by Gore Vidal
“We wait for news of you,” said Washburne. “When does the army move?”
Lincoln slumped in his chair; and shook his head as the waiter offered him a huge silver dish on which rested a roast loin of pork that deeply appealed to Washburne. “I’m getting set to issue an order to the effect that by the end of February, no later, the army must be in Virginia. But if McClellan is still sick in his bed …” Lincoln stared absently at Washburne, who was helping himself to the roast.
“I thought you were general-in-chief now.” Washburne carefully stacked the slices of pork to one side of his plate so as to diminish the effect of what otherwise might have looked to be uncontrolled greed.
“Oh, I am that.” Lincoln sighed. “I also think that I could probably set the army in successful motion. But then I remember that I am only a politician, and must listen to generals, who are never ready to move. The people are impatient. Chase has no money. McClellan has typhoid fever. In the West, Buell and Halleck seem unable to move in concert.” At length, Lincoln complained of the dilatoriness of his expensive generals, and Washburne listened; and helped himself to the last course, apple pie.
“You have other … maybe cheaper generals,” said Washburne, his mouth full.
Lincoln nodded. “I’ve been meeting the past two nights with McDowell and Franklin, trying to decide what to do if the rebels happened to attack the Army of the Potomac; trying to decide who should command.”
“What does Mr. Stanton advise?”
“He’s not yet part of our councils. He’s been too busy examining the War Department’s expenditures.” Lincoln grimaced. The waiter removed the last plates.
“The Augean stables?”
“Exactly. Unfortunately, our new Hercules is asthmatic …”
Ghostlike, Nicolay appeared in the doorway. “Sir, your … guests have arrived. They’re in the Reception Room.”
“You should be in bed, Mr. Nicolay.” Lincoln put down his napkin; and got to his feet.
“I’m going to bed now, sir. It’s the winter ague I’ve got,” he added, wanly.
“Poor Mr. Nicolay,” said Mary, with some small compassion for her enemy. “Anyway, I now see why it takes two full-time secretaries so that Mr. Lincoln can have at least one secretary at work in the office.”
“Mr. Stoddard,” said Nicolay, with quiet satisfaction, “has just taken to his bed. Potomac fever, we think.” Nicolay left the room.
Mary rose. “Oh, poor Mr. Stoddard! I must go look after him.” They were all on their feet.
“Look to your own health, Mother. This is a sickly place.” As Lincoln turned to go, Herndon drew him to one side. Neither Mary nor Washburne could hear what the two partners were discussing but Mary was quick to see her husband’s mischievous half smile. Then, to her horror, she saw Lincoln remove from his pocket several greenbacks, as the new money had been promptly nicknamed; and give them to Herndon.
Mary glided toward the two men with, she hoped, genuine reptilian speed as well as grace. “What’s that for, Father?”
“Well, Molly, I was just showing Billy some of the new money that we’re going to print so much of. Now, here’s Mr. Chase’s honest face on the one-dollar bill, which everyone gets to see, and here I am—proposed, that is—on the two-dollar bill, which has a sort of rare look to it, doesn’t it?”
“Certainly rare by my standards,” said Herndon. He turned to Mary. “I’m twenty-five dollars short. His Majesty has graciously advanced me the sum, which I will repay from the proceeds of our next fee. We’re still owed a fair amount, you know.”
“I see,” Mary began but her husband did not allow her to finish.
“You know,” said Lincoln, “I asked Mr. Chase why he had put himself instead of me on the one-dollar bill, clearly the most in use of the two denominations, and he said, ‘As you are the President, you must be on the more expensive bill; and I on the less.’ ”
Lincoln and Herndon and Washburne laughed. Mary did not. She not only disliked the idea that money should be lent to Herndon, but she had also been deeply affronted to see Chase’s face so conspicuously displayed on the currency. “He is running for president!” she had exclaimed when she saw the one-dollar bill. For once, Lincoln had agreed with her; but he also thought it wondrously funny, “To run for president on the money!”
