by Gore Vidal
“I wish you would. Because, left to himself, he’ll never move, except to run for president, which he is busy doing at this very moment.”
“Well, I think it’s actually typhoid fever that he is busy doing at the moment. But I must admit a lot of Democrats are getting in to see him, while I can’t.” Lincoln picked up the book which he had been reading. “Listen to this: ‘War is the realm of uncertainty: threequarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty. A sensitive and discriminating judgment is called for, a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth … and the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead.’ ”
“You have the courage, God knows. And the judgment,” said Mary.
Lincoln began, slowly, to munch the bread and honey. “I’ve also got that fog of uncertainty. And I’ve got a general that won’t see me.”
“McClellan won’t see you?” Mary was still angry over the snub that the general-in-chief had administered the President.
Lincoln shook his head. “Every time I stop by, they tell me he’s sleeping. I suppose I rile him too much.”
“Replace him!”
“With what?” Lincoln drank water from a brown-glazed cup.
“Anybody!”
“I can’t take just anybody. That’s the problem. I’ve got to have somebody.” Lincoln gave her a sidelong glance. “What’s wrong, Mother?”
“The Chevalier Wikoff has been arrested.” It was Mary’s usual policy with her husband to come straight to the point, except on money matters, where she simply lied as best she could.
“I know. Is he going to tell the committee that it was you who gave him the message?” Lincoln’s voice was calm and untroubled; and so all the more troubling for Mary.
“If he does, he will be lying!” Mary felt her cheeks grow warm.
“People do lie, Mother.” With a napkin Lincoln mopped a spot of honey from his desk.
“I thought he was my friend.” Mary was bleak.
“I’m sure he was. I’m sure he is. But he’s also Mr. Bennett’s man at the White House. We can never be too careful here.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m afraid I’m just as careless as you in these matters. I seem constitutionally unable to keep a secret. Anyway, I don’t think that Mr. Wikoff wants to harm you.”
“I can’t be harmed, Father. I don’t matter. But you can be harmed.”
Lincoln smiled. “Well, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I’m not about to lose a moment’s sleep over who’s been purloining my messages to Congress, which I tend to leave all around the house, anyway. But more important”—Lincoln picked up a sheaf of papers—“are these bills that keep coming in, and coming in. Major French says that you’ve spent nearly seven thousand dollars more than Congress gave us, all to buy flub-dubs for this damned old house!”
“But, Father, the house was falling apart! Nothing has been spent on it for fifty years, and so I …”
“So you’re trying to spend all at once what the other presidents did not spend for half a century? Mother, I can’t get the money to buy enough blankets for the soldiers and here you are spending ten thousand dollars on a carpet. On a carpet! Why, you can buy a fine house back home for that money, or ten thousand blankets, or …”
“Father, I know I’ve been … I’ve been …” But no word came to her. “I’ll stop. I have stopped. You’ll see. The worst is over. I swear it is.”
Lincoln nodded, somewhat wanly, Mary thought. Now deeply penitent, she started to explain the necessity of each of her purchases, as well as the innumerable economies that she had practised. But Lincoln had pulled the bell cord beside his table and Hay entered the office. Lincoln turned to Mary. “We have a surprise visitor, from Springfield.”
“I’d better go.”
“No, stay a moment and say ‘hello’ to Billy.”
“Billy?” In the doorway now stood Mary’s true nemesis, William Herndon, Lincoln’s law partner. Tall and gray and uncouth, Herndon was nine years younger than Lincoln; and the same age as Mary. Although Herndon was indisputably brilliant—and far better read than Lincoln—he was, to say the least, eccentric. For one thing, he was often a heavy drinker. For another, he was radical in his politics—a fiery abolitionist. It was often said by the Springfield “scrubs”—as the ordinary folk were known—that Herndon was Lincoln’s last direct connection with them, a connection that Mary would very much like to sever. When Lincoln married, he had moved into the ruling class of not only Springfield and Illinois but of Lexington and Kentucky, leaving Herndon behind with the sort of people that Lincoln had originally represented as a Whig legislator from Sangamon county, the scrubs.
