by Gore Vidal
“No, sir.”
Lincoln stared at the ground as he walked. “On the other hand, we’re going to have our problems should we have to conscript men, which is what we’ll be obliged to do if General McDowell doesn’t get that army to Richmond pretty fast.”
“How many men will we need?”
“Three hundred thousand, says General Scott. That means every American man between eighteen and forty-five will have to have his name registered by his local sheriff. Then all the names will be written out on slips of paper and a blind man—or a man with a blindfold if the real thing’s not available—will start drawing the names.”
Hay had followed the Cabinet debates on the subject. There had been much speculation on what should be done to those men who refused to go. It was agreed that the local authorities could handle individuals who would prefer a long prison term to military service. But suppose, said Mr. Bates, that large numbers of men refused? There were a number of solutions to this problem, and the Tycoon seemed ready to choose what Hay thought was the worst. “I incline to letting any man who doesn’t want to serve pay a certain amount to a substitute who does want to go, or will go, at least …”
“Father!” Madam’s voice sounded as if from Heaven, and assisted by the treble voices of cherubim, all hailing, “Paw, Paw, Paw!”
Lincoln and Hay looked up. On the roof of the White House stood Madam, Willie, Tad and Lizzie Grimsley. Tad shouted, “Come on up, Paw, and see the war!” Lincoln waved noncommittally; and entered the White House.
Mary held a telescope in both hands, and she trained it on the distant low green hills behind where the guns still sounded at irregular intervals. Against the pale hazy morning sky, she could make out puffs of smoke like new cotton growing in a pale-blue field. From time to time, flashes of fire lit up the sky, stormless lightning to go with the stormless thunder.
“Let me look!” Tad grabbed for the telescope. Mary cuffed him hard. Tad howled.
“Serves you right.” Willie was, as always, a moralist. “Say ‘please.’ ”
“Shut up,” said Tad, and kicked his brother.
“Stop that!” Lizzie Grimsley grabbed each by an arm and separated them. “Imagine scuffling up here with no railing or anything. Oh, Mary! I think I have the vertigo.”
Mary gave the telescope to Lizzie. “We are certainly high up,” she agreed, looking across the black tar-covered roof, whose numerous fissures were filled with stagnant water from the last rain. “I have no fear of heights,” she said, with serene bravado.
“Well, I have no fear of thunderstorms.” Lizzie trained the telescope on Virginia.
“I do.” Mary shuddered. Since childhood, she had always known that she would one day—or worse, one night—be killed by a bolt of lightning. Even if she were in the basement of a large house, covered with an eiderdown beneath a four-poster bed, the lightning would find her. On the other hand, she had no fear at all of cannons or of gunfire, or of rebels.
The President appeared on the roof. “Mother, come on to breakfast.”
“What’s the news?” Mary tried to keep Tad from climbing his father like a tree; and failed. The black formal Sunday suit was now developing a set of new creases, as Tad took his place, triumphantly, on his father’s shoulders.
“We’ve begun our attack. That’s all I’ve heard.”
Lizzie gave Lincoln the telescope. With a practised gesture, he held it to his eyes and carefully swung it from left to right. “We can’t tell anything yet,” he said, putting down the telescope. He cocked one ear; and frowned. “We have stopped our covering fire. I wonder why?”
“Do we know any of the soldiers?” asked Willie. “You know, like poor Ellsworth.”
Lincoln and Mary exchanged a glance. “I can’t say that we do,” he said, finally. “Of course, there’s General McDowell. We all know him. And …”
“I mean boys,” said Willie, who had grasped, at the age of ten, the difference between that race of stout men with beards and gray in their hair and the others with hair all one color and fresh faces, narrow waists, who still liked to play games with ten-year-olds; and laugh.
“No.” Mary was stern. “We don’t know any of them.”
“What about the Southern boys? The ones from Kentucky?” Willie was persistent.
“Come on to breakfast.” Mary put her arm around Willie’s shoulders; they were now the same height.
“Willie wants to write another poem like the one about Ellsworth, who got killed!” Tad roared with laughter from high atop his father’s shoulders.
