Lincoln

by Gore Vidal

  “But does he know about finances?”

  “Well, he was a good governor of Ohio, and he made himself a fortune in business. I’m willing to trust him.” Lincoln gave Hay the message for the Senate. He then placed Chase’s letter in the pigeonhole marked “C.” “I suppose, sooner or later, there is bound to be a resignation that is accepted.”

  “Why did you accept this one, sir?”

  “How could he and I have gone on after all that has happened between us? Also, the sense of his letter to me is, ‘You have been acting very badly. Unless you say you are sorry, and ask me to stay and agree that I shall be absolute and that you shall have nothing, no matter how you beg for it, I go.’ Well, he is gone now.”

  Hay told Nicolay what had happened. Nicolay shook his head with disbelief. Then he said, somewhat grimly, “If I had the money, I’d buy gold today.”

  Hay rode alone to the Capitol in the presidential carriage. Early as the day was, the sun was hot, while with each shallow reluctant breath, Hay was haunted by the ghosts of the millions of cats who had given their lives that the nearby canal might exude its distinctive odor.

  At the door to the Senate chamber, Hay paused. While the chaplain exhorted the Almighty, the senators fanned themselves listlessly; the galleries were empty. When the chaplain finally boomed forth his “Amen,” John Forney turned to Hay. “Is there a message? From the President?”

  Hay nodded; and gave it to Forney.

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Look and see.”

  Forney looked and saw; and whistled. Hay hurried back to the carriage. He did not want to be caught in the storm that was about to break over Congress.

  As the carriage passed Seventh Street, Hay saw Azadia coming out of a milliner’s. He took off his hat in order to hide his face; but he was too late. Azadia smiled; and curtseyed. He waved his hat politely. He knew that she knew who he was. Would she talk? Perhaps Mr. Eames was right. Perhaps he should marry. But who? After all, at present John Hay was the most important young man in Washington, not counting the Prince of Rails, who was at Harvard. But when the Tycoon’s first term ended, he would be no one at all. Both Nicolay and Hay had told the President that after four years he should break in new secretaries. The Tycoon had been sad but not grief-stricken. He had also realized that if either man was to have a proper career, he must start soon. Each thought that he might edit a small-town newspaper; and go into politics. Meanwhile, Major Hay might yet see action in the war; and then return to Florida and, as a new congressman, escort that exotic state back into the Union. He had not been discouraged by his recent failure to get elected; nor had the Tycoon, who thought it worth a second try.

  At Sixth and E, Chase was helping Sprague write his somewhat belated answer to the Blair attack. Sprague had been silent during the furor that had followed upon Blair’s assault. Presently, on July 4, Sprague would rise in the Senate and answer each of the charges, including the ones against himself as the recipient of a trade permit from his father-in-law. Chase reread their common work with satisfaction. “I believe the case well made,” he said. “But,” he quoted from scripture, “ ‘Oh, for more faith and clearer sight! How stable is the City of God! How disordered is the City of Man!’ ”

  Sprague’s only answer was, “I wish I had Fred Ives here. He can write a speech like nobody’s business.”

  Chase thought this somewhat tactless in the light of the composition at hand, which was largely his own doing. Kate joined them in the study. “Father, the carriage is ready. You won’t have breakfast?”

  “No, I said I’d break my fast with General Schenk and General Garfield.” Although Chase was not able to see her features clearly, he was able to detect her pallor and thinness. Ever since the collapse of his presidential campaign, Kate had been withdrawn and listless. Their only hope now was the still unofficial convocation of true Republicans in September. If Grant had not shown interest by then, there would be a powerful movement among the Republicans to replace Lincoln. As always, Chase was ready to do what duty required.

  Duty with Generals Schenk and Garfield was done at breakfast at the National Hotel. Chase then drove to his office, where he found a message from Senator Fessenden. Could he come immediately to the Capitol? Chase drove through the African heat, softly singing to himself a lament for Zion’s city, and reading a memorial from Fessenden on the repeal of the so-called Gold Bill.

