by Gore Vidal
As the senators milled about the room, Hay was close enough to Lincoln to hear Trumbull mutter indignantly in the Tycoon’s ear, “Chase sang quite a different tune with us before!” Lincoln smiled; and said nothing.
Fessenden remained behind, after the others had left. Hay made himself invisible at his small table beside the door. “Mr. President, you have asked my opinion about Seward’s removal. I never really answered you because there is a rumor that he has already resigned, and if he has, that’s the end of that.”
“I thought I told you last night that he’d resigned,” said Lincoln. “Fact, I have the resignation in my pocket. But I haven’t made it public, and I haven’t accepted it.”
“Then, Mr. President, the real question is whether or not you intend to ask him to withdraw his resignation?”
“Yes,” said the President; and his ordinarily restless body was now very still in its chair.
“You have heard us on the subject. Since Seward has asked to go, it will be upon your head to keep him. He lost my confidence long before you appointed him and had you consulted me in advance I would have advised against appointing him.”
“Well,” said Lincoln, thoughtfully, “I didn’t have the opportunity to consult you.”
“I realize that, sir. But you knew my views—our views—through Mr. Trumbull. We took it for granted that you would advise with us before you made your Cabinet, but you did not. Now, on this issue, whether you should accept the resignation of Mr. Seward, would you like me to consult my fellow-senators?”
“No,” said the President. “I would not.” He unfolded himself from his chair until he towered over the slight New Englander. “I want to have good relations. That is why I have done something tonight that no president has ever done before, and I pray that none will ever be obliged to do again. I have let you into the heart of the executive, to see us as we are. But that is the most I can do to show good faith and openness.”
“You are aware, sir, that a majority of our caucus want Mr. Chase at the helm of a cabinet composed of new members, who will prosecute the war with a single will.”
Lincoln looked down at Fessenden. The left eye had begun to droop with weariness but the voice was very hard and very clear. “That is what you and your friends may want, Mr. Fessenden. But that is not what you will get. Because,” Lincoln suddenly smiled without the slightest trace of amiability; a smile, thought Hay, reminiscent of the wolf as it bares its teeth, “I am the master here. Good-night, Mr. Fessenden.” Lincoln took the senator’s hand.
The shaken Fessenden, bowed; and said, “Good-night, Mr. President.” When Fessenden was gone, Lincoln dropped like a felled tree onto the lounge. “There are times when I wish I was dead,” he sighed, “and this is one.”
“It was a famous victory, sir.” Hay was elated. “Mr. Chase was tonguetied.”
“But these famous victories do mightily drain the victor; and I’m not in the clear just yet. Tomorrow … ‘And tomorrow and tomorrow …’ ” As the Ancient recited his favorite Shakespeare aria, Hay knew that more surprises awaited Mr. Chase and his fellow conspirators.
AS FOR CHASE, he sat alone in his study, beneath the framed holograph of Queen Victoria’s letter, composing his own letter of resignation from the Cabinet. He had been made a fool of by Lincoln in front of his senatorial allies. Further, he had known from Stanton that Seward had already resigned; and that Stanton might, pro forma if nothing else, do the same. It was clear that if the Cabinet was to be begun anew, presumably with himself as its chief, they must all, of their own free will, depart. As Chase signed his name with a flourish, he could not help but cringe at the way that Lincoln had forced him to back down; and to contradict himself. Actually, the truth of the matter was as he had told the senators. They were by no means always consulted, and the meetings were usually casual to the point of incoherence. But Lincoln knew that Chase dared not say this in front of his colleagues, none of whom liked him except the highly unreliable Stanton. Whatever Chase had said, the others would have denied. The blood was beating in his temples as he sealed the letter.