“Wait till you get down,” said Willie.
“Let’s all go down,” said Lincoln. “And get ourselves ready for church. It’s my favorite time of the week, as the convict said when they …”
“We know the story, Father.” Mary took his arm, aware that Lizzie was close to swooning as they walked in single file along the White House roof to the trapdoor where steep stairs led to the interior. “And speaking of your favorite time of the week, Lizzie and I were just discussing the Reverend Dr. James Smith …”
“Oh, no!” Lincoln groaned.
“Oh, yes!” Mary was the first to start down the steps. “He’s our favorite minister in Springfield.”
“Then we must keep him there.”
“But, Father, he’s Scotch.”
“All the more reason. He will preach against extravagancies, and the vanities of this world, and land speculation.” Mary’s head was now below the roof. But her voice was clear. “He must go to Dundee in Scotland. As our consul.”
“Yes, Brother Lincoln,” said the pale Lizzie, clutching at the trapdoor, while her foot searched for the step. “He is a perfect choice.”
“On a day like this, Cousin Lizzie, you corner me—your President—for a consulship?”
“It’s not the first time.” Mary’s voice came from far away. “But you always put us off.”
Lizzie was now inside. Willie followed. Then Lincoln, with Tad on his shoulders. “Well, first, you ladies must get me a certificate of good behavior for him. For all I know your Reverend Smith drinks, smokes and swears, and is a libertine.”
“What’s a libertine?” asked Tad, as his father descended the stairs.
“A libertine is a man who loves liberty only a little bit instead of a whole lot like us.”
The cannon-fire had ceased. The puffs of smoke had now been dispersed in the general haze of the high summer sky, at whose edge rain clouds had begun to mass.
Hay and Nicolay took advantage of the peace in the executive offices to answer mail, write letters for the President’s signature, file newspapers. Hay was aware that the preliminary signs of the ague had begun: heaviness in the eyes, which were unnaturally dry; a heaviness in the region of the liver; a heaviness of the skeleton itself, as if the bones longed to be freed of flesh. Sooner or later, everyone in the city suffered from Potomac fever, save the natives, who seemed inured from birth to their miasmic climate unlike most Southerners, who tended to be lifelong sufferers from the ague, as Madam was—and the Ancient not.
When either Hay or Nicolay came down with the fever, their common bed was left to the healthier one while the valetudinarian was obliged to sleep on a military cot, wrapped in sheets and blankets, shivering and sweating until the thing had run its course.
“It is my gay old delirium come back,” said Hay, as he held out an arm that had begun to shake of its own accord.
“The cot for you,” said Nicolay, without much sympathy, eyes on a mountain of correspondence. “The boy-governor is back in town.”
“The war is won.” Hay loosened his collar; and felt better. “What is to be done with him?”
“McDowell has let him go to Virginia, as an observer. Why is it everything of importance around here happens on a Sunday?”
“It is the Lord’s will, I suppose.” Hay took a long pair of scissors and began to cut from a Richmond newspaper a story about the convening of the Confederate Congress which had taken place, p
resumably, yesterday. “I also suppose that we will be hearing a lot from the preachers about the blasphemy of fighting a battle on a Sunday.”
“If we win, who will listen?”
“If we lose, who will care?”
ALTHOUGH Hay was in the first stage of the fever, he stayed on the job for the rest of the day and night. He accompanied the President to General Scott’s office, where the general received them on a bed that had been placed beneath the painting of the War of 1812. He apologized for not rising. Plainly, he had been sleeping off one of his enormous dinners. Lincoln dismissed the apology with a gesture. The soft thud of cannons was plainly audible everywhere in the city, and the bar at Willard’s was crowded, as the latest “news” was discussed while a crowd had gathered in front of the Treasury, hoping to coax—if coaxing was ever necessary—some oracular statement from Mr. Chase. There was no crowd at the White House, where irritable troops stood guard in front of the gates, and let no one through without a military pass. Hay had never seen the Mansion quite so tranquil.