“Well … Well!” Herndon stared at his old law partner, affecting bedazzlement at the change in his estate. Lincoln crossed to Herndon, and shook his hand in both of his.
“Come on in, Billy.” Lincoln smiled, mischievously, at Mary. “Mother, here’s Billy, large as life, as the preacher said, and twice as …”
“So I see. Good morning, Billy. I mean Herndon. Mr. Herndon. Sir.” Mary grew colder and more correct with each version of her enemy’s name.
“Mrs. Lincoln.” Herndon was altogether too easy for Mary, who noted that his beard was now a somewhat exaggerated duplicate of Lincoln’s own. Doubtless this was good for business. Herndon still displayed the eighteen-year-old sign “Lincoln and Herndon” in front of his Springfield office; and it galled her that Lincoln allowed this because, as he’d say, not entirely to tease her, “One day we’ll be going back, and I’ll want to practise law again.”
Lincoln sat Herndon down in front of the fire, while Mary remained standing, like a statue of Rectitude, at the writing table. She was formal. “I was sorry, sir, to hear of your wife’s death in the summer just past.”
“It was a hard death, Mrs. Lincoln. A hard death. But then pthisis always is. The lungs get coughed up bit by bit, like red rose petals.”
“A very fanciful description,” said Lincoln, while Mary shuddered. “How do you get on now, Billy?” asked Lincoln. “You’ve got—what is it? Five? No, six children to bring up.”
“Well, it is not easy, Lincoln. I mean Mr. President. I mean …”
“Your Majesty suits Mother and me just fine.” Lincoln drew up a chair beside the fire. On the one hand, Mary resented Herndon’s presence, no matter how brief, in their splendid new life; but, on the other, she had to be grateful for anyone who could distract her husband, even for a moment, from what she was only just beginning to realize was a burden beyond the capacity of any one man to bear, much less the high-strung, melancholic, Richard the Second sort of man that she had married, a fragile creature who seemed now to be living off some inner source of energy unknown to her even as it, literally, consumed him before her eyes. Mary somewhat softened. “Do you have a proper woman to look after the very little ones?”
Herndon nodded. “From that point of view, I’m all right. But it’s very hard to be a father without a wife. Fact, that’s sort of why I’m here.”
Lincoln shook his head. “I think you got it backward, Billy. Washington’s a fine place for a woman to find a husband but a terrible place for a man to find a wife—that doesn’t belong to someone else, that is.”
“In this city, gentlemen outnumber the ladies ten to one,” said Mary, producing a smile. There was no sacrifice that she would not make for her husband, who had made—and would be obliged to keep making, she thought, glumly—so many for her.
“Oh, I’ve found the lady, thank you. Remember Major Miles, who lived in Petersburg?”
Lincoln nodded. “I hadn’t realized he was dead.”
“Is there a widow?” asked Mary, trying to recall the family.
“No, no. He’s alive all right. Worse luck. It’s his daughter Anna I want to marry.
Lincoln frowned. “Isn’t she that …”
“… very pretty girl, who was here a couple o
f years with Congressman Harris and his wife. She’s uncommonly beautiful; and wise beyond her years.”
“So wise, in fact, that she’s willing to marry an old man like you, with six kids?”
Herndon rose to his partner’s bait. “Well, at least there’s no mortgage to pay off.”
“You must be twenty years older than that child.” Mary had indeed met the Miles girl; and found her as vain as she was pretty. It would, of course, serve Billy absolutely right to be married to her.
“Eighteen years, Mrs. Lincoln,” said Herndon, with a droll look at Lincoln. “Anyway, it was my Mary’s last wish that I get someone to take her place as soon as possible.”
“But such a young wife?” Mary could not resist the opening.
“My Mary was never one for detailed specifications. There’s only one rub.” Herndon turned to Lincoln. “Major Miles is not as enthusiastic as I am about the possible linking of our two great families.”
“Plainly, he is shortsighted.” Mary could tell that Lincoln was perfectly enthralled by Billy’s problems. “So we must bring him around. But how?”
