Lincoln

by Gore Vidal

  Chase could not believe that he had heard the President correctly. “I am to make out these money orders without any security from three gentlemen who are unknown to me?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Chase. They are also, personally, unknown to me, too. Anyway, I have authorized these gentlemen to buy whatever is needed to supply the troops that have arrived and are arriving. They will submit their accounts to you at regular intervals, and they themselves will receive no compensation.”

  “But this is highly irregular, Mr. President …” Chase began.

  “That’s why this suits so eminently the times, Mr. Chase.”

  “But only Congress can authorize this sort of expenditure.”

  “Congress won’t be back for nearly three months. Would you have me do nothing until then to defend the city?”

  “No, sir. But …”

  “Gentlemen.” Lincoln interrupted Chase with a wave of his long-fingered hand. “I would like a unanimous vote as to this emergency appropriation.”

  “You will have it, I am sure,” said Seward, finding this sudden bold assault on the Treasury singularly unlike Lincoln’s usual tentative and vacillating style. Plainly, the thought of losing the city of Washington to the rebels had concentrated marvelously that curious mind.

  Lincoln asked each Cabinet member, in turn, if he favored the appropriation, and each said that he did, including Chase, who was not happy but saw no alternative. Once the vote was taken, Lincoln sat back in his chair. “I have arranged to get these orders to New York City in a somewhat roundabout way, since neither trains nor ships are to be trusted for the moment. As for our military situation here, it has its perilous side.”

  Hay was impressed by Lincoln’s air of serenity, in such marked contrast to the previous night when Hay, at midnight, had passed by the door to the President’s room, where Lamon always sat on guard, and heard the most terrible sighs and moaning. When Hay had asked Lamon if the President was ill, Lamon had said, “No, he is only dreaming. God knows what.”

  But now the President was awake. “General Scott, what did you tell me it would take for the rebels to seize Fort Washington downriver?”

  “I said, sir, that it would take no more than a bottle of whiskey.”

  Lincoln smiled. “I was struck by the image. Let us hope we will not be struck by the enemy’s bottle just yet. We have the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment quartered in the Senate. We have the Pennsylvanians in the House. General Scott feels that we have enough men to defend the Capitol and the public buildings in case of a major assault. Is that true, General?”

  Hay noted, as always, the lawyerlike way that Lincoln deliberately committed others to specific courses. On the great issues, he insisted that each Cabinet minister write out his views or speak openly to the record or cast a yes or no vote. He was not about to let anyone off his singularly sharp and precise hook, or as he had remarked to his secretaries, “When things go wrong, people like to say they told me so. Well, I like to have the proof—in their own words—that they didn’t.”

  General Scott rumbled a moment; then spoke. “This is what we know for certain about the enemy. Four miles below Mount Vernon, some two thousand troops are building a battery on the Potomac, in order to control the river at this narrow point. About the same number of men are on both sides of the river, ready to attack Fort Washington. This morning, special cars went up to Harper’s Ferry to bring down another two thousand men for a general attack on the city. They could put as many as ten thousand of their men in the field. For now, we can hold them off with the troops we have. For later, we can take Richmond with the troops that are supposed to be on their way.”

  “Through Baltimore.” Lincoln shut his eyes. “What shall we do about Baltimore? What shall we do about Maryland?”

  As the ranking Cabinet officer, Seward felt obliged to express his outrage at the mob’s attack on the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment as they marched across the city from one depot to another. “I would put a Federal garrison in the city,” said Seward firmly. “And keep order.”

  “Well, so would I, Mr. Seward.” Lincoln was mild. “But, at the moment, we don’t have much of anybody to put there. Meanwhile, the mob has taken over and Governor Hicks, who’s usually well disposed toward us, shows signs of succumbing to the local fever.”

  “Mr. President, we must, at all costs, keep Maryland from seceding.” Chase was as stern as Seward.

  “Well, if I had an army and a navy, I would certainly do it. But I don’t. I will have those things. But I don’t have them now.”

