by Gore Vidal
Seward patted Sickles’s shoulder. “You have threaded the eye of the needle.”
“Like a rich man? Or a camel?”
“It is the camel that passes through each time, But so boundless is the Lord’s mercy, even the rich man may find salvation.”
Twice, during the dinner, Mary visited the boys. She found Keckley seated beside Willie, who was asleep; he was breathing heavily but normally. Mary touched his face: the fever lingered.
“The crisis should have come,” she said.
Keckley was soothing. “It is never the same, particularly with this kind of fever, which the doctor says is new to him.” Lincoln joined them.
“There is no difference,” said Mary.
Lincoln’s huge hand rested, gently, on Willie’s face, quite covering it. “He is no worse,” he said. “That is something.”
“Call the doctor …” Mary began, but Keckley shook her head. “Let them be for the night. Let them sleep. You two go back to your business.”
Lincoln smiled. “Well, at least you know what it is we do down there. In spite of the music and all, there is no party or pleasure in this house, ever. Only business.”
Mary wondered whether or not her husband knew that eighty of those that she had invited had refused to come because they thought it frivolous in time of war to celebrate, or as the truly evil Ben Wade had scribbled on his card of invitation, which he had sent back to the White House: “Are the President and Mrs. Lincoln aware that there is a civil war? If they are not, Mr. and Mrs. Wade are, and for that reason decline to participate in feasting and dancing.”
Despite the feasting, the Civil War continued; and, twelve days later, John Hay sat with the President in Secretary Stanton’s office at the War Department, and waited anxiously for dispatches. Apparently, McClellan had taken to heart Lincoln’s insistence on the importance of East Tennessee. Buell’s army had won an engagement at Mill Springs in Kentucky, while elements of Halleck’s army, which had been permanently settled in Missouri, as Lincoln had despairingly put it, were now on the move. An Illinois brigadier-general, Ulysses S. Grant, had then captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River. He was now at the Cumberland River, twelve miles away, laying siege to Fort Donelson. If Donelson were to fall, Nashville and eastern Tennessee would once more be a part of the Union.
On February 14, Grant’s first attack on Donelson was repulsed. On February 16, as Lincoln and Stanton and Hay had been studying the map of Tennessee, a telegram from Halleck at St. Louis was brought them: Grant had refused to come to terms with the Confederate General Buckner. “No terms except unconditional, immediate surrender can be accepted,” Grant had told the rebels. “I propose to move immediately upon your works.”
When this message had been read aloud by the wheezing Stanton, Lincoln had said, with wonder, “Can this be one of our generals?”
“Yes, sir. And he’s crazy to be where he is.” Stanton had held his chest as if to push all the air out—or hold it in. Hay was never sure which. “Buell can’t come to his aid. The roads are impassable, all mud. Now he faces Fort Donaldson …”
“Donelson,” Lincoln had said, peering at the spot on the map.
But the next day in the same room, Hay witnessed what was, in effect, the Union’s first true victory of the war. General Grant’s message to General Halleck was read aloud by Stanton, whose wheezing had abruptly ceased. “ ‘We have taken Fort Donelson, and from twelve to fifteen thousand prisoners.’ ” Stanton turned to Lincoln, “Will you announce this, sir, to the people in the reception room?”
“No, Mr. Stanton. I leave that pleasure to you. You’ve deserved it.”
So it was Stanton who opened the door to the anteroom, where some fifty army officers and newspaper writers were gathered. When Stanton read them Grant’s telegram, there was cheering. Then Stanton proposed three proper cheers for General Grant, and the entire War Department resounded with the noise. Hay saw two rats hurry from the anteroom into the relative quiet of the Secretary’s office.