  Alone, Chase crossed the echoing rotunda where two soldiers were testing the acoustics by singing a martial song. Chase stood and waited until he was recognized; and shook hands all around. Then, as a former senator, he entered the Chamber, where the business of the day was proceeding in a desultory fashion. As there were a number of finance bills coming to vote, his presence was unremarkable. Chase shook more hands and then withdrew to the nearby cloakroom, a long, narrow space where, in comfortable leather chairs, the Senate’s real work was done.

  A Vermont senator cornered Chase. “Fessenden’s not back yet. I can’t speak for him, of course, but I’m against any increase in taxes. The people won’t support it.”

  While Chase spoke soothingly of the need for taxes in wartime, Fessenden joined them. But before he could discuss the Gold Bill with Chase, a messenger approached him and said, “Sir, you’re wanted on the floor.”

  Fessenden excused himself, as did the Vermonter. The messenger looked at Chase curiously. Then he asked, “Sir, have you resigned?”

  Chase was so startled that he both stammered and lisped. “I have tendered, yes, my resignation. But I have not heard that it was accepted.”

  “It was accepted, sir. I’m sorry to say, sir. The President has already sent the Senate the name of your successor.”

  “And … and …” Chase’s humiliation was now complete. He was obliged to ask a Senate messenger the name of his successor. “Whose name did the President send over?”

  “Governor Tod, sir. Oh, I am sorry, sir.”

  “A distinguished and honorable man,” said Chase, appalled. “And, of course, a Democrat.”

  There was subdued panic in the opulent soon-to-be-vacated office at the Treasury. Field was, literally, wringing his hands, something that Chase had only read of. “It is a calamity, Mr. Chase! And I am the cause.”

  Chase quite agreed with both sentiment and analysis; but he chose to rise above mere emotion. “My days have been numbered since the Baltimore convention, when I ceased to be of any more value to the President.” Then Chase read the President’s letter: “Your letter of resignation of the office of the Secretary of the Treasury sent me yesterday is accepted.” Chase felt faint. Could these terrible words be at last before his eyes, each relentlessly formed by the familiar hand? “Of all I have said in commendation of your ability and fidelity I have nothing to unsay; and yet you and I have reached a point of mutual embarrassment in our official relations which it seems cannot be overcome or longer sustained consistently with the public service.” That was that. Because he had refused to allow the Treasury to be a part of the spoils system as practised by the New York politicos, he was now sacrificed. Chase wrote Stanton—his one ally—a note hoping that he would not resign, too, out of sympathy; which meant, of course, that he hoped he would.

  At the White House, Washburne was apoplectic. “Of all times to let him go, this is the worst!” Washburne marched about the room waving his arms, while the President sat meekly at his writing table. “We have no tax program. The currency is collapsing. Whoever is secretary of the treasury must know how to raise one hundred million dollars a month, which Chase could do. Grant has turned into McClellan—temporarily, I pray. The war news is all bad, and the Jacobins are threatening to hold a Republican convention in September to put up their own candidate, who will now be Chase!”

  Washburne had a great deal more to say; and said it. Then Hay announced the presence of the entire Senate Finance Committee in the Reception Room. Since eleven o’clock that morning, Hay had decided that the Tycoon had made a major error in letting
Chase depart at a moment when the country’s finances were in total disarray, while Washburne was positive that their ramshackle Union party could very easily split in two, making it possible for the Democrat McClellan to win.

  Finally, Lincoln rose. “Brother Washburne, don’t fret. All is for the best, believe me. Now I just saw our friend Congressman Hooper in the waiting room. I’m not going to have a chance to talk to him today, but I know he’s a friend of Chase, and he’s a friend of yours. Tell him that I’d be obliged if he were to call on Mr. Chase this afternoon, and reassure Mr. Chase that my esteem for him continues unabated, despite our … embarrassments.” Lincoln smiled at the word. “He is also to say that I recall very well Mr. Chase’s remark to me that the one other office that he would most like in all this world is that of chief justice, and that I have it in mind, should Mr. Taney ever die, to appoint Mr. Chase.”

  Washburne’s wrath at Lincoln suddenly evaporated. “You would do this?”