Now Lincoln was showing Herndon the elaborate signature of Mr. F. E. Spinner, the Treasurer of the United States. “We’re in luck with him, because no one on earth can ever forge the way he signs himself. It is a truly resplendent signature, all those curves and slashes.”
“He don’t sign each one,” said Herndon. “That’s from a metal plate.”
Lincoln frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That’s from a metal engraving. Can’t you tell? God knows, we’ve been around a lot of print-shops in our day, you and I.”
Lincoln had gone pale. “I am the greatest fool,” he said. “I thought Mr. Chase ordered the money printed up and then Mr. Spinner signed it, and made it legal.”
“Well that is the way it’s done,” said Washburne, “only it’s all on metal plates.”
“And they can print as much as they please?” Lincoln shook his head. “Mr. Chase and I must have a talk. There must be safeguards. Suppose a thief got into the Treasury and …” Lincoln stopped. He shook hands with Washburne and bade him good-night; then he took Herndon by the arm, and said, “There’s a carriage waiting for you at the south portico; I’ll walk you down.”
“Mrs. Lincoln,” Herndon bowed.
“Mr. Herndon,” Mary nodded. Thus, they parted.
At the south portico, Lincoln stood a moment, shivering in the cold damp wind. A corporal held open the door to the carriage that would take Herndon to the depot. The night was clouded and dark, and the only lights to be seen in the distance were those of the camp fires within the White House grounds.
“Behave yourself, Billy,” said Lincoln, shaking Herndon’s hand.
“You look to your health, Lincoln. You’re too thin, and this is a truly sickly place.”
“Yes, Billy. It’s a truly sickly place indeed. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Thus, the partners parted.
IN THE President’s Office Chase presided at one end of the table while Generals McDowell and Franklin sat at the other end. The quartermaster-general, Meigs, sat next to the President’s chair. Although Seward had been present at the previous two meetings, he had this evening sent his apologies. While they waited for Lincoln to join them, Meigs told Chase that they now all inclined to McDowell’s view that the army move against Manassas rather than Franklin’s proposal—an echo of McClellan’s secret Urbana plan—to move south along the water routes to the east of Richmond. As Meigs explained McDowell’s plan, Chase could not help but wonder at the essential oddness or perversity of men. If he had had such a defeat at Manassas as McDowell had sustained, no power on earth would get him to return to that ill-fated place. But, presumably, McDowell felt that the only way to erase the infamous defeat at Bull Run would be with a famous victory in the same place. Certainly he had responded coolly to Lincoln, who had said with great kindness after the original debacle, “I still have confidence in you, General.” To which McDowell had replied, “I see no reason why you should not.” On the other hand, McDowell had lost Chase’s confidence; and Chase had been and still remained his friend in a way that Lincoln was not.
Alone, the President entered the room. Everyone rose. He motioned for them to sit. He himself sat not in his usual chair but next to Chase, who was somewhat surprised that neither secretary was present. “Mr. Seward cannot join us,” said Lincoln. “But we have another visitor, who shall be here any minute.” Then Lincoln turned to Chase and asked, in a low voice, “I had no idea that our greenbacks are not each signed by the Treasurer.”
Chase was stunned by the President’s naïveté. “But how could he sign each one? The first issue of ten million dollars in various denominations would have taken
him more than a year to sign, particularly with that signature of his.”
“I know. I know.” Lincoln was distracted. “I did not understand. But this thing frightens me. I mean anyone can get into the Mint and start printing money.”
Chase’s jaw set. “Sir, from the beginning I warned you that this scheme of issuing fiat money, with nothing but the government’s word to pay in specie one day, was unConstitutional—”
“That sacred instrument, as I pointed out at the time, is mute on the point in question.” Lincoln was sharp. “Besides, Congress is the initiator in money matters, and they wanted such an issue, as did you.”
