The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (54 page)

Chase tapped his chin, then nodded. “So ordered.”

A much more detailed version of the argument would be published in the
Congressional Globe
, creating on the printed page the impression that the entire chamber had sat rapt as counsel extemporized. In reality, as Sickles never tired of pointing out, hardly anybody even listened to the short versions of House and Senate speeches, so nobody was likely to read the long ones—although he supposed that scholars years hence might mistake them for arguments actually made on this bill or that one. “As for me,” he liked to say, “when I was in Congress, I don’t think I opened the
Globe
once.”

Now, with Stevens silenced, Chase determined once more to move on. He glanced at Dennard.

“Does counsel for respondent wish to be heard?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Chase puffed out a lot of air. Plainly, he had been hoping for a different answer. “Very well. Counsel for the respondent will be heard. But be brief.”

“May it please the Court, I can state our position in two sentences. It is the Managers who have put the President’s state of mind into issue. Surely, then, it matters that he believed the statute unconstitutional.”

“So noted. He believed it. I am sure the Managers will accept that.” Fully in charge once more, Chase did not wait for the prosecution to say whether he was right. “As to the rest, we will file the argument and we will move on. Now sit.”

Stevens sought recognition. Chase ignored him. “Fifteen-minute recess,” he declared, and left the bench in a temper.

II

“I have not had the opportunity to talk to you,” whispered Kate, as Margaret, standing nearby, held court with several other Washington ladies. “About poor Mr. Blaine, I mean. That was horrible.”

“Horrible,” Abigail agreed, wondering why Mrs. Sprague chose this moment to bring it up.

“But, once again, the police seem to be making no progress.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

Kate leaned closer. “There is a rumor, dear, that
you
have been looking into what happened to poor Mr. McShane.”

Abigail stiffened. “I was, briefly. I am no longer. I am busy with trial.”

“So, you would have no interest in information about Blaine?”

“None whatever.”

“Then there would be no point in my telling you,” murmured Kate with that tiny smile, “that he was often in the company of a certain young lady about whom we spoke when you and I were last at table.”

And she leaned away again, striking up a conversation with the woman sitting to her left.

III

Following the recess, the Managers called Eliza Caffey, the housekeeper for the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, a popular Abolitionist preacher in New York and, when it suited him, one of the Lincoln’s leading supporters. The President’s lawyers had noticed her name on the witness
list, but had been unable to ascertain precisely what the prosecution expected her to say.

“If I might,” said Dennard, rising. “For what purpose is this witness offered?”

“Your Honor,” said Bingham, “Miss Caffey’s testimony will help to establish the President’s state of mind at the time of the events in question.”

“We object, Mr. Chief Justice. The President’s state of mind is not relevant to any of the offenses charged.”

Chase turned to Bingham.

“Mr. Chief Justice, Senators, counsel for the respondent has argued as recently as today that the offenses alleged in Counts Three and Four amount to differences in judgment. The Managers do not agree. But let us take counsel at their word. It is the position of the Managers that if indeed Mr. Lincoln did exercise poor judgment, the reason might have been his distress over the tragic death of Mrs. Lincoln. Perhaps, for a time, he lost his reason.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the rising tumult: gasps, cries, even curses. “We offer this witness, Your Honor, in order to establish this possibility.”

Chase managed, with difficulty, to restore order. The fury was written on his round, soft face: although which upset him more, Bingham’s proffer or the noisy affront to the dignity of the proceeding, was difficult to say. “Mr. Dennard,” he said.

Dennard was sharp. “Your Honor, the distinguished Manager could no doubt conjure any number of impressive legal arguments for the admissibility of the testimony. Nevertheless, the true motive is clear. Having failed utterly in their effort to establish that the President has committed any high crimes or misdemeanors, they now seek to blacken his reputation, in the hope of damaging him politically, and perhaps swaying the public, which is hostile to this proceeding, in their direction.”

