Lincoln

by Gore Vidal

McClellan did most of the talking during dinner. “I have not—at present—the horses to pursue Lee. But I will have them in a week at the most.” He glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his eye. Lincoln made no response. “The problem has always been numbers. My army has seldom been as large as Lee’s. I think Mr. Pinkerton will agree.”

  At the far end of the table, Pinkerton nodded. “That’s right, General. Also, there’s a lot of conscription going on at the South now. We get reports from Richmond every day. Pretty near the whole male population is under arms.”

  “You see the problem, Your Excellency.”

  “Well, I see a number of problems, General.” Lincoln sat back in the thronelike chair that had been taken from a nearby house. Washburne knew that the army was now in the habit of taking anything that it wanted from anyone, loyal or rebel. War is not good for character, he thought, starting in on a squirrel stew of uncommon delicacy. McClellan lived well, if nothing else.

  But it was something else that was on Lincoln’s mind. “There is a feeling in the country that we are simply bogged down here, and that Lee could be dispatched in no time if this army would only move …” Lincoln raised his hand to stop the usual complaints about inadequate manpower and supplies. “I know that you need this and that for … your army,” the delicate prick of the “your” was characteristic of Lincoln when angry or exasperated, “but you do have more men, ready to go, than does Lee at this moment. You also have perfect weather. Here we are, only the second day in October. You have at least four, perhaps six weeks of good weather in which to drive Lee out of the valley and back to Richmond.”

  “When I am ready, sir, I will do just that. I suspect we shall meet, Lee and I, at Winchester, and that the war will end with one swift stroke.” Washburne stopped listening to McClellan; and he had the sense that Lincoln had done the same.

  The next morning, at dawn, Lincoln himself awakened Washburne, who had slept fully clothed on a cot. Lincoln motioned for Washburne to join him for a walk about the camp. Although McClellan was still abed, the private soldiers had been roused. Some were shaving; but most were not. As Lincoln passed among them, many shook his hand. Lincoln then led Washburne to the top of a low hill overlooking the encampment. As the sun’s rays struck the red earth, a ghostly mist rose from the ground. “Do you know what all this is?” Lincoln pointed to the rows and rows of tents, as far as the eye could see.

  “Why, it’s the Army of the Potomac.”

  “No, Brother Washburne. It’s General McClellan’s bodyguard.”

  “Then he is hopeless?”

  Lincoln nodded. “He is hopeless—for our purposes. He has his good points. He’s a superb organizer. But he can’t fight.”

  “Or won’t fight?” It was Washburne’s view that, for political reasons, McClellan did not want to crush the South.

  Lincoln’s mind was moving along much the same track. “In five weeks the country votes,” he said. “If McClellan doesn’t move before then, and if we don’t have victories …” Lincoln stopped.

  Washburne filled in. “We’ll lose control of Congress. And there will be all hell to pay. Do you think that McClellan might actually want us to lose to the Democrats?”

  “I can’t read his mind. I don’t know. I do confess that there are times when I suspect him of bad faith. But I have no proof. Then when I’m with him, I think, well, maybe I’ve underestimated him.”

  Lamon appeared on the hilltop. “There you are, sir,” he said, accusingly. “You got away from me.”

  “Well, if I’m not safe here in the middle of the army, we must surrender all notions of security.”

  As they started down the hill, Washburne saw a photographer and his assistants setting up their paraphernalia in front of McClellan’s tent. “I guess you’re going to have your portrait taken with Little Mac,” said Washburne; and he laughed when Lincoln gave a comical moan. “Well, this is a judgment on you, Mr. President, for never allowing any photographer to go through Springfield without making a picture of you. I have never known a man to so like having his picture made.”

  “Now that is unkind, Brother Washburne. No one who looks like me could ever be vain.”

  “Then you must be doing some sort of penance, with all those pictures of you all around the country.”

  Lincoln chuckled. “Well, it is true that I am a politician as well as a statesman, and we like for the folks to look at pictures of us, just so they’ll know we’re really all right, without horns and tails.”

