by Gore Vidal
“If we get away,” said Atzerodt, the least enthusiastic of the lot.
“If we don’t, we don’t. But I think we will. Particularly if they go to Ford’s Theater, where I’ve already got two horses that Ned Spangler’s seeing to. With David here, we’ll cross over into Maryland, and with his knowledge of the roads, we’ll soon be with our friends in Richmond, Yankees or no Yankees.”
David had, by now, convinced himself that he knew every road that there was to Richmond. Actually, in the last six months, he had spent a good deal of time in Maryland with John Surratt, and he was reasonably certain that he could get Wilkes safely through to Richmond. He was surprised at how little fear he felt. But then had he not twice tried to poison Old Abe? Or at least that was what the people who most mattered to him thought that he had done, which was almost as good as actually having done it.
Then Lewis Payne, in his soft voice, proposed that they drink the captain’s health for “He is the last of the heroes of our cause—and the most immortal.” They all drank to Booth.
As they drank to Booth and immortality, Abraham Lincoln was dreaming of death. As usual, he was sleeping lightly, alone in a small room off the large bedroom where Mary slept in the huge carved wooden bed.
Suddenly, Lincoln was awakened by an unnatural stillness in the old house, where planks never ceased creaking or rats moving about in the walls. He opened his eyes in the dark. For an instant, he wondered if he might not be dead and in the grave. Then he heard the sound of sobbing. He got out of bed, and went into Mary’s room. The lights were on; but she was not there. Still in his nightshirt, he went out into the upstairs hall. But neither Lamon nor Crook was on duty. The hall was empty. He looked into the secretary’s room; the bed was empty.
Then he went downstairs to find that the main hall was empty as well; and there were no doorkeepers or ushers or messengers in sight. Finally, he entered the East Room, which was crowded with people. At the room’s center, on a catafalque covered with black velvet, a body lay wrapped in a sheet, the face covered by a cloth.
Grim-faced people were filing past the body. Some were sobbing; others simply stared, horrified. Lincoln crossed to one of the soldiers who stood guard at the room’s entrance. “Who is dead in the White House?” he asked.
“The President,” said the soldier, seeming to look through him, as if he were not visible. “He was killed by an assassin.” Then a woman at the catafalque suddenly shrieked; and Lincoln awakened in his own bed, face covered with sweat. What does that mean? he wondered. Is it I or another? Are dreams the opposite of the future, or the same? He lay for a long time in the dark; and wondered.
ON FRIDAY morning, April 14, 1865, at eleven o’clock, the Cabinet met; General Grant was in attendance; and Fred Seward sat in for his father.
In the secretary’s room, Captain Lincoln sat at Hay’s desk and Hay sat at Nicolay’s desk, now vacant while the consul-general-to-be made a tour of the South on behalf of the Tycoon. Robert Lincoln had placed a handsome portrait of Robert E. Lee over the mantelpiece. “I showed it to Father at breakfast.”
“Was he pleased?”
“He said Lee looked most handsome, and he was glad the war was over.”
“Now we have a new war with the radicals—and Ben Butler.”
Since Lincoln’s speech on the return of Louisiana to the Union, the radicals had been at work. They wanted, very simply, to overthrow the Executive and then dictate through Congress a harsh peace to the South. The endlessly ambitious and brilliantly dishonest Ben Butler had now allied himself with the other Ben, Wade, as well as with Chandler and Stevens and Sumner and the whole canting crew. Hay was convinced that they would try to make some sort of coup against the Administration. But when he told the Tycoon his fears, Lincoln had only laughed. “I have General Grant and General Sherman and General Sheridan with me. I can’t see what Congress is going to do against them.”
But Lamon was worried. He spoke, darkly, of plots to kill or remove the President. But even Hay thought it unlikely that Ben Butler would go so far as to attempt a military coup. On the other hand, Congress was capable of all sorts of legislative tricks, which would be upheld by Chief Justice Chase, who had, according to Lamon, every characteristic of a dog save loyalty.
