is often distracting.” He sat straighter. “I saw Grant. I saw a few more people, too. I think everything is going to work out.”

“And by everything, you mean …?”

“Never mind. Let’s just say we have a few surprises of our own now.” He turned toward McShane’s office. “The materials from Chanticleer still in there?”

Abigail swallowed. “No.”

“Dennard sent everything on to Mrs. McShane, right?”

“Yes. Only Mrs. McShane would not accept the package. She gave it back. She said that we needed it.”

“If she gave it back, and it’s not in the office, then I assume you took it home with you.” She nodded. “Good,” said Sickles. He rubbed his hands together. “Have you been through it?”

“Please don’t tell Mr. Dennard,” she said, coloring. “But, yes. I have been through the package. There were four other folders of materials from Chanticleer. I have been through those, too. I’m still not sure what it all means.”

“What’s in the folders?”

“Nothing that seems important,” Abigail confessed. “A statement of ownership of a steelworks in Pennsylvania. Additional papers concerning the railroad dispute in South Carolina. A contract for shipping cotton. A few other matters. I fear that Mr. Dennard may be right. These materials may be unrelated to the trial.”

“I am quite sure Dennard is wrong. Go back and study those papers. There is something there.” He shut his eyes briefly. “I won’t tell Dennard you kept the package. You won’t tell him, either.” He shut his eyes briefly. “Speed is going to stay up at the Capitol negotiating the rules of the trial. Dennard and I are going over to Congressman Garfield’s to see if we can’t work out a compromise. Hilliman will take notes. You get the night off.” Even with his eyes closed, Sickles sensed her stiffening. “Fine. It’s not fair. But our only goal in this thing is to help our client.” He laughed. “It’s all a waste of time anyway. We’ll negotiate into the night, but it will never come to anything. Mr. Lincoln can’t back down. Neither can the other side.” His voice grew fainter. “Know something? That’s how the Civil War started.”

III

That night, Abigail attended the theater with the persistent Fielding Bannerman, who not only refused to consider allowing her to find her own transport, but brought along a lovely bouquet for Nanny Pork. He was charming and courteous, and regaled Abigail with stories of his many absurd relatives, including a particularly eccentric uncle who had decided to invest his entire fortune to try to find a method of transmitting telegraph signals through the air without wires, which every scientist knew to be impossible. Said Fielding.

The show was a comedy revue. Parts were satirical; parts were risqué, and Fielding’s whispered asides were even more so. At the intermission, she was spotted by Crete Garfield, who bustled over, pretending to be delighted, and dropped broad hints about the vital negotiations going on even now at her home: she had been sent out for the evening while the men did the work.

“I suppose you are suffering the same tragic fate, Miss Canner.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Your fellow clerk, Mr. Hilliman, is even now closeted with the others,
working on the details of a compromise. Whereas you”—eyeing Fielding—“have plenty of time for fun.”

Abigail was word-struck. A bell signaled the second act, and Fielding took her by the arm, but by that time General Lafayette Baker was at her side, wondering whether he might have a word.

IV

“I understand you dropped in on the widow McShane the other day,” said the head of the federal Secret Service. “I understand you upset her tremendously.”

They were in a small, airless room, stuffed full of programs and props, the chamber of the theater manager. Abigail had told Fielding to go back in, that she would join him presently, but he was waiting loyally in the lobby.

“I went to pay my respects,” said Abigail.

“But that wasn’t the only reason, was it?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Don’t fence with me, Miss Canner. We haven’t the time. Mrs. McShane says that you suspect a conspiracy, and that you think the police have the facts of Mr. McShane’s murder all wrong.”

“That is what I told her.”

The little office was very hot, and Abigail found herself perspiring. Out in the theater proper, the audience was laughing hard, so Abigail supposed the second act must be a good deal funnier than the first.

“Mrs. McShane says she told you that she has accepted the conclusions of the police, and that you should, too. She said you refused. She said you made insinuations that the conspiracy included some of the most powerful people in Washington City. Is this correct?”

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