“Well, Anna—she’s got a really good head on her shoulders, that girl …”
“And an uncommonly pretty head, too.” Mary added.
“That, also. Anyway, Anna’s older sister is married to a man called Chatterton, a good Republican, who voted our way …”
“But is now, temporarily, out of a job?” Lincoln looked expectantly at Herndon, who nodded. “So if I were to give Mr. Chatterton, who is a loyal Republican …”
“… but not a radical like me …”
“More of a moderate, like me?”
“That’s it, Lincoln. I mean Your Majesty.”
“So if Mr. Chatterton were to be appointed to some Federal office, Anna would then advise her sister, who would advise their father that in exchange for this Federal office, Anna’s hand in marriage would be yours.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Lincoln slapped his knee; and roared with laughter. “Billy, you never don’t cheer me up.”
“Why, Father, I thought that you were sick of people who want jobs with the government.”
“I am. But this is different. This is purest Billy.” Lincoln pulled a card from his vest; and scribbled a note. “Here, Billy. Give this to Mr. Smith, the Secretary of the Interior. There’s always something open down there.” He turned to Mary. “Just think, Mother, here we are able to play Cupid …”
“With the government’s money?” Mary felt that she ought, in some way, to redress that balance which had so recently gone against her “flub-dubs.”
“I’m sure Mr. Chatterton is no worse—can be no worse—than any of my other appointments. Besides, we are making it possible for Billy to marry, and that is the most sacred gift in my … Sacred?” Lincoln stopped; and frowned. “But isn’t what I’m doing the greatest crime of all? Billy, you know about such things. Am I committing simony?”
“I haven’t looked up that word in a coon’s age. It has something to do with the popes, doesn’t it? Selling sacred indulgences, or something.”
“It sounds horrendous,” said Mary, collecting the remains of the bread and honey.
“Well, as I am not the Pope, I guess a little simony can’t hurt us.” Lincoln rose; as did Herndon.
Mary bowed. “I’m sorry, sir, we won’t be able to have you for dinner this week.”
“But, Mother …” Lincoln began.
“That’s all right,” said Herndon. “I’m just here for a few days, to commit some simony, and go straight home.”
“Come back tomorrow, and tell me how it went.” As Lincoln led Herndon to the main door, Mary left through the Cabinet Room door. The appearance of William Herndon at the White House, even for a moment, struck her as the worst of omens.
CHASE THOUGHT it the best of omens, if not too palpably coincidental, that as he sat in Seward’s study late Sunday evening, Cameron, who had come to see him earlier, had now come to see Seward, who looked at Chase suspiciously, when the manservant announced the Secretary of War.
“I told him that I would be here with you,” said Chase, innocently. “Doubtless he wants to see us both together.”
Cameron looked more than usually pale as he hurried in, breathing heavily. “I walked from Willard’s,” he said. All in all, thought Chase, Cameron had been wise not to take a house in Washington, preferring the barrooms and the parlors and the barbershops of Willard’s, where he could prowl like some lord of the jungle.
“Sit down, Mr. Cameron, sit down.” Seward filled a crystal glass with brandy, which Cameron took, without comment.
“As you see, I came straight here …” Chase began.
But Cameron spoke through him. “After I got back to Willard’s, I had some supper. Then as I was crossing the lobby, one of the White House ushers gave me this.” Cameron held up a sheet of paper. “The President has condescended to propose me as minister to Russia. He wants to send my nomination to Congress tomorrow.”
“But you haven’t yet resigned, have you?” Seward himself had written the somewhat curt letter that Cameron now held in his hand. Lincoln had agreed with Seward that it ought to bring about the long-desired resignation.
“No, I haven’t resigned.” Cameron drank the brandy as if it were water. Chase averted his eyes. “I’m also perfectly willing to continue in office. But only if I am to be the true head of the War Department.
“That could be difficult,” said Chase, “now that General McClellan is beginning to rise …”
“… slowly,” interjected Seward.