“Where is Lamon?” asked Robert.
“Gone on an errand to Richmond.”
Edward entered the office. “It’s been confirmed for tonight,” he said. “Tad and his friends—”
“—who are legion,” said Robert.
“—will go to Grover’s and the President and General Grant and their wives will go to Ford’s. Will you wish to go, Captain?”
“Laura Keene?”
“In Our American Cousin,” said Hay.
“No, thank you.” Edward left the room. Robert turned to Hay. “We might explore the city’s marble alleys together.”
“Why not?” said Hay.
The President was now discussing dreams with the Cabinet. “It is amazing how often dreams are mentioned in the Old and New Testaments …”
“And in Shakespeare,” said Welles, more at home with that author.
Lincoln nodded, absently. Then he turned to General Grant, who sat opposite him at the green-baize-covered table. “I just asked you for news of Sherman in North Carolina because I think we are about to hear of an important victory. You see, before every great event in the war, I have had the same exact most peculiar dream. I am on a singular—an indescribable—vessel, moving rapidly toward an indefinite shore—and I am oarless, and drifting. I had that dream before Sumter, Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Stone River, Vicksburg and Wilmington.”
“Well,” said Grant, dryly, “Stone River was certainly no victory, thanks to Rosecrans, and nothing very great ever came of it. In fact, a few more such fights would have ruined us.”
“We must differ on that,” said Lincoln. “In any case, my dream preceded it.”
“At least,” said Welles, “this time the dream can’t presage a victory or a defeat because the war is over.”
“There are still a few rebels loose,” said Lincoln, unwilling to give up the idea of military news.
“Perhaps, sir,” said Fred Seward, “the dream comes before some great change or disorder, and you feel an uncertainty that enters your dreams.”
“It is a possibility,” said Lincoln.
Stanton then proceeded to demonstrate his usual impatience with dreams, or anything not tangible. He presented the President with a copy of his own plan for the reconstruction of the Union. He had also prepared copies for the other members of the Cabinet. Lincoln took the document; glanced at it; then said, at large, “This is, of course, the single great problem facing us, and we must attend to it as soon as possible. In fact, before Congress comes back in December. We have … nine months.” He smiled. “In which to give birth to a new Union.”
“Something we could hardly do if Ben Wade and the Senate were in session,” said Welles.
“That is why I have made my proposals,” said Stanton. “The organization of Virginia is the key. Once matters are settled satisfactorily there, we shall have the pattern for the rest of the rebel states.”
Welles did not agree. “Virginia is an anomaly. We have controlled a number of the border counties for some time, and we have a pro-Union governor. Although he has not been elected by the rest of the state, I think we should act as if he had been.”
Lincoln agreed. “The problems, of course, will begin in December. If Congress doesn’t like the way we have organized these states, Congress can refuse to seat their delegations. I can’t control what Congress does. But I have the power to maintain order within these states, and I can support their governors, which I will do.”
“And when you do that, Congress will come around,” added Stanton, ominously.
“I hope so.” Lincoln was tentative. “Certainly, I want no bloody work now the war is over. No one need expect me to take part in hanging or killing more men, even the worst of them
.”
“Including Jefferson Davis?” asked Fred Seward.
“Well …” Lincoln looked out the window, as if he might get a glimpse of his one-time rival in flight down the river.
The Postmaster-General suggested that the President would probably not be sorry if the rebel leaders were to leave the country.
Lincoln nodded. “I shouldn’t be at all sorry to have them out of the country, but I’m all for making sure that they do go.”
The Cabinet adjourned at one o’clock. Fred Seward reminded the President that Lord Lyons’s replacement had arrived from London, and would like to present his letters of credential.
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” said Lincoln. “At two o’clock. In the Blue Room. But I’ll want to read the speech you’ve written for me before I give it. We don’t want me to make a bad impression, stumbling over your big words.”
Then Lincoln motioned for General Grant to follow him into his office. “I am sorry,” he said, “about tonight. The press has made a big to-do about us all being together, and everyone will be there to see you.”