“The guns seem close to us, General,” said Lincoln; and pointed, oddly, to the window, as though the battle was in the street. Although the battle was not, the noise of the battle was.
Scott listened a moment. Then shook his head. “The wind plays tricks, sir. Anyway, our artillery is in place, as is theirs. I cannot imagine that any artillery will now be moved, or if moved, set up again.”
Lincoln removed a number of telegrams from his hat. “This last dispatch from Fairfax Court House says that the rebels have fallen back.”
“Better than that, sir. At three o’clock, they were in retreat.”
“But that it is possible that they may be reinforced.” The left eyebrow went up. “How?” Hay was aware of the effort it took Lincoln to maintain his usual air of calm if melancholy authority.
“I don’t know what they could mean by that, sir. Where would the reinforcements come from? General Johnston has thirteen regiments near Harper’s Ferry. If he had moved, we would know. Never fear, sir. The day is ours.” The old man gave a great yawn; and requested a general pardon, which was granted. He was then allowed to go back to sleep.
“Jefferson Davis is on his way to Manassas by rail,” said Lincoln, more to himself than to Hay.
“How do you know this, sir?” Hay could now hear the chattering of his own teeth; he hoped the President could not.
“We have our spies, too.”
“Did their Congress meet yesterday?”
Lincoln was precise. “There was a meeting at Richmond. I guess just about any meeting can call itself a congress—a bringing together of people; in this case, rebels.”
At five o’clock, Nicolay insisted that Hay take to his bed but Hay was not about to miss a moment of what might be the decisive—even the terminal—day of the rebellion. Assured that all was well, the President and Madam went for a drive in the cool of the evening. Although there was no decisive word from McDowell, Hay had noticed that the guns were firing at less-frequent intervals. Could they have run out of shells? he wondered, beginning to feel a bit light in the head and unreal. But reality was restored at six o’clock when Seward appeared like a ghost at the door to Nicolay’s office. Seward’s normally pink face was sallow white, and the plumes of white hair were as dishevelled as Lincoln’s. He smelled, even more strongly than usual, of cigar smoke and after-dinner port. Nicolay and Hay sprang to their feet.
“Where is the President?” Seward made a curious gesture: he pressed the backs of his hands against the door frame, as if to keep from falling; but then the premier’s short legs in their flapping pantaloons always looked to Hay as if they were about to buckle. Nicolay said that the Lincolns had gone for a drive at five o’clock.
“Had he—have you any late news?”
Nicolay said, “No more than what we have heard since morning. The rebels have fallen back. We are winning …”
“Tell no one.” Seward’s voice was a harsh whisper. “But the battle is lost. It has just come in on the telegraph. McDowell is in full retreat, and he has just urged General Scott to do whatever he can to save the capital.”
“My God!” Nicolay stood, mouth working, as though trying to catch his breath. Hay wondered whether or not this might all be part of the delirium which did not set in, usually, until close to midnight.
Hay moved for the next few hours as in a fever dream, which indeed he was; yet he knew what was happening, and did what he had to do. On the authority of the Secretary of State, he sent word to each member of the Cabinet to come immediately to the Mansion. But in the end, one hour later, Cabinet and President met not in the Mansion but in General Scott’s quarters.
Lincoln had gone the color of old ashes when he was told of McDowell’s dispatch. But he had said nothing; and seemed grateful that Hay had not reported the bad news until Madam had gone into the White House. By now, guards or no guards, a considerable crowd had begun to gather in front of the Mansion. The word was spreading. Also, the long-threatened rain had begun, lightly, to fall.
In full uniform and fully shaved, Scott was enthroned beside the map of Virginia. Generals came and went like boy-messengers, while Mr. Cameron stared at the cracked ceiling, as if wondering to whom the contract should be given for its repair, and how much commission he should ask.
Hay now saw everything in, as it were, lightning flashes. The room filled up with the Cabinet. Pale Chase said, “We will have to evacuate the city.” No one listened to him. He repeated himself, more loudly. But all eyes were on Lincoln, who glared at the map as if the map held some secret.