  Montgomery Blair spoke up. “I am a Marylander. And I know there’s enough good sense in the state to keep the secessionists at bay …”

  While Blair was speaking, a naval officer entered the room and gave Lincoln a note; then he gave Gideon Welles a second note; then he withdrew. Lincoln glanced at his note; and motioned for Blair to continue. “The main problem is the Baltimore mob, the plug-uglies, as they’re so nicely called. They are able to tie up the city, which is the only direct railway link we have to the North, and they are also able to tie up the mayor, Mr. Brown, who is, I gather, in town, ready to explain just how he happened to let our troops be attacked the day before yesterday. I echo the idea of a garrison in Baltimore as soon as possible. I would also do everything to keep Governor Hicks from summoning the state legislature, which now has a majority in favor of secession.”

  “Well, we all agree, more or less, on the what. It’s the how that’s a puzzle.” Lincoln looked down the table at the Secretary of the Navy. “All right, Father Welles, if you tell me what was in that note to you, I’ll tell you what was in the note to me.”

  Gideon Welles adjusted his splendid wig to a martial angle. “Sir, the commandant of the Navy Yard here in Washington has sent me his resignation. He has been kind enough to inform me that he and most of his staff will be going South, as will the commanding officer of the battery of artillery, which is our chief defense on the Potomac side.”

  Lincoln winced. The appearance of serenity was beginning to fray. “Three days ago, that artillery commander came to me and swore his loyalty to the Union. And I believed him; and left him in command. Well, good as your news was, Father Neptune, my news is far and away the best of all. Gentlemen, our friends in Baltimore have torn down the iron bridge on the Northern Central Railway. There will be no more trains from the North. We are completely cut off by land.”

  The silence in the room was broken only by the heavy irregular breathing of General Scott. Lincoln rubbed the back of his hand across his face; as though, thought Hay, to blot out this world once and for all. Then the President was on his feet.

  “We are to keep all this to ourselves—as best we can,” added Lincoln wryly. “One of our principal problems at this exact moment is the matter of trust. The bureaus of the government are filled with rebels, who are now beginning to leave for home, for which we give thanks. But there are all sorts of sympathizers that mean to stay on. We must be on our guard against them. They will do everything possible to bring the enemy within the gates.”

  Lincoln motioned for Nicolay and Hay to accompany him back to the Mansion. As the three men passed in front of the glass conservatories, a crowd of geese blocked their way. “I think these geese are some sort of omen,” said Lincoln.

  “Perhaps …” Nicolay began, but Lincoln silenced him with a gesture.

  “Perhaps it’s better that we do no interpreting. We’re in enough of a fix.”

  OLD EDWARD greeted the President with the news that Mayor Brown of Baltimore, with a delegation of the city’s leading citizens, was waiting for him in the Blue Room. Meanwhile, in the East Room, the Kentucky volunteers were cooking their dinner in the fireplaces, and singing sad songs.

  Without a word, Lincoln crossed to the Blue Room, followed by Hay and his notebook. Nicolay returned to the second floor. At Lincoln’s approach Mayor Brown, a small, deep-voiced man, rose and came forward, hand solemnly outstretched. Hay was astonished to see that of th
e seven or eight Baltimore worthies, three remained seated. As Lincoln and Brown shook hands, Hay said, in a loud voice, the ceremonial phrase: “Gentlemen, the President.”

  Reluctantly, the three got to their feet; and each shook, some more reluctantly than others, the President’s hand. Lincoln then indicated that they be seated, while he remained standing, hands behind his back, a gentle smile on his lips, always a sign that he was angry, as Hay now knew; and the rest of the world did not.

  “I’m glad you could accept my invitation, Mr. Brown. And that your friends, also, could come. Naturally, I was much distressed by Friday’s attack on our troops. I had hoped that this would not happen …”

  “Sir, as you know,” Brown’s voice boomed in the room, “I have warned you repeatedly that feeling is very high among our people and that they regard your proclamation of April 15 as a declaration of war on the whole South, which naturally includes Maryland.”