The blood was again beating in Chase’s temples when he obeyed a presidential summons to join Stanton and Welles in Lincoln’s office. Chase sat beside Stanton on a sofa facing the bright fire. Welles sat on a sofa to one side. The three men chatted, awkwardly. Stanton had been to see Seward. “He seems pleased with himself. He had a copy of the Herald, which says that I’m the next to go after what happened at Fredericksburg. Apparently, if it were not for my hostility to McClellan, the war would have been won a long time ago. Apparently, I refuse to support Burnside because I am a Democrat …” Stanton continued in this self-pitying vein, much to Chase’s disgust. The political future of one Edwin M. Stanton was, perhaps, the least important aspect of the current crisis, while the failure of Chase was inextricably bound with the unique moral issue of the abolition of slavery. There was a profound difference between them, thought Chase sourly, glancing at Welles, who looked, as always, to be disapproving of him.
Nicolay announced the President. The men rose. Lincoln seemed no more rested than he had been at one o’clock that same morning. He took a chair beside the fire. “Well, Mr. Chase, that was quite an ordeal for all of us last night.”
“For me, certainly.” Chase had vowed not to show his indignation; and, promptly, gave way to it. “I had not expected to be so questioned before the world.”
“Hardly the world,” said Welles.
“The world we deal with will know every word that was said. Not,” Chase added, “that there was anything said that any of us need be ashamed of. I spoke, as always, from the heart.”
“While Senator Fessenden spoke from what sounded to me like some sort of conspiracy,” said Lincoln. “That is what most disturbed me. If they force me to let Seward go, then I lose the majority of our party which is moderate like Seward—and me. If I were to keep Seward and you, Mr. Chase, were to go, I would lose the radical element of the party, which is also the most brilliant. I must have both elements in the Cabinet. I have also been well pleased with both of you, and the balance you have given me.”
“Well, sir, I shall perfect your balance.” Chase sat up very straight; he was aware of Stanton’s anxious wheezing at his side. “I have prepared my own resignation.”
To Chase’s amazement, the President leapt to his feet. “Where is it?” he asked, without one word of surprise or sorrow or compliment.
“I have it here with me.” Chase removed the envelope slowly from his pocket.
Lincoln practically tore the envelope from his hand. “Let me have it!” Then Lincoln read aloud the gracious and dignified two sentences of resignation, signed S. P. Chase. Lincoln clapped his hands, gleefully. “Well, that cuts the Gordian knot all right!”
Stanton then began to gasp; and speak. “Mr. President, as I told you day before yesterday, I am prepared to tender my own resignation …”
“Nonsense, Mars. I don’t want yours. Go back to work and find me Burnside.” He waved the letter. “This is all I want. This is all I need. Now I’ve got me perfect balance, as the farmer said when he put the second pumpkin in his saddlebag.”
“I don’t understand,” said Chase, who understood only that he had been, in some obscure way, outmaneuvered yet again by the President.
“You and Seward have both resigned. So the Cabinet doesn’t lean too far one way or too far the other. It is just the way every farmer likes his saddle. It is just the way I like it.”
Chase rose with, he hoped, Roman dignity. “It has been an honor, Mr. President, to have served you in these harrowing times, and to …”
To Chase’s amazement, Lincoln had consigned his dignified and gracious resignation to the fire. Then the President took from the mantelpiece a second sheet of paper, which he also burned. As the four men watched the edges of the letters curl into red and yellow flame, Lincoln said, “You are both soldiers in a war. I am the Commander-in-Chief. I need you both. Will you desert?”
Although Chase could barely speak, he was able to force from his throat a negative pleasing to the President, who had for the moment so entirely routed him.
TEN
I WISH, sir, to cross the Rappahannock at the place I have noted on the map.” Burnside crossed his arms and stood, a monument to defiance, the unfinished monument to Washington behind him in the distance.
Lincoln looked at the map; looked at Burnside. “You would move now?”
“As soon as possible. But one thing stops me.”
“The weather?” Lincoln looked out the window at the unseasonably warm drizzle that fell on the mud-sea that had once been the White House lawn. It was the first day of January, 1863. The President was already dressed for the long day’s reception, which would also mark the official end of Mary’s mourning.
“I am content with that, sir. No, it is my officers, particularly General Hooker. I have not their support. Hooker makes trouble. He speaks of the need for a dictator here in Washington; and for another in the field.”