  But later that day, Lincoln was obliged in the flesh, as opposed to the safety of a glass plate, to convince a number of men that he was indeed not the devil abroad in the land. At the town of Frederick, McClellan had assembled an army division for the President to review. Washburne took it as a good omen that the troops seemed pleased to have the President among them; he also felt that the President took far too seriously McClellan’s constant references to “my army.” If McClellan inspired loyalty, that was part of his task. As for the recurring rumors of a military coup, Washburne had never given them much credence even though Burnside had reported to a friend, who had told Stanton, that a number of McClellan’s closest aides often spoke of the necessity of a military solution to the political problem at Washington. Apparently, there had been wild talk of sending Congress home; locking up the President and Cabinet; then, under McClellan, peace would be made with the South. Lincoln found some novelty in the idea of McClellan as dictator. “At least he would be the first general to overthrow a government without ever having won a battle. Of course, if he were to win some great victories, I might just help him chase us all out of town.”

  A platform had been built near the ruins of a farmhouse, and here the President took the salute of the troops. When they were again in formation, he made them a graceful little speech, something he always had difficulty in doing impromptu. Washburne, who was seated next to the President, noticed that Lincoln’s hands trembled as he spoke. But the voice itself was as clear and firm as a tenor trumpet, each syllable as clearly pronounced as if it were chiselled on stone. Lincoln’s best speeches were those that he had himself written and rewritten; sometimes he took weeks over a single paragraph. “My mind does not work quickly,” he used to say to Washburne. Certainly, he had taken his time on the speeches that he had made in the course of the debates with Douglas. Those speeches were often learned by heart; certainly, each argument had been worked out in precise detail. At such times, Lincoln did seem to Washburne like a rail-splitter. The ax was his logic, going methodically and rhythmically to work on the subject’s wood. “But I never go to make a speech that I wish it wasn’t over,” he had said to Washburne on more than one occasion. “Also, it is an agony for someone my height to stand by a table that comes up to my knee, trying to read a speech through glasses that are never much help, by the light of a candle that shines straight up into your eyes.” Lincoln would shake his head comically. “It was no accident that the Little Giant was a better orator than me. He was built a lot closer to the folks—not to mention his text.”

  But Lincoln’s words now flowed effortlessly in the bright October light. He paid homage to the bravery of the troops; and to the loyalty of the people of Frederick—a mild insincerity, Washburne thought, since many of the town’s inhabitants had been delighted to welcome the Confederate army. As an election was approaching, Lincoln pointed out that it was not proper for him in his position to make a serious speech. But he felt obliged to say how proud he was of the army—there was no mention of its commander—and of the good citizens of Frederick “for their devotion to this glorious cause; and I say this with no malice in my heart for those who have done otherwise.”

  To three cheers from the army, the President and his suite departed for the next army corps. Washburne again rode beside Lincoln, who was relieved the speech was done. “After all, I don’t want to appear to be electioneering.”

  “But you are. We all are now.”

  Lincoln frowned. “We don’t have much
choice. I’d hoped McClellan would do the campaigning for us. I’d hoped that between now and the election, he’d move against Lee. But he won’t.”

  “He said he would.”

  “He won’t. When I get back, I shall order him, officially, to cross the Potomac and give battle to the enemy.”

  “Then when he doesn’t?”

  Lincoln simply shook his head.

  “Do we let the soldiers vote?” Congress had been arguing this matter all session. Republicans were eager that Republican soldiers vote; and Democrats were eager that Democratic soldiers vote. But the logistics of getting the men home was complex, to say the least, while many states refused to allow the soldiers to vote in the field.

  “I don’t see just what we can do.” Lincoln was genuinely puzzled. “The only fair thing would be to send all the troops home. But then what happens to the war? Send the ones that we know are for us?” He shook his head; then he added, with a smile, “I will say that Mr. Stanton, although an ex-Democrat, is a dynamo for our cause. A week before the election, he’s going to release just about everybody he and Seward and the generals have locked up.”

  “Just in time for them to vote Democratic?”