“… slowly,” Chase repeated, “from his sick bed. As we agreed earlier this evening, you are well out of it, Mr. Cameron. Also, Saint Petersburg is crucial to us now that we are having—or, thanks to Mr. Seward, have had—so many problems with England. The Czar is currently pro-Union; and you are the one statesman who can keep him that way.”
“True.” Seward looked grave; he was, Chase noticed, slightly, but only slightly, drunk. “There is even a chance, as you know, of military aid from Russia.” Seward improvised freely. Cameron became somewhat calmer; and then Seward, suddenly inspired, said, “I think you should go to the President tomorrow and accept this high post on condition that a fellow-Pennsylvanian take your place.”
“Stanton?”
Seward nodded. There were times when Chase was obliged to admire the skill of his not entirely moral colleague. It was all-important to Lincoln —and to Seward—that Cameron not turn against the Administration. Cameron had a history of turning on presidents whom he had served. Although he himself was of no great importance, the fact that he currently controlled the politics of the state of Pennsylvania made him, potentially, a formidable adversary. Fascinated, Chase watched the master of New York hypnotize with a cobra’s skill the master of Pennsylvania. “You—and you alone—will be able to make the difference between Holt and Stanton. And once Stanton is chosen, why, it is as if you were still in the Cabinet, for he is now a Pennsylvanian and a part of your own powerful constituency.”
The fact that Stanton was a Democrat who had come, originally, from Ohio seemed to make no difference. Cameron had begun to nod. “You think he will listen to me?”
“Listen to you!” Seward spread his arms theatrically; and swayed slightly in front of the glowing fire. “He will do as you tell him. Also, if I may make the suggestion, give him a letter of resignation, dated a week or so ago. He will then give you an antedated receipt, and Mr. Nicolay can send that to the wire-services, to show that your promotion to Saint Petersburg”—Seward enriched each syllable of that city’s name with positively ecclesiastical unction—“was planned by you as well as by the President.”
“That,” said Cameron, somewhat flatly, “will get me off the hook.”
“Speaking of hooks,” Seward glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, “I am expecting General Butler any minute now. He has just come in from Fortress Monroe.”
“Did he
come through the blockade?” asked Chase. The fact that the Confederate navy had been able to seal off the Potomac River had been a source of much embarrassment to a nation that had been threatening, only two weeks earlier, to fight a war at sea with England. Currently, the rebel blockade was keeping the city in short supply of all sorts of northern manufactures, not to mention fuel.
“I think he came overland.” Seward was shaking Cameron’s hand vigorously. “See the President first thing tomorrow. I’ll come in and help out, if you want me.”
“That’s good of you, Mr. Seward.” Cameron frowned. “You ought to send Butler on his way as fast as you can. He’s about the worst of our political generals.”
Chase laughed somewhat nervously. “Well, let’s leave Mr. Seward to order him off at once.” He turned to Cameron. “I have my carriage. I’ll take you to your hotel.”
During the short carriage ride, Chase did his best to soothe Cameron, who seemed willing to be soothed. After all, Chase reflected, as the Czar of Pennsylvania entered Willard’s, there might come a time when he himself would need the support of the Pennsylvania organization. All in all, Chase decided that he had behaved very well, considering the delicacy—and importance—of the matter.
ON AN EQUALLY delicate, if less momentous matter, John Hay was determined not to behave well, as that was his mission. The President had told him “to look after Mr. Herndon”; and so he had. They dined richly at Wormley’s, where General McDowell was also at dinner with a half-dozen foreign observers, amongst them a British peer whom Hay had met with Mr. Russell of the London Times. General McDowell drank quantities of water to go with the quantities of food that he ate. Meanwhile, his guests did their best to keep up with the tall slender peer, who drank bottle after bottle of claret, despite the disapproving eye of his host. Mr. Herndon said that he was not drinking at all this trip but, perhaps, he would have one of Wormley’s special mint juleps—where Wormley found mint in the winter was perhaps the only well-guarded secret in Washington. Hay himself drank only one glass of wine during the dinner, whose two principal features were a thick terrapin soup and canvasback duck, which Herndon had never tasted before.