“Well, that is novel at least. Most of our would-be dictators only favor one.” Lincoln pushed the map away. “Mr. Stanton and General Halleck will be joining us in a few minutes. I have certain misgivings about recrossing the river in this weather …”
“Should those misgivings seem to you to be justifiable, then, sir, I think you should relieve me of a command that I never wanted.” The highly agitated Burnside kept folding and unfolding his arms, and tugging his huge moustaches.
“I am sure that it has not come to that, General.” Lincoln was mild.
But Burnside was not. “It is plain that what I’ve lost, I won’t recapture—the esteem of my commanders. I suggest that I go. I also suggest that Stanton and Halleck also go, as they have lost the confidence of the country. I have put all this in a letter to you.” At that moment, Edward showed in Stanton and Halleck.
Burnside looked straight at Stanton and said, “Sir, I have written a letter to the President.” Burnside produced the letter from his tunic. “In which I have asked to be relieved of the command of the Army of the Potomac. I have also made it clear to the President that I believe you, sir, and you, General Halleck, should both be removed from office, as you have lost not only the confidence of the country but that of the officers in the army.” Burnside gave Lincoln the letter.
Stanton maintained, for him, great calm. “I don’t see, General, how your failure at Fredericksburg is in any real way our responsibility, even though we have, as your superiors, shouldered it. It’s true that there are those in the country who would like all of us gone, including the President, but I doubt if these people are in any way a majority. If they are, we shall all be dismissed in due course.”
During this, Lincoln sat carefully reading Burnside’s letter. Meanwhile, the general was working himself into an even higher emotional state. “I should think, Mr. Stanton, that the divisions between you and General Halleck would be enough for one of you, at least, to want the other gone just as the feud between you and General McClellan caused him to go.”
On this, Lincoln looked up from the letter. “I dismissed McClellan, not Mr. Stanton.”
“But, sir, McClellan was constantly undermined by Mr. Stanton. Everyone in the army knows that. As for General Halleck, I can only say that he must not find it easy to work with Mr. Stanton, who, back in California, called General Halleck a perjurer when he was superintendent of the New Almaden quicksilver mine.”
“General Burnside,” Stanton’s voice was agreeably low and controlled, “your knowledge of ancient—and arcane—corporate history is uncanny. But it is modem military history that we are trying to make. Keep to the task at hand; and do not concern yourself with the relations between General Halleck and me.”
“Sir, it is a fact that your personal relations with people color everything you do, and that no general can ever take the field confident that he is protected at his rear from you.”
“Gentlemen.” Lincoln folded the letter, and gave it back to Burnside. “I will not accept this letter, written in such heat, and out of such understandable distress. Let us act as if none of this took place.”
“But, sir, it has!” Burnside was vehement.
“Well, then all the more reason for us to pretend that nothing has happened. Anyway, I have no intention of losing three men so useful to me, not to mention the nation.” Lincoln got up and arranged the map of Virginia on the table. “Gentlemen, General Burnside wants to cross the Rappahannock as soon as possible, below Fredericksburg. Here on the map.” Stanton and Halleck looked at the map. Burnside looked at himself in a mirror, and pushed at the edges of the great moustaches. “I myself worry about the weather at this time of the year. But I will leave it to you to decide, General Halleck.”
“I must consider the matter, sir.” Halleck was more than ever lugubrious.
“Of course. It is not a decision to be made in an instant. I hope, General Burnside, you will stay for the reception.”
But Burnside chose to return to the army. “You know my views, sir,” were his parting words.
“Indeed I do,” said Lincoln. When Burnside was gone, Lincoln turned to Halleck. “What do you think?”
“I think,” said Halleck, carefully and mournfully, “that I would rather that the decision to cross the river not be mine.”
Lincoln frowned. “General Halleck, I called you here and made you general-in-chief just so that you would be able to make this sort of decision for me.”