  “Just in time to bring Horace Greeley into line. I’m afraid we’re going to get a fair whipping in the press and at the polls, but Stanton says not to worry because of the border-states. He says that the army in those states will do what has to be done to get us the votes we need.”

  “By shooting all the Democrats?”

  Lincoln chuckled. “Something along those lines. Stanton is a very determined man.” The President reined in his horse. They were now opposite a large farmhouse on whose porch a dozen wounded men lay on pallets. Lincoln turned to his colonel-escort. “What’s this, Colonel?”

  “Confederate prisoners, sir. Wounded at Sharpsburg. We’ll be sending them on to Washington once we’ve finished shipping our own wounded back.”

  “I think I’d like to take a look at these boys,” said Lincoln. “And I’m sure that they’d like to take a look at me.”

  “No, sir!” Lamon was firm.

  “Yes, Ward.” Lincoln was firmer. “You stand outside, with Mr. Pinkerton, while Mr. Washburne and I, two harmless Illinois politicians, pay these Southern boys a call.”

  Lamon cursed not entirely under his breath; but did as he was ordered. The colonel led Lincoln and Washburne up the steps and into the house, which consisted, at this level, of a single large room lined on both sides with cots. At least a hundred men and boys lay on the cots, some missing arms or legs or both. Some were dying; others were able to limp about. The smell of flesh corrupting was overpowering; and Washburne tried not to breathe. But Lincoln was oblivious of everything except the young men who were now aware that a stranger was in their midst. The low hum of talk suddenly ceased; and the only sound in the room was the moaning of the unconscious.

  When the colonel started to call the men to attention, the President stopped him with a gesture. Then Lincoln walked the length of the room, very slowly, looking to left and right, with his dreamy smile. At the end of the room, he turned and faced the wounded men; then, slowly, he removed his hat. All eyes that could see now saw him, and recognized him.

  When Lincoln spoke, the famous trumpet-voice was muted; even intimate. “I am Abraham Lincoln.” There was a long collective sigh of wonder and of tension and of …? Washburne had never heard a sound quite like it. “I know that you have fought gallantly for what you believe in, and for that I honor you, and for your wounds so honorably gained. I feel no anger in my heart toward you; and trust you feel none for me. That is why I am here. That is why I am willing to take the hand, in friendship, of any man among you.”

  The same long sigh, like a rising wind, began; and still no one spoke. Then a man on crutches approached the President and, in perfect silence, shook his hand. Others came forward, one by one; and each took Lincoln’s hand; and to each he murmured something that the man alone could hear.

  At the end, as Lincoln made his way between the beds, stopping to talk to those who could not move, half of the men were in tears, as was Washburne himself.

  In the last bed by the door, a young officer turned his back on the President, who touched his shoulder, and murmured, “My son, we shall all be the same at the end.” Then the President was gone.

  HAY ADMIRED the tactful way in which the Tycoon had convinced Madam that she ought, for her health as well as her shopping, to spend election week in New York City, at the Metropolitan Hotel, with Tad and Keckley and John Watt, who still worked at the Mansion though his name no longer appeared on the payroll. When Madam wondered whether or not such a trip might be considered a flaw in her mourning for Willie, the Ancient had said that the mourning would continue no matter where she might physically be; after all, he had worn his band of mourning while at Antietam and Frederick, Maryland.

  On the day that Madam was to leave, she summoned Hay, through Stoddard, who looked more haggard than usual. “What’s it about?” Hay asked; but if Stoddard knew, he was not about to spoil Hay’s suspense; he was not telling.

  Madam was telling. Most telling, thought Hay, as he stood respectfully in the upstairs Oval Room while Madam explained to him her plan. “You know the difficulties that we have had in maintaining the Mansion as it ought to be.” Hay acknowledged that rumors had come his way to that effect. But Madam was not listening. Whenever the subject was money, she tended to speak rapidly, as if she herself had become like one of her mediums and the words of some long-dead demon of avarice were now tripping off her tongue. “Today one of the stewards—James Trimble—has told Mr. Watt that he will leave us, as of the first of this month. I see no reason why his name cannot be left on the Mansion payroll, and his salary continue to be collected.”