A moment later, McClellan and his glittering foreign aides swept into the reception room. To Hay’s astonishment, McClellan was roundly cheered. Then, with quiet modesty, the Young Napoleon addressed those present. Hay saw that a writer from the Washington Star was taking down every word. McClellan had noticed the same thing; he spoke slowly and deliberately. “In a moment, I shall join President Lincoln in the office of the Secretary of War. I shall report to him what you already know. In little more than a week, the Union has won five decisive victories.” There was more cheering at this; and the Count of Paris picked his nose, lost in thought. “I, personally, was able to give each commander his orders for each day in five separate parts of the country, thanks to the miracle of the telegraph. Modern warfare has now come of age. Little did Alexander or Caesar or … Napoleon,” the head lowered a moment, a frown creased the youthful brow; he did indeed resemble the Young Napoleon—the Third, thought Hay, sourly, “suspect that one day a great general could conduct a war on five—on fifty different fronts—and design five—or fifty—victories exactly as if he were face-to-face with his commanders in the field. Today eastern Tennessee is ours. Tomorrow … Virginia, and peace!” In an ecstasy of cheering, McClellan, alone, entered Stanton’s office. Hay shut the door behind him.
Lincoln looked amused; bemused, as well. “I must congratulate you, General, for putting a fire under Halleck. I thought he was frozen solid there in St. Louis.”
“It was not easy, let me tell you, Your Excellency.” As always, Hay wondered if McClellan knew how much this title annoyed the President; and if he knew, as how could he not, why did he persist, except to mock Lincoln to his face?
McClellan marched up and down the room explaining his Western strategy, while Stanton wheezed and fumed; and, finally, intervened. “General, you can take a lot of credit, of course. But you did announce to the press that Fort Donelson had fallen six hours before General Grant had actually seized the fort.”
“A minor misunderstanding, Mr. Stanton, nothing more.” Hay wondered if there was a fraying of the friendship between McClellan and Stanton—or what everyone had been led to believe was a friendship. Lately, Stanton had been even more irritated by McClellan’s slowness than Lincoln. Of course, Stanton’s usual state was one of irritability. But then he worked harder than any man that Hay had ever known. He was also said to be as resolutely honest in business dealings as he was totally treacherous in personal ones. Could it be, Hay wondered, that now that the friendship with McClellan had served its purpose and Stanton had been made Secretary of War, a division between them was bound to take place? Particularly, if McClellan failed to prosecute the war with the sort of vigor that Stanton fiercely demanded and Lincoln somewhat wistfully desired.
After further tributes to his own exploits by proxy in the West, McClellan spoke of what was now the agreed-on strategy in Virginia. When McClellan had finally taken the President into his confidence and shown him the plans for the taking of Richmond by water, Lincoln had vetoed the enterprise. It would be far better—and safer, said the President—to seize Manassas; and cut the lines of communication between the north and the south, as well as the east and the west, of the Confederacy while maintaining the defense of Washington, which would, otherwise, be at the mercy of the rebels should the Army of the Potomac be shifted to the lower end of Chesapeake Bay. But, gradually, against his better judgment, Lincoln had given way to McClellan.
“Now, Your Excellency, we are ready to move. All we need is your order to provide us with ships to transport the army south.” McClellan’s right hand had found its way, irresistibly, into his tunic. Then, legs wide apart, he stared at the President, who was now leaning against the wall, carefully flattening first one shoulder blade and then the other in a rocking motion that indicated to Hay deep thought as well as physical discomfort.
“I shall see to the order, of course. And now, with these victories in the West, we should be able to close most swiftly the circle of death … of
victory, I mean …” Lincoln’s voice trailed off. Hay had almost never seen the Tycoon lose his train of thought. But in the last few days Lincoln had been unusually distracted by the illnesses of Willie and Tad, the business of Wikoff and Congress, the constant tension with McClellan.
“Halleck wants more men in the West,” said Stanton, eyeing Lincoln curiously. “He also wants a unified command, under himself.”
“We cannot spare the men,” said McClellan promptly. “Certainly not on the eve of what is about to be the final engagement of the war. As for a unified command in the West …”
“I shall address myself to that presently,” said Lincoln, picking up his hat from its place on Stanton’s desk. He turned to Stanton. “How is your child?”
Stanton’s eyes filled suddenly with tears; he was no longer the ferocious master of endless detail. “We are fearful. He took the vaccine well enough the first day. But now there are hideous eruptions all over his body.”