  “Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown,” Lincoln was placating, “I am not a learned man. When I write in haste, as I did that proclamation, I may not always express my exact meaning.” Hay almost burst out laughing. If ever a man understood the nuance of every written or spoken word and phrase, it was Lincoln. But, for his own reasons, the President was now playing the bumpkin that these men had all read about in the newspapers.

  “In any case, Mr. Lincoln, whatever the exact intention of your call for seventy-five thousand troops, you can imagine what our high-spirited citizens felt when they first heard that northern troops were only fourteen miles from the city, at Cockeysville.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Brown, and if I could have recalled them then, I would have done so. But they were on their way here not to make war on the South but to defend this city from an attack, which could come any day.”

  Hay noticed that a number of the men looked very pleased at this information. But Lincoln pretended not to notice. Instead, he apologized, almost humbly, for the trouble to which the mayor had been put and he promised that, in future, troops would go around Baltimore on their way to the capital.

  “Could you put that in writing, sir?” asked Brown.

  “Why, yes.” Lincoln motioned to Hay who gave him pen and paper. Then Lincoln sat at a round table and began to write. Smiling, he said, “Now if I grant you this concession, that no troops shall pass through the city, you will probably be back here tomorrow saying that none shall be marched around it.”

  “The Maryland legislature will determine that in good time, sir.”

  Lincoln signed his name; and gave the letter to the mayor. “By the way, I understand that the railroad bridge is down …”

  “Yes, sir. Governor Hicks and I both agreed that it should be so disabled that no trains with troops can ever again come through Baltimore to Washington. After what happened Friday, I cannot hope to protect northern troops from our people’s—”

  “High spirits,” supplied Lincoln, with an attempt at lightness.

  “Fury is more like it, sir. We are a slave-holding state, much connected with our neighbors in Virginia.”

  “You are a border-state, yes.” Thus Lincoln continued to do his best to ease the mood until, in due course, the delegation departed.

  After a brief visit to the Kentuckians in the East Room, Lincoln went to his office. Hay had never seen the Tycoon quite so absorbed in whatever it was that he was thinking. Thanks to the war scare, the waiting room was empty; and only the other Edward was to be seen at his desk behind the balustrade. As Lincoln entered his office, he said, “Johnny, get me a map of Maryland.”

  Hay went into Nicolay’s office, where the maps were kept. Nicolay was busy writing letters for the President to sign. In the first days of the Administration, Lincoln had insisted on reading, carefully, everything that he signed. Now he read very little of what he signed. He was satisfied that if Nicolay or Hay had written the document in question, it would conform with government policy. Needless to say, Seward had already tried to take advantage of Lincoln; but caught once in the act, he had not tried again.

  Map in hand, Hay entered the President’s office. Lincoln was standing at the window, peering through a telescope at the Virginia side of the Potomac where a Confederate flag could be seen flying over Alexandria. “You know, John, if I were Mr. Beauregard or Mr. Lee or whoever’s over there, I’d attack right now.”

  “Don’t you believe General Scott, sir? That he could protect the city?”

  “No, I don’t.” Lincoln put down the telescope. “But lucky for us, they aren’t any readier to attack than we are to defend. Put the map on the easel.” Lincoln’s finger touched a point to the south and west of Baltimore, to the north and west of Annapolis. “We can always bring the troops by water to Annapolis Junction. That way we can avoid Baltimore altogether. It will take longer but …” Lincoln stared at the map.

  “What happens if Maryland secedes?”

  “Well, we just won’t let them. That’s all.”

  “If Governor Hicks calls the legislature into session, they’ll vote to secede.”

  “Governor Hicks has held the fort for us so far.” Lincoln frowned. “But I must say, it was a sort of shock to hear that he went along with tearing up those railroad bridges. If he did, of course. I don’t trust Mr. Brown. Let’s send the governor a telegram. Say: The President would like to know …”

  “Sir, there is no telegraph. Remember?”

  Lincoln sat at his desk; and rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Hay noticed that the lid of the left eye was now almost shut. “Well,” he said, turning once more to the window and the irresistible to him pale blue-green hills of Virginia, “those rebels did swear that they’d have this city by the first of May. Nine days to go.”

  “If they should come, what is your plan, sir?”