“I accepted the necessity because I saw no other way of financing this war.” Chase prayed that the others in the room could not hear what they were saying, because if the word were to circulate that the President, whose face was on the two-dollar bills, had no idea what the greenbacks actually represented, the entire fragile currency of the United States would go crashing. But the generals were huddled together in their usual world of high intrigue. “But I did insist that we attach our money-machine to the creation of an internal revenue system and a national banking act and …”
“You have been meticulous,” Lincoln interrupted him. “I have not. But we must ensure the safety of the Treasury’s printers.”
“Sir, if you have faith in me and in Mr. Spinner …”
“I have every faith. As does the public. But …”
“But, sir, we must delegate authority.” Unlike Seward, Chase seldom interrupted the President. But now he was angry. “You must trust us to be able to appoint honest printers, and clerks to count the money and carriers to dispense it across the nation.”
John Hay stood in the doorway. “General McClellan,” he said. McDowell, Hunter and Meigs got uneasily to their feet, as did Chase and the President, who crossed to the doorway where the pale Young Napoleon now stood. Almost tenderly, Lincoln put his arm about the little man’s shoulders and drew him into the room. Hay vanished. The meeting would go unrecorded.
The President’s tenderness was plainly lost on McClellan, who greeted the President—and everyone else—with a scowl. Once seated, Lincoln said, “While you were ill, I called these gentlemen together to give me advice on the conduct of the war. I also asked them to draw up tentative plans for an advance into Virginia, which General McDowell has done, at my order.”
Chase noted the dark suspicion with which McClellan glowered at McDowell; so did McDowell, who said, “I proposed, sir, during your illness, that elements of the Army of the Potomac move on Manassas …”
“A strategy which I had, previously, rejected; and still do.” McClellan’s voice was as strong as ever, Chase decided; and he wondered, idly, if McClellan had actually been stricken with typhoid fever. Certainly, his recovery had been uncharacteristically swift.
Lincoln turned, expectantly, to McClellan, who crossed his arms on his chest, in imitation of Napoleon; then lowered his head, and was lost in thought. There was a long silence. Finally, Chase whispered to Lincoln, “Is he really recovered?”
“So he tells me.” At the other end of the table, Meigs was whispering to McClellan, who simply shook his head. Meigs spoke again, and Chase heard McClellan say, “No. He can’t keep a secret.”
Chase glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his good eye. Had Lincoln heard? Yes, the President had heard and understood the reference; and was not pleased.
Chase cleared his throat. The room grew silent; the whispering stopped. Chase spoke: “General McClellan, we are happy to see that you are now able to resume your duties. Since you do not like our plan of action, I suggest that you tell us your plan.”
There was a moment of silence, during which General McDowell caressed his paunch as though it were a skittish horse in need of soothing, and the President drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table.
Chase found McClellan’s attitude mysterious. During the general’s illness, Chase had communicated with him on a number of occasions. Chase had also made it as clear as he dared that one man ought not to be in command of all the armies as well as of the Army of Virginia. Personally, Chase would prefer McClellan as general-in-chief and McDowell, perhaps, with the fighting army. But McClellan was not to be advised, while his rudeness to the President was unforgivable, no matter how sorely tempted he might be by a first magistrate who was both indolent and fussy. In Chase’s view, Lincoln was, often, an extremely irritating and vacillating man and if he, as a fellow-politician, found the President maddening, what on earth would a military man think of such a commander?
Plainly, not much, as McClellan now proceeded to demonstrate. “Mr. Chase, I have my reasons for not wanting to discuss my plans with this group.” McClellan’s fierce eye was now on McDowell, who continued to caress his belly.
Why, Chase wondered, would McClellan not tell the President what he had already told him about the Urbana plan? In due course, President and Cabinet must know. As for Lincoln’s inability to keep a secret, McClellan was himself not precisely the sphinx. Chase now affected the new highly reasonable voice that he had only lately learned from the bankers. It was a voice both confiding and noncommittal. It was also a voice that in no way reflected Chase’s fiery evangelical spirit. But the Lord’s work must be done, and if it meant sounding like Jay Cooke selling watered stock, so be it. “General, whatever your grounds, we have devised a plan which you reject without giving us an alternative. Surely …”
General McClellan sat up very straight. He turned to Lincoln. “If Your Excellency, as my Commander-in-Chief, orders me to divulge my strategy, I shall do so.”