“I know they will. I mean, sir,” Grant stammered, “I know they will be there for both of us, but Mrs. Grant is firm. We must take the cars for Philadelphia this afternoon. The children …” Grant trailed off.
“I understand. Well, it cannot be helped. I only said that I’d go because of you and Mrs. Grant, and to please the crowd.”
“The crowd!” Grant suddenly exclaimed. “I am heartily sick of this show business! I have never been so pawed over in my life.”
“You had better get used to it, General.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, I think so.” Lincoln held out his hand. “Good-bye, General.”
“Good-bye, Mr. President.” Grant left. Lincoln entered the closet just off his office; and proceeded to wash his face at the washstand, where Hay found him. “I asked the Speaker of the House for tonight. But he has another engagement.”
“Well, rustle up somebody. And order the carriage for five o’clock.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Johnson is here.”
“Who?” Lincoln dried his face.
“The Vice-President, sir. Should I ask him for tonight?”
Lincoln shook his head; and Hay left the room.
As Andrew Johnson entered the office, Lincoln was studying Stanton’s memorandum. In private, Johnson was more given to silence than in public, where the sight of an audience tended to overstimulate him. The fact that he and Lincoln barely knew each other made their relations awkward despite Lincoln’s calculated attempts at openness. “I should have asked you to come to the Cabinet meeting today,” said the President, putting down the memorandum. “We are discussing the reconstruction of the Southern states, a subject on which you are an authority. But I confess”—Lincoln made a comical gesture—“I am so used to a Vice-President who seldom ever paid me a call that I have to be reminded that there is such a personage.”
“Whatever I can do, I will do, Mr. President. I am no friend of slave-owners.”
“As the world knows.” Johnson’s desire to hang them all was notorious. “But I wish no harm to our ordinary citizens,” he said, carefully.
Lincoln nodded. “Then you will disapprove, as I do—this is between us—Mr. Stanton’s plan, which is that the people at the South must take orders from us as long as we feel like treating them as conquered. I want them back in the Union, preferably before December, as free citizens, able to govern themselves. General Grant agrees with me in this.” Lincoln stared hard at Johnson.
“I certainly agree … in this. After all, we are speaking of the people from whom I come.”
“You are not the only man of the people, Andy.” Lincoln selected an apple from a bowl, and gave it to Johnson; then he took one for himself. “I am glad we understand each other. Because there is going to be a lot of honking of geese on Capitol Hill before we’re through.”
At five o’clock, the President and Mrs. Lincoln got into their carriage. “Are you sure,” asked Mary, “you don’t want me to ask Mr. Johnson or someone to drive with us?”
“No, Mother, just us today.”
The afternoon was clear and bright; and the spring flowers were already beginning to blossom, helter-skelter, where the military encampments had been at the foot of Washington’s monument and in the grounds of the Smithsonian Institution, recently razed by fire. A cavalry detachment accompanied the carriage. Earlier that day, Lincoln and Stanton had argued, yet again, about protection. Lincoln thought that now, with the war over, he was of less interest to the assassin. Stanton said that now, more than ever, he was in danger. Lamon would have agreed; but he was in Richmond. Nevertheless, just before Lamon had gone South, he warned the President to stay away from the theater or any public place where his presence had been advertised in advance.
“Perhaps,” Lincoln said, as the carriage swung down the less-peopled side of Pennsylvania Avenue, “we might stay at home tonight.”
“But it’s Laura Keene’s last night; and she is counting on us.” Mary frowned. “I cannot get over General Grant’s rudeness. Yesterday he was coming with us, and today he is not.”
“I suppose it is Mrs. Grant, wanting to get home to her children.” The carriage paused as a line of ambulances passed in front of them. When Lincoln was recognized, the wounded cheered him. He removed his hat and held it in his hand until the last ambulance had passed.
Mary was concerned with Mrs. Grant. “I suspect that she does not dare to face me after the scene that she made at City Point. I have never seen anyone so out of control. She is an ambitious little thing. So is he, for that matter. I was watching from the window when he walked back to Willard’s this morning. There was an enormous crowd all around him, as if he were you.”