Halleck’s watery eyes focussed on the President. “Sir, if you are not satisfied with my performance …”
“Enough! Enough!” Lincoln turned from the map. “I am sick of resignations. Come, gentlemen. Let’s go to Mrs. Lincoln’s reception.”
Seward and his son prepared for the reception by getting in order the Proclamation of Emancipation, which, at some point that day, the President would sign.
As Secretary of State, Seward had already signed the document; an agreeable piece of work, he thought, although Lincoln had once again left the Deity out of the original draft. But this time it was Chase not Seward who had inserted Him. Chase had produced the final paragraph: “And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice warranted by the Constitution, and an act of duty demanded by the circumstance of the country, I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind, and the gracious favor of Almighty God.” Lincoln had then slyly added the phrase “upon military necessity” after the word “Constitution.” He was still not about to be linked to the abolitionists. The freeing of the slaves was a military act and nothing more, as the President demonstrated when he proceeded to exempt not only a number of Louisiana parishes, as a favor to a Louisiana congressman who was a Unionist, but seven Virginia counties in and around Norfolk, where the pro-Union elements had persuaded the President that slavery ought to be maintained.
Seward had thought Lincoln typically illogical; but he had made no issue of the matter. On the other hand, Chase had balefully said that it was by no means certain that Lincoln’s Louisiana friend would even be allowed by Congress to take his seat in the House. Lincoln had been much irritated by this; and said that he would not be dictated to by Congress. As a result, slavery still flourished in those parts of Louisiana and Virginia under Union control, as well as in all of the border-states.
The abolitionists hated the document for its inconsistency. What was the point to freeing slaves in another country when you would not free them in your own? Many of the moderates were displeased because they feared turbulence among the Negro population in every part of the Union. Nevertheless, Seward felt the document more useful than not. After all, it had been carefully designed by him, as well as by Lincoln, to influence, favorably, the European powers.
“Fred, fetch me the Great Seal of the United States.” Seward now slipped on his frock coat. Then father and son—and the Great Seal in its small leather case—went across the avenue to the White House, where carriages were still coming and going at a gr
eat rate.
The sky was now clear; and the day warm as spring. Old Edward showed them into the main hall, filled with bemedalled diplomats and bejewelled ladies. “The President says, will you please be waiting for him upstairs in his office.” Bowing amiably to right and left, Seward and son went up the stairs. In the President’s office they found Hay. Then, a moment later, Lincoln and Nicolay entered the room. The President peeled off his white gloves and said, ruefully, holding up his huge right hand, “I’ve been shaking hands for three hours, and I’m swollen like a poisoned pup.”
“Well, sir, relax your fingers. It is a pity we have no pianoforte for you to play. The limbering finger exercises are, to me, a joy, after I have been at large amongst the democracy,” said Seward, arranging the document on the table while Fred withdrew the Great Seal from its container and Hay lit a kerosene burner so that the red wax for the seal could be softened in a miniature pan.
Lincoln made some flourishes in the air with a pen. “Now,” he said, poising the pen over the page, “everyone is going to look at this signature when it is reproduced in the papers, and they are going to say, ‘Was he nervous or hesitant?’ not knowing that my hand and arm are sore. So I must write slowly and carefully, like this.” With that, he carefully inscribed his name in a bold dark ink. Then he frowned at the result. “It looks a bit tremulous,” he said.
“It is splendid, sir,” said Seward. “Now, Fred, the seal.” Duly, and a bit messily, the red wax was dribbled onto the parchment and the seal impressed.
“Now, sir, you are immortal,” said Nicolay,
“At least you are immortal for one entire edition of the New York Tribune,” said Seward, blithely.
“Let us see what the London Times will say.” Lincoln turned to Hay. “John, have you that cutting from the Times, when I announced that I was going to release the Proclamation?”
Hay found the cutting in one of the pigeonholes of the desk; and read aloud: “ ‘Is Lincoln yet a name not known to us as it will be known to posterity and is it ultimately to be classed among the catalogue of monsters, the wholesale assassins and butchers of their kind?’ ”