  Lincoln nodded.

  “Well, if he thinks that you will make him chief justice, I don’t suppose there’s much chance of his trying to run against you this year.”

  “I would reckon none at all. So you go talk to Mr. Hooper, while I let the senators in there tell me my business.” Lincoln opened the door to the Reception Room. Washburne could hear the sounds of men rising and greetings being exchanged. Then he sought out Mr. Hooper in the crowded waiting room; and the netting of Salmon Portland Chase began.

  If the Tycoon had made a mistake in letting Chase escape from the Treasury at a desperate moment in the country’s finances, he certainly did not show the slightest unease with the five senators from the Finance Committee. In fact, it was their chairman, Fessenden, who seemed most distraught. “I cannot imagine a worse time, sir,” he echoed Washburne, “to let him go.” The hard, thin New England face looked, to Hay’s unaffectionate eye, like that of an undernourished goat. “We have the Gold Bill before Congress. We have the various tax and trade proposals. We have need of Mr. Chase’s wise counsels.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Lincoln, amiably, omitting the expected “we.” “And I’m sure that he will share them with you.”

  “But as secretary of the treasury, he was could have salvaged our position. Now you have let him go.” Senator Conness glared at the President.

  The Tycoon spread wide his arms, as if to show that there was nothing up either sleeve. “How was I to stop him? This was his third or fourth resignation.”

  “You should have appealed to his patriotism,” said Fessenden.

  “Should I have?” Lincoln was ironical. “Well, I seem never to have you at my side when I need you, to tell me what I should be doing. Anyway, Governor Tod has been nominated by me. You now have the duty and responsibility of passing on his fitness.”

  There was a confused conversation about the merits of Governor Tod. Hay could see that the committee did not dare reject so powerful a politician but that Fessenden was displeased. Finally, the Tycoon ended the meeting with the announcement that he could not in justice to himself or to Tod withdraw the nomination.

  But that evening Tod telegraphed to say that he must decline the office, as his health was not good. “Well, that was unexpected.” The Tycoon was morose.

  Hay was anxious. “I think the Senate’s holding a night session, and I think that they might just reject Tod. So don’t you think I should …”

  “Yes,” said the President.

  The Senate side of the Capitol was ablaze with gaslight; numerous senators and lobbyists were ablaze with drink. But Fessenden was all cold, sea-green, Robespierrian sobriety. Hay met him at the swinging doors to the chamber. “Governor Tod has declined the post. The President thought you should know.”

  “Well, that shows the governor’s got better sense than I thought. Who’s next?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  At ten-thirty the next morning, Fessenden was seated in Hay’s office when an usher whispered to Hay that the President wanted him.

  Hay found the Tycoon in a buoyant mood. The departure of Chase had rejuvenated him. The President gave Hay an envelope. “Here, John, take this nomination down to the Senate. I think they’ll be pleased, for once.”

  “Who is it, sir?”

  “Fessenden.”

  Hay was astonished. “Why, he’s in my office right now.”

  “Well, that’s a nice coincidence, isn’t it? Personally, I think the choice is inspired, if I say so myself. He’s chairman of the Finance Committee. He knows the problems. He is a radical, but he lacks the usual petulance and vicious fractionalism of the breed. He’s also going to have a hard time getting reelected back in Maine if Mr. Hamlin decides to go to the Senate.” The Tycoon was indeed delighted with himself; and Hay thought that he had every reason to be, if Fessenden accepted.

  “You may go in, Senator,” said Hay to the dignified Yankee, who little knew what fate had in store for him.

  At Sixth and E, slipcovers had been placed over all the furniture and steamer trunks crowded the vestibule where once all that glittered in Washington had glittered. Kate moved like a ghost through the hot, dusty rooms. Since Sprague had ceased, for the moment, to drink, he tended to dourness. Kate had wanted to retreat as rapidly as possible to Europe, but Sprague thought that they should go instead to Newport, Rhode Island, now that Congress was adjourned. Sprague’s speech defending Chase had been a great success, only slightly marred by the fact that Chase had ceased to be Secretary of the Treasury five days before. In any case, since Sprague now anticipated a change in the laws regarding the purchase of Southern cotton, he did not dare go abroad. Kate gave way, more from physical than from moral weakness.