“How old is he?”
“Six months. He is christened James.”
“They can be surprisingly strong at that age.”
“So we pray. And yours?”
“I do not know.” Lincoln turned, bleakly, to McClellan. “We shall speak in a few days, about your ships.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Hay held the door for Lincoln, who passed through, eyes on the floor. This was sometimes a deliberate tactic in order not to see those who wanted to be seen by him; but today the Ancient seemed to want to be invisible—even gone.
At the door to the White House, Old Edward said, “Mr. President, Mrs. Lincoln would like to see you. She’s with the boy.”
“Is the doctor here?”
Old Edward paused. Then he nodded: “Yes, sir. In point of fact, he is.”
Lincoln ran up the stairs like a man half his age. Hay turned to Old Edward, who said, “Madam told me I was not to distress him. But when he asked about the doctor …”
“How is the boy?”
“Oh, Mr. Hay, he is dying! Can’t you feel it in the house? Like a cold wind.”
Mary sat holding Willie’s hand. Keckley stood behind her, as if prepared, in turn, to hold her hand. The doctor was trying to get Willie to take medicine; but the boy’s mouth was firmly shut. He was conscious; but seemed too weary from the struggle to speak. As Lincoln approached, Willie tried to smile. The doctor took advantage of this sign of life and got the spoonful of medicine past his lips.
“You see, Father, how well he is doing?” Mary had now held back her own tears for so long that she wondered if some part of her might not, presently, drown.
“I do. I do.” Lincoln sat on the bed and, lightly, ruffled the boy’s hair. “You’ll be down for the parade next week. General McClellan’s holding a review, just for us. A hundred thousand soldiers, he says. About the biggest parade that’s ever been held in the world.”
Willie nodded; swallowed hard to get down the medicine; shut his eyes. Lincoln looked at Mary across the bed. She turned her head to one side. She had been young when Eddie left them. She had been able to have more sons; and did. But she was not young now; and never again would there be anyone in her life resembling Willie, for of all the children he was the one who was closest to her, the one that she had always envisaged at ber bedside when she lay dying, old and widowed and forlorn, save for him. Now she saw an image of herself, as clear and precise as the freshest daguerreotype; saw herself old, widowed, forlorn—and quite alone.
Lincoln turned to the doctor, who spread his hands, as if letting Willie go. Then Nicolay appeared in the doorway; and motioned to Lincoln, who left the room. Mary preferred to be alone with Willie. The enormity of her grief was as unique and as unshareable as it would be at the end of her own days.
Seward apologized to the President. “At such a time …” He shook his head.
“At such a time, at such a time …” Lincoln stared into the burning coals of the grate. “I cannot believe that he is going.”
“He is not gone yet.”
“No.” Lincoln’s sigh was close to a moan. Seward had never seen the President so—unlike himself. But then, with an effort, he was himself again; or a fair facsimile. “Let’s get down to it. You have spoken to Mr. Hickman?”
“Yes, sir. We have all spoken to him. He has been studying Watt’s testimony; and he does not believe it.”
“How can he disprove it?” Lincoln straightened the painting of Jackson above the mantel.
“I doubt if he can. But he told me that he intends to hold hearings. Wikoff will be questioned again and again, and so will John Watt, not the happiest witness that I have ever dealt with. Hickman also tells me that the Committee will call other witnesses.”
“I see.” Lincoln turned around, his face suddenly harsh. “He will call Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Yes.”
“Well, Governor, you and I are going to pay Mr. Hickman a call.”
“But he’s at the Capitol now …”
“So? This is not England, where the sovereign may not set foot in the House of Commons. I can wander in and out of the Capitol as I please.”
Seward was alarmed. “Is this wise, sir? What if the press should discover that you had gone before a committee …?”
“We’ll take our chances.”
At Stanton’s insistence, the President’s carriage was now always accompanied by a company of cavalry. “I feel like a parade,” said Lincoln, as the carriage and its escort clattered loudly down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You feel what?” asked Seward.
“… like a parade,” shouted Lincoln. “When Mother and I go driving we can’t even talk, for all the noise.”