Bingham flared. “I resent any implication that any of the Managers on the part of the House are motivated by any but the highest and—”

Chase waved him silent. “Counsel will have the opportunity for closing argument at the appropriate time. I am certain that the distinguished Manager does not intend what you have suggested, and I can assure you that the Court would never countenance such a thing. Unless there is objection from a Senator, it is the Court’s intention to allow the
testimony of this witness.” He adjusted his glasses, glared down at Bingham. “Nevertheless, I must warn you, sir. The Court will require you to stay within the bounds of your own argument for the admissibility of the evidence.”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

Bingham quickly established who Miss Caffey was, and by whom she was employed. He then asked her whether she had ever met the President.

The room waited. Everybody knew something important was happening, but nobody was sure quite what.

“Yes, sir,” she said, voice small and frightened. Her face was deathly pale. Her expression was that of a mouse toyed with by hunting cats.

“Please tell us how that came about.”

“Yes, sir.” Miss Caffey began to slump. She was so slight that if she slipped too far she might vanish from sight. “I met him when he came to the reverend. For counseling it was, sir, the way all of them do.”

“All of who?”

“The ones who come at night, sir. They come at night so nobody will know they needs counseling.”

“And when was this, that you met the President?”

October, she told them: this October just past. Late at night, after the master and the missus had retired. The bell rang, and Miss Caffey rose from her bed to answer. She opened the door, she said, and there was Mr. Lincoln, standing in the cold rain, wearing a black coat and a tall black hat.

“And there was a rig, like, sir, with a driver, waiting for him. Beautiful black horses they were, sir.”

“And when was this again?”

“This past October.”

Bingham consulted his note cards. “October of 1866.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Three months after Mr. Lincoln’s wife died.”

“After that. Yes, sir.”

“And do you happen to remember, Miss Caffey, exactly how Mrs. Lincoln died?”

Dennard bellowed his objection, and Chase at once admonished Bingham to limit himself to relevant testimony. Abigail paled nevertheless; the damage had been done by the reminder to the chamber, so that
everyone now recalled the rumors that Mary Todd Lincoln had been a suicide.

Bingham, meanwhile, continued in a gentle tone. “Very well, Miss Caffey. Let me be very sure that I am understanding you correctly. In October of 1866—this October just past—you saw the President at the door of Reverend Beecher’s house in Brooklyn.”

Again Dennard objected: the witness had testified only that she saw a man she thought was the President. Jonathan found the objection confusing. Chase was bound to overrule it, as he did: Dennard was free to challenge the identification on cross-examination.

But as the witness answered—yes, it was the President, she would know the face anywhere—Jonathan began to see the deeper wisdom of Dennard’s interruption. The mood had been broken. No longer was the audience sitting in the dreary wet darkness of an autumn night in Brooklyn, peering over the shoulder of the nervous housemaid as she opened the door on an eerie late-night visitor. Now everyone was in the Senate Chamber once more, reminded that this was only testimony, a tale told by a witness who was every bit as mortal and fallible as the lawyers arguing over her words.

Bingham, meanwhile, was asking whether Lincoln had ever been to visit Reverend Beecher before.

“Oh, yes, sir. Twice that I know of.”

“And of course he had attended Reverend Beecher’s church before his speech at the Cooper Institute in 1860.”

Dennard was on his feet. “Your Honor, may it please the court, counsel is testifying for the witness.”

The silky smile again. “I was about to ask my question, Your Honor.”

“Proceed, counsel.” Chase was frosty. He hated affronts to his dignity, and he had taken pains to ensure that his dignity was entirely bound up in the conduct of this trial.

Bingham turned to Miss Caffey. “Were you aware of the President’s visit to Reverend Beecher’s church?”

The young woman looked down at her shapeless dress. “Sir, that was before my time. I have heard talk of it—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained,” snapped Chase, his anger growing.

Bingham strolled back to the table. Another Manager handed him a card. Looking out at the chamber rather than at the witness, he said,
casually, “Would you please tell us once more the date of the President’s visit to Reverend Beecher’s residence?”

“In October.”

“Do you happen to recall when in October?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps we can sharpen your recollection.” Not looking up from his card; voice casual. “Was the visit, say, before or after the incident involving Mrs. Tilton?”