  The world has turned unreal, thought Chase, as he made his way through the shrouded furniture to his study, where Senator Sumner waited for him. There were few visitors nowadays. Only Stanton from the Cabinet had been—or so he said—sorry that Chase was gone, erased, as it were, from power if not from History’s dusty tablets. The rest of the Cabinet had responded to his departure with indecent rejoicing. Pomeroy and Garfield were loyal—and Sumner, whose bodyguard was just out of earshot in the second parlor. “Oh, my friend! My friend!” Sumner appeared to have tears in his eyes.

  “It is over,” said Chase, with what he hoped was Roman dignity and brevity. For once, the “is” was “is” and not the dreaded inadvertent “ish.”

  “You have been with Fessenden?”

  Chase nodded. “I do what I can to help him settle in. He is worthy, I think. We both agree that the American people may revolt should we place a tax on their incomes of more than ten percent, but he will hold as steadily to this course as ever I did.”

  Sumner nodded. “Where will you go now?”

  “Home to where I was born—the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I must think …”

  “While you restore yourself, we shall be at work for you here. There is now a plan to hold a new convention at the end of September. Then …” Sumner clapped his hands.

  But Chase was torn. As the true Republican candidate for president, he could destroy Lincoln. But then would McClellan not destroy him and all the work that the abolitionists had accomplished? Of course if he did nothing he would probably be chief justice. But was it right to do nothing to prevent the reelection of a president whose idiotic notion to colonize the Negroes outside North America was not only immoral but would wreck the national economy? Was it right not to oppose a pro-Southern President who had only that week refused to sign Congress’s Reconstruction Bill, which was an outright attack on his own amnesty for the rebels’ program? Was it right to permit Lincoln to allow the rebel states, defeated in battle, to return to the Union as if nothing had happened and with slavery, in some way, continued or even briefly condoned?

  Chase appealed, silently, to the Lord of Hosts to show him a sign; but all that he got was an historical analogy from Senator Sumner. “Of all the rulers of recent times that I can recall Lincoln is most like Louis XVI. The stor
m is all about him, but he does nothing.”

  “I had not thought of him as Louis XVI, but it is quite true that when he likes to say ‘my policy is to have no policy’ or ‘I do not control events, events control me,’ he certainly resembles that … headless monarch.”

  “Just as you resemble the king’s brilliant finance minister, Necker. And I predict that, like Necker, he will be forced to ask you back.”

  “If Lincoln were king, I might agree,” said Chase. “But he is not king but politician. And I am gone for good.”

  FIVE

  ON SUNDAY, July 10, 1864, shortly before midnight, John Hay was awakened by Robert Lincoln getting into his bed. “What’s happened?” was Hay’s first sleepy response.

  “Stanton,” said Robert; he wore only his shirt. “We were all ordered out of the Soldiers’ Home. The rebels are at Silver Spring. God, I hate this place.” Then Robert turned onto his side and went to sleep; and slept, thought the now wide-awake Hay, like his father. All night long there were sighs and moans; so unlike Nicolay’s familiar snoring, rhythmic as a steady rain. But Nico was at the west, enraging the Indians; and now Robert lay in Nico’s place.

  At dawn, Robert sprang out of bed, fresh and rested, while Hay was exhausted. As they took turns shaving at the single mirror in the bathroom, Robert asked if the Canterbury girls were still performing The Bushwhackers of the Potomac, a singularly lewd production which they had both enjoyed several days earlier. In fact, thanks to Hay’s Virgilian knowledge of Washington’s circles of infernal pleasure, they had actually met and supped with a number of the girls. Hay knew where at least one of them was always to be found. But, “We may all be leaving the city today,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t think Father has any intention of budging.” Robert carefully reshaped the corners of his moustaches.

  “Look,” said Hay, pointing out the window. Back of the Smithsonian Institution, a gunboat rode at anchor. “That’s for the evacuation of the White House.”