  Hay realized that it was not a dead demon but a living one named Watt who now spoke with Madam’s tongue. “But how can money be collected in the name of someone who is no longer here?” Hay blinked his eyes; innocently, he hoped.

  “It has been done since Washington’s time.” Hay was always amazed at Madam’s ignorance of American history in general and of that of the Mansion in particular, whose first occupant had been not Washington but John Adams. “It was certainly done during Mr. Buchanan’s Administration, and Mr. Pierce’s, too …”

  And any other president who had had the bad luck to employ John Watt, thought Hay. “I must look into this, of course, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “But I’m leaving today, and so is Mr. Watt. The fact that the steward Trimble is no longer here must not be sent on to the Treasury. Otherwise”—she was now sweet reason itself—“they will stop the salary from coming to the Mansion.”

  “Who, in theory, do you see collecting the money in Trimble’s name?”

  “I shall collect it, of course. The Mansion is my responsibility, after all. The money is for the nation, Mr. Hay, not me.”

  “I wonder how that will look to Congress.”

  “Why should it look like anything to Congress, Mr. Hay?” Madam was now beginning her transformation to Hellcat. The breath came fast. The cheeks had turned a dull brick-red. The eyes were wide open and glassy. She moved abruptly up and down the room like a bird trying to escape—from herself? “After all, Mr. Hay, this is not exactly unusual.”

  “Well, I don’t know about past administrations, of course …”

  “I mean, sir, this Administration. You yourself are here under the falsest of pretenses. Since Congress does not give the President the money to pay for two secretaries, he has, illegally I daresay you would call it, given you a clerkship at the Interior Department to pay you for your work here, which Congress has not authorized. I fail to see the slightest difference between my using Mr. Trimble’s salary to help pay for the Mansion and Mr. Lincoln using the Interior Department’s money for you to work here.”

  Hay was stunned by so much specious logic. “There is a difference,” he began.

  “None!” The Hellcat finished. “Th
ere is none, sir. It is the same. The wording for appropriations remains always the same even though the original uses for the money are altered.” Hay recognized the familiar echo of perfect government corruption in that by-rote-repeated sentence. “You would not allow us to touch the stationery fund, which the First Lady customarily spends as she sees fit, as did my predecessor, Miss Lane. You leave me no choice but to use the steward’s salary, in this same way that the President uses the Interior Department salary …”

  At that moment every bell in the Mansion began to ring. “My God!” exclaimed the Hellcat, covering her ears. “What is it?”

  The question was the same in every part of the White House. Even the President, standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door to his office, said, “What is it?” to Edward, who did not know, nor did Nicolay. But Hay suspected. He hurried up the steep stairs to the attic where all of the Mansion’s bells were controlled and there, as he had suspected, he found Tad manipulating the network of cords and wires. Somehow, the child had managed to set every bell off at once. Hay gave the delighted Tad as serious a shaking as he dared; and called for help. “It’s really very easy,” said Tad, as one of the White House maintenance men started to work on the confusion of wires. “But you have to know how, of course, it all works, which I do and Johnny here don’t.”

  The carriage that drove to the depot First Lady, First Brat, Elizabeth Keckley and John Watt was not at all mourned by the secretaries, who watched the carriage turn right into Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “It was a stroke of genius, getting her out of here for the election.” Nicolay held close to his stomach a sheaf of hostile editorials.

  “Or for any other time. Guess what she’s asked for?” Nicolay guessed wrong. Hay told him. Nicolay whistled. “Watt’s behind this,” said Hay, summing up.

  “We really must get rid of him before …”

  “He gets rid of us,” said Hay.

  “Before he embarrasses the Tycoon.” Nicolay placed the unfavorable editorials next to the stack of favorable cuttings, which was very small by comparison. “The problem is that Mr. Watt lied to save the Hellcat; and she is loyal. I’m told he’s been able to buy himself a greenhouse in New York City.”