For a moment, nobody reacted. An instant later came bedlam: shouts in the chamber, cries from the gallery. Chase banged his gavel, but in vain. Sickles, lurching around on his one good leg, looked every inch a man ready to pull out a derringer and slay his wife’s lover. Senators were shaking their fists, several at each other.

Jonathan was astounded; and appalled.

The Managers, it turned out, had not invited Beecher’s housekeeper for anything as mundane as attempting to imply that a distraught President might have lost his mind after the death of his wife. No. They were trying to suggest that somehow the President had been involved with sexual scandal.

They would never say so directly. They could not prove it, nobody would believe it, and, in any event, direct association was not necessary. The goal was to shock the public out of its Lincoln-worship. To accomplish that goal, the Managers needed only to create an atmosphere in which citizens across the country, when they thought of the man in the White House, would be reminded, if involuntarily, that he had somehow been “involved”—there was the word—“involved” in perhaps the most embarrassing ménage-à-trois of the age. Mrs. Tilton was a lady of means, a freethinker, and an advocate of intimate relations outside of marriage. She had gone to Beecher for counseling because of difficulties she was having with her husband. Her husband arranged for the publication of newspaper articles accusing Beecher of taking intimate advantage of his wife.

No wonder everyone was shouting at once, ignoring the repeated pounding of the Chief Justice’s gavel.

Somehow Dennard managed to make his objection heard amidst the tumult. The sordid tale of Mrs. Tilton was irrelevant to these proceedings, and prejudicial as well—

Bingham insisted that he was only trying to fix the date more firmly
in the witness’s mind. He was fixing a good deal more than the date, and the mind of the witness was not the mind he sought to affect. Nevertheless, Chase said that the witness would be allowed to answer.

Again Bingham addressed the witness. “Was the President’s visit before or after the Tilton business?”

“Before, sir. That terrible newspaper article was later. November.”

Bingham turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, the Managers would like to introduce the article itself.”

Dennard bounded to his feet. “Your Honor, the article in question is the subject of judicial proceedings in New York City, to determine whether it was obscene, and whether Mrs. Woodhull should be jailed for distributing it. Nothing so tawdry should be made a part of the record of these proceedings.” He glanced at Bingham. “In addition, Your Honor, counsel for the respondent believe that the material is highly prejudicial, and would be admitted for no purpose other than to embarrass the respondent.”

Bingham opened his mouth, but Chase shook his head. His round face seemed to have aged five years in the past hour. “Objection sustained. The article will not be admitted. Nor will any further testimony regarding it.”

The witness seemed to think she was through, but before she could quite rise, Bingham turned her way once more. “Now, Miss Caffey. After you saw Mr. Lincoln at the door that night, what did you do?”

“Sir, I asked him his business. He said he was there to see the reverend.”

“What happened next?”

“Sir, I invited him in. I would not ordinarily have done that in the middle of the night, but for the President …”

Bingham smiled. “We understand. Pray continue.”

“Sir, I invited him to wait in the parlor. I went and woke Mrs. Beecher, and she went and woke the reverend. Mrs. Beecher told me to make our guest some tea, and that the reverend would be down in a moment.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Beecher who the visitor was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the reverend come downstairs?”

“Yes, sir. He came downstairs, and he and Mr. Lincoln went into the reverend’s study and closed the door.”

“How long was Mr. Lincoln in the house?”

“Sir, I would say about two hours.”

“Do you know what they talked about?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” said Bingham, “we tender the witness.”

Chase declared a thirty-minute recess before the cross.

IV

Abigail was troubled. She enjoyed Kate’s company, but was secretly a little frightened of her as well. The constant warnings about Mrs. Sprague’s motives from Sickles and Jonathan had left her on edge. Now Kate had raised once more the specter of Bessie Hale. What was she trying to say? That Bessie, before fleeing to Europe, had been
involved
with the prim, disapproving, and very married Blaine? Or was she hinting at something else? Because, if Kate meant to imply that Bessie had carried messages to Blaine, then she had knowledge of the conspiracy; and assumed that Abigail had knowledge, too; or perhaps Kate was trying to impart knowledge, hoping that Abigail would look into the possibility of involvement and discover the conspiracy in its stead.