  “My plan, Johnny, is to have no plan. Particularly, when I don’t have much of anything to plan with.” Lincoln paused. “How quiet it is,” he said.

  Both were still a moment. Except for the stirrings of the militia camped out in the East Room, all the usual sounds of the city had stopped. There was no sound of traffic. If the horsecars were running, their bells were silenced. Hay found it hard to believe that he was in the office of a bona-fide president of the United States at the capital of the country, and they were entirely cut off from the outside world. Worse, on every side of the ten-square-mile rectangle known as the District of Columbia, enemy states were preparing for an attack.

  Nicolay entered to announce: “General Scott’s outside, sir. He can’t walk up the steps but he wonders if you’d come down.”

  General Scott was seated in the back of his barouche, gold epaulets gleaming in the sun, face gleaming, too—like an eggplant, thought Hay.

  “Sir, forgive me for not rising. But I am in some pain.”

  “That’s all right.” Lincoln leaned against the carriage door, rather the way a farmer would lean on a fence to chat with a neighbor on a Sunday evening. “What’s the bad news now?”

  “One of our couriers just got through from Maryland, from Annapolis. I came straight here to tell you. The Eighth Massachusetts Regiment under General Benjamin Butler is aboard the ferryboat Maryland. They are anchored in the city’s harbor.”

  Lincoln whistled. “How did he get to be aboard a ferryboat? Butler was to come by train, or on foot.”

  “When General Butler heard what happened Friday in Baltimore, he figured that the rebels would cut the railroad line, so he commandeered a ferryboat at Havre de Grace and came down the Chesapeake. He has now told Governor Hicks that he means to disembark in Annapolis.”

  “I must say I like General Butler’s enterprise.” Lincoln’s cocked eyebrow revealed his sense of the oddness of the situation. “Butler of all people! A rabid Democrat, who supported Mr. Breckinridge in the election.”

  “I do not keep track of those things, sir,” said General Scott, austerely. “Thus far, our intelligence suggests that he is a highly resourceful commander. Thanks to his example, the New York Sevent
h and the Rhode Island First regiments are also approaching Annapolis, by way of the Chesapeake.”

  “I was beginning to think that I had dreamed the North. That Rhode Island and New York were just names.” With a creaking sound, Lincoln stretched his long arms until he looked like a scarecrow. “What’s the condition of the railway out of Annapolis?”

  “Twenty miles of track have been torn up.”

  “Do you think the rails have been destroyed?”

  “I would be very surprised, sir, if they had been. I think once General Butler is ashore he’ll be able to persuade the rebels to restore the track to what it was. But that will take time. Meanwhile, I’ve sent him word that the main body of his men are to march overland from Annapolis to Washington. The rest will remain in Annapolis and regain the Naval Academy, which is now in enemy hands.”

  “If General Butler can land his troops without incident, there is still a militia in Maryland that is hostile to us.”

  “I don’t think, sir, they will be a match for him. He is very much in charge. I am told that he was elected brigadier-general by his own men. Then the Republican governor of Massachusetts was obliged to confirm him in that rank.”

  Lincoln nodded, more in bemusement than agreement. “You say the Naval Academy has been occupied?”

  “Yes, sir. But their troops are few; and their governor fears us even more than he does his own rebel elements.”

  “There is still no telegraph?”

  “None to the north, sir. We have some communications, for what it’s worth, with the south. Anyway, in the absence of the telegraph or of any postal service to or from the city, our only connections with the rest of the world are my outriders.”

  “I guess you are all the eyes and ears I’ve got left, General. When do you think Butler’s men will arrive?”

  “No later than Tuesday, sir.”

  The General-in-Chief then saluted the Commander-in-Chief, and the carriage pulled, slowly, away from the portico, as if the horses were having trouble with Scott’s deadweight. Lincoln stood a moment, staring at the back of General Scott’s neck. As usual, Hay wondered what the President was thinking; as usual, he did not have the slightest clue. They turned back to the Mansion. Willie and Tad intercepted them at the portico; each was riding, piggyback, a Kentucky volunteer. At the sight of the President, the two tall young men put down the two small boys.