“No, no. I won’t do that, of course.”
“Thank you, sir.” McClellan was swift. “I should like to repeat, however, in reference to our recent conversation about the necessity of liberating East Tennessee, that I have ordered General Buell to prepare for an advance.”
Lincoln nodded. “Well, that is something, I must say.” Then Lincoln was on his feet; and the highly, to Chase’s mind, unsatisfactory meeting was at an end.
As Chase walked down the dim second-floor corridor with McDowell at his side, he prayed for guidance. At church the previous day, he had not taken communion as he had found himself too subject to temptation to sin. He wished now that he had had the consolation of the Eucharist.
“Very awkward,” said McDowell, as they descended the empty staircase. The gaslights in the main entrance hall were dimmed; and Old Edward was sound asleep in his chair at the door.
“I wish,” said Chase, “that Mr. Stanton had been there.”
“Do they get on—Mr. Stanton and our general-in-chief?”
Chase nodded. “Stanton tells me that he is devoted to McClellan.”
“Devoted? Well, that is the sort of emotion that commanders like to excite in the bosoms of others, particularly their superiors.”
“I fear that the President’s devotion to McClellan is being sorely tried.”
“Mr. Chase.” McDowell paused at the foot of the stairs. The only sound in the hall was that of Old Edward, snoring in his chair. McDowell murmured in Chase’s ear. “I think—between us—that McClellan is a fool.”
Chase was startled to hear the other state so clearly his own most private fear. “I pray you are wrong.”
“Oh, I do a lot of praying, too, Mr. Chase. And I say this only to you in confidence. After all, for me to say it to anyone else would sound as if I were jealous of a fellow-officer when I am, justifiably, anxious for the country.”
Chase nodded. “I, too, feel the same way.” But Chase left the matter at that. He was not about to confide to General McDowell his own total lack of faith in the President, whom fate had selected to shatter forever the Union and delay, perhaps for a generation, the abolition of slavery.
FOUR
OLD EDWARD did not stir from his chair as David entered the White House. “Go upstairs. Second room to the left,” said the doorkeeper.
“Yes, Mr. McManus.” David cro
ssed the entrance hall as slowly as he dared. He had never seen so much activity in the Mansion. Men in shirt-sleeves were arranging floral wreaths over the doors. Trestle tables were being set up in the state dining room. Silver and plate were being uncrated by an army of waiters. As David climbed the stairs, a dozen naval officers descended.
The second-floor corridor was crowded, and David could see John Hay at the far end, looking into the waiting room. The other secretary was sick in bed. At Thompson’s, the health of the Mansion’s residents was much discussed. Currently, the two children were ill; and David had been entrusted with their medicine.
Keckley received him in the room where the oldest boy, Willie, lay. Mrs. Lincoln sat beside the bed. She did not look up as David entered, but continued to talk in a low voice to the child, who looked pale but lively enough.
“Thank you.” Keckley took the package from David.
“Anything else I can fetch you?” asked David, admiring the loops of material that hung most royally from the posters of the bed, rather the way they had hung in the play Cleopatra, one of his favorites.
“No. That’s all.” Keckley reached into her apron pocket and gave him a coin. As David made his way down the stairs, he passed the head groundsman, John Watt, going up them.
“Good morning, Mr. Watt.”
“Good morning, David.” Watt was an amiable man, well-disposed to the Confederacy. He was also said to be one of the richest men in Washington because of his shrewd management of the White House grounds, which he regarded as his own private plantation. All Washington knew of Watt’s arrangements to sell produce to a half-dozen restaurants and hotels, including Willard’s and Wormley’s. Over the years, attempts had been made to get rid of him; all had failed. Watt was a hero to David.
To Mary, Watt was a comfort. She received him in the upstairs oval sitting room. “How are the boys, ma’am?” Mary knew that Watt genuinely liked Willie and Tad; played with them by the hour; taught them to ride and shoot.