“Well, he isn’t me but he is General Grant, Mother, and that’s something very special.”
The carriage proceeded down a side street toward the Navy Yard. “He is running for president. I can tell. I can always tell.”
“So you can. So you can. And he’s welcome to it. We’ve had our crack at it. So if he wants to take over, let him.”
“Four years,” said Mary. “When I was young that sounded like forever. Now it is nothing. Four weeks. Four days. Time rushes past us like the snowflake on the river.”
“When it’s all over,” said Lincoln, “I want to go west. I want to see California and the Pacific Ocean.”
“Well, I want to go to Europe. I must see Paris …”
“Certainly, a lot of Paris has already come your way, Molly. Fact, Paris clings to your person from shoes to hats.”
“Oh, Father! I buy so little now. Keckley makes everything, anyway. Where will we live?”
“Springfield. Where else? I’ll practice some law with Herndon …”
“If you do, I will divorce you.” Mary was indignant. “Father, how could you live in Springfield now? Much less practise law with Billy.”
“What else am I to do? I’ll be sixty-one years old. I’ll have to do something to make a living. So that means the law …”
“In Chicago then.” Mary had already envisaged a fine new house on the lake-front, where palaces were now beginning to rise.
“If we can afford it. Well, today I refuse to be worried about anything.” Although gaunt, Lincoln’s face was like that of a man who had just been let out of prison. “I have not been so happy in many years.”
“Don’t say that!” Mary was suddenly alarmed. She had heard him say these exact words once before; with ominous result.
“Why not? It is true.”
“Because … the last time you said those same words was just before Eddie died.”
Lincoln looked at her a moment; then he looked at the Capitol on its hill to their left. “I feel so personally—complete,” he said, “now that the new lid is on. And I also feel so relieved that Congress has left town, and the place is empty.”
After dinner that evening, Mary went to change her clothes
for the theater while Lincoln sat in the upstairs oval parlor and gossiped with the new governor and the new senator from Illinois; he also treated them to a reading from Petroleum V. Nasby. Then Noah Brooks announced the Speaker of the House, Mr. Colfax, a man who never ceased smiling no matter what the occasion. “Sir, I must know”— he smiled radiantly, teeth yellow as maize—“if you intend to call a special session of the Congress in order to consider Mr. Stanton’s proposals for reconstruction.”
If Lincoln was taken aback by the reference to Stanton’s supposedly private memorandum, he made no sign. “No, I shall not call a special session. After the superhuman labors of the last session, I believe Congress deserves its rest.”
Colfax beamed his disappointment. “In that case, I shall make my long-deferred trip to the west.”
Lincoln spoke with some interest of Colfax’s proposed tour of the mountain states. Then Lincoln was reminded that when Senator Sumner was recently in Richmond, he had purloined the gavel of the speaker of the Confederate Congress. “Sumner is threatening to give it to Stanton. But I want you to have it, as proper custodian for this particular spoil of war.”
Colfax’s delight was hyenaish. “I should like nothing better.”
“Well, you tell Sumner I said you’re to have it.”
Mary swept into the room; splendidly turned out for the theater. She was unanimously complimented.
“I think,” said Brooks, looking at his watch, “that it is time to go.”
“All in all,” said Lincoln, collecting Mary’s arm, “I would rather not go. But as the widow said to the preacher …”
“Oh, Father, not that one!” Bickering amiably, they proceeded downstairs to the waiting carriage, which contained the daughter of Senator Harris of New York and her fiancé, Major Rathbone, the best company that Hay could find at such short notice.
As Lincoln got into the carriage, he said to Crook, “Good-bye.” Then an old friend from Chicago appeared in the driveway, waving his hat. “I’m sorry, Isaac, we’re going to the theater. Come see me tomorrow morning.” Accompanied by one officer from the Metropolitan Police, the carriage pulled out into the avenue.