At the Capitol, the President and Seward were received by a very surprised Sergeant-at-arms, who ushered them into the vast gilded office reserved for the Speaker of the House. A moment later, Mr. Hickman joined them. He was a smiling, hard man. “Well, sir, this is quite an honor for us,” he said, shaking Lincoln’s hand.
“Indeed it is,” said Seward, lighting his cigar, as if to emphasize that he was in some not entirely polite establishment.
“I understand,” said Lincoln, “that you do not accept Mr. Watt’s testimony that it was he who told Mr. Wikoff about my message to Congress.”
“Well, sir, I find it hard to believe that he would have so good a memory for something that he had only looked at, very briefly, once, or so he told us.”
“I,” said Seward, “in my youth, could learn some thirty legal citations in the space of half an hour.”
“But you, Mr. Seward, are one of the great lawyers of the age. You are not a professional gardener.”
“Actually, the law can be approached as if it were a kind of garden,” said Seward. “You must recall where and when you plant each seed …”
Lincoln raised his hand; and Seward was still. “I accept the story, Mr. Hickman, and I—not you—am, in this case, the plaintiff since the message in question was mine.”
“In a sense, sir, that is true. But this is wartime, and we must be ever-vigilant, all of us, you at your end of Pennsylvania Avenue and we at ours.”
Seward started to speak; but then chose to cough instead. Lincoln spoke: “The Congress, Mr. Hickman, has every right to question the official actions of the Executive, but I do not see this as an official matter. If I choose to lodge a complaint, I would do so through a civil court, as would you if you were robbed, which I was not.”
“Naturally, sir, we here take a different view. Should there be Confederate spies at large in the White House, surely we would be negligent in our duties not to find them.”
“Mr. Hickman,” Seward was growing annoyed, “the secret service reports both to the general-in-chief of the armies and to the Secretary of State. Surely, Congress is not about to set itself up over General McClellan and me, and go searching for spies on its own, without the means to apprehend them?”
Hickman continued to smile. “Mr. Seward, the Constitution does, in a sense,
put us over you. Certainly, it puts us, collectively, on the same level as the President. Of course, we can’t—or we don’t—hire our own detectives as you do, but we can question suspicious personages, and we have the power to jail them, if we choose.”
“Mr. Hickman.” Lincoln’s voice was mild; but his expression was remote and cold and, to Seward’s now experienced eye, chilling. “I want you to send for all of the Republican members of the Judiciary Committee. I’d like to speak to them.”
Hickman’s smile began, slightly, to fade. “But the Committee’s not in session today, and I don’t know who’s here in the Capitol or on the floor or gone home …”
“Tell the Sergeant-at-arms to fetch us as many Republican members of the Committee as he can rustle up.”
“But, Mr. President …”
“Now,” said Lincoln.
Hickman left the room. Lincoln looked at Seward; then, suddenly, he smiled. “You know, Governor, all of this reminds me of the time when I was out on circuit, back in ‘thirty-nine …” As Lincoln told his story, the members of the Judiciary Committee began to assemble. Seward admired the skillful way that Lincoln kept drawing out the story so that, by the time the Committee was all assembled, he could conclude it to much laughter.
The half-dozen representatives now circled the President like so many Lilliputians, thought Seward, about to tie up Gulliver. Hickman threw the first rope. “Gentlemen, this is highly irregular, of course, for a president to come down here and ask to see a committee. But,” the smile was again in place, “these are irregular times.”
“So they are, Mr. Hickman.” Lincoln was the soul of amiability. “Gentlemen, we are all of us, I hope, patriots. We are also, all of us, Republicans. The two need not be the same thing but we must act as if they are.” There was a nervous laugh from one member; and total silence from the rest. “Now I am, for better or worse, the head of the Republican Party, whose majority in Congress is considerable. I know that there are some who think I am a usurper, and that Governor Seward here is the true head of our party, but he’ll be the first to tell you that that is not so. Or he had better be the first.” With that, Lincoln detonated genuine laughter and Seward’s laugh was loudest of all since there was nothing in this for him to laugh at.