Scott was stunned; and for all his bulk seemed fragile. “I could not believe it. Would not believe it if McDowell himself hadn’t sent word. Sir, at three o’clock, the rebels were in flight.”
“But then they were reinforced,” said Lincoln, almost casually, as if presenting some minor evidence to a jury of no particular consequence. “General Beauregard had twelve regiments in the field this morning. By afternoon, he had twenty-five. How do you think this happened?”
The lightning in Hay’s head illuminated for an instant Scott’s ancient face; saw the worms at work in it; saw the massive skull that soon earth would know. “The rebel General Johnston,” Scott wheezed, “who was at Harper’s Ferry, made rendezvous with Beauregard sometime last night.”
Lincoln turned to Scott. “Why did our General Patterson not stop him? Or at least tell us that Johnston had moved out?”
There was no answer from Scott. But the militant and military-minded Blair suddenly roared an oath, which caused Chase to shudder with revulsion, which inspired Lincoln to take command, as if Scott was no longer present.
“We shall want every soldier on duty in and around the city to be on the alert this night. The Long Bridge, Chain Bridge and the Aqueduct are to be heavily guarded at either end.”
“Yes, sir,” said Scott.
In the course of the meeting, Hay heard the Adjutant-General announce that the brother of the Secretary of War was among those killed. For an instant, Hay felt a certain compassion for this lord of corruption, who ceased his study of the ceiling and looked as if someone had flung snow in his face. Lincoln put his hand on Cameron’s shoulder; and said nothing.
Further dispatches were read aloud. At first, McDowell hoped to fall back and make a stand at Centerville; then he hoped to make a stand at Fairfax Court House; then he reported that the troops would not re-form, that they were in full flight to the Potomac. He had no idea whether or not the rebels would follow up their advantage, and seize the city.
As orders were given for the defense of Washington, Hay was experiencing a sense of extraordinary well-being, which was in no way disturbed when he heard Scott say to the Tycoon, “Sir, I am the greatest coward in America. I deserve removal because I did not stand up, when the army was not in condition to fight, and resist this campaign to the last.”
Lincoln turned on him, the left eyebrow raised; often, Hay knew, a sign of danger—to others. �
�Do you imply, General, that I forced you to fight this battle?”
“No president that I have served has ever been more kind to me,” said the old man, which was not, Hay knew, an answer.
There was no sleep for anyone that rainy night. Lincoln lay on a settee in his office and received a stream of visitors. A number of senators had gone out to watch the battle, along with a crowd of sightseers, including diplomats and society ladies, all eager to cheer the army on to Richmond. Picnic lunches had been catered by Gautier’s and the mood that morning had been most festive as hundreds of carriages had crossed the bridges to the Virginia side. Now the would-be celebrants were scurrying back in a state of panic.
One member of Congress, whose name Hay could not recall, declared, “I saw it all! We beat them hollow. There’s absolutely no doubt of that, Mr. President. They are beaten.”
“So,” said Lincoln, a harsh edge of mockery in his voice, “after we beat them, our soldiers ran all the way home?”
Senators Wade and Chandler and Grimes and Trumbull and Wilson each came to report. Their clothes were covered with dust; their faces dark with dust and sweat. Lincoln listened; and listened; and listened. “It is damn bad,” he said at one point, and Hay realized that this was the first time that he had ever heard the Ancient swear.
Meanwhile, Nicolay urged Hay to go to bed, but Hay would not, not yet. He compromised. “I’ll go over to Willard’s and see if there’s something to eat.” In the early stages of his ague, he was hungry; and could eat and drink enormous amounts. Later, the sight of food would make him ill.
As Hay crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, he was astonished to see, late and rainy as it was, that the entire avenue was filled with people. At the door to Willard’s, a Zouave—one of Ellsworth’s so-called blood-tubs—was enthralling a group with his account of the battle, while all up and down the avenue, Union officers rode toward the War Office to report, and the first cavalrymen could be seen, moving toward camp. The infantry would not appear for several hours.
