“What do you mean?” demanded Stanton, quite out of turn. “There are fifty-four Senators. Two-thirds of fifty-four is thirty-six. Ergo, they need thirty-six votes. Anything less means we win.”
Jonathan colored, but made no response. He did not want to get into a tussle with Stanton.
Lincoln grinned. “I don’t reckon that Mr. Hilliman has forgotten how many Senators there are.”
At a nod from Dennard, Jonathan resumed, but not before casting a nervous glance toward the imperious Secretary of War. “The legal question is whether, when the Senate sits to try an impeachment, it is still the Senate, run by all the rules of the Senate, or whether, under the Constitution, it becomes a different body, judicial in nature—that is, a court.” He checked his notes as heavy wind shook the Mansion. The windows rattled. “In the records,” said Jonathan, “you can find references both ways. Evidently, the question has never been formally resolved. All the Constitution tells us for sure is that the Chief Justice presides, and that conviction occurs only if two-thirds of the members concur.”
“Meaning that we need nineteen votes our way,” said Stanton, still not satisfied.
The President’s smile was sardonic. This time they were meeting in the more spacious Cabinet Room, but his chair was once more tottering on its hind legs. “I reckon, if they’re a court, they have to follow the rules of evidence. If they’re a legislature, they can kind of make the rules up as they go along.”
“If the Senate is really a court,” said Dennard, “then the Chief Justice might be permitted to vote.” His breathing was more labored than ever, perhaps from the hard work of dragging his bulk up and down the stairs.
Sickles adjusted his wooden leg. Another gust of wind struck the windows, and now the first tiny flakes began to fall. “Chase voting might be good for us. Or it might be bad for us.”
“Whether there are fifty-four eligible to vote or fifty-five,” Stanton objected, “we still need nineteen.”
“I don’t believe,” said Lincoln, voice placid, “that Mr. Dennard is thinking about how many votes we need.” The drooping left eye seemed to wink. “I believe he’s thinking about how many votes they need.”
“That is correct, sir,” said Dennard. “If Chase is permitted to vote, et cetera, then the Managers will need thirty-seven votes, not thirty-six.”
Stanton said nothing. Jonathan was impressed. Arthur McShane had the swifter legal mind, but Rufus Dennard’s plodding style seemed to be exactly what was needed to keep the raging Secretary of War at bay.
“Chase wants to be President,” said Speed suddenly, once more announcing as a great discovery what everybody knew. And not just everybody in the room. Everybody in Washington knew that Chase still hoped to be nominated for President—perhaps in 1868, or at the latest in 1872. Should the Senate organize as a court, and come within a single vote of removal, the Chief Justice might be forced to decide whether the President stayed in office. One school of thought held that Chase would prefer a weakened Lincoln in the White House, and a broken Republican Party, so that he could pursue the Democratic nomination in 1868. Another contended that Chase, by vanquishing his longtime political enemy, could then present himself to either party as the most respected and powerful man in the country. What nobody thought for an instant was that Chase’s decision would have anything to do with law or evidence.
“It has always been Chase’s way,” said Lincoln, “to choose the path of policy that most strengthens himself. When he was my Treasury secretary, that was not such a bad thing, because a strong Treasury meant funds for the war.” The President was up now, circling the room. His mood grew meditative. “You know, ambition is like a chin fly. A long time ago, my brother and I were out plowing corn when I noticed a fly on the horse’s chin. I shooed it off, but my brother told me to stop. I said that I didn’t want the horse to be bitten, but my brother said being bitten by the fly was the only thing that kept that old horse moving.”
“I am skeptical,” said Dennard. He had this way of drawing everyone’s attention through his terseness: now the entire room wanted to know what precisely he was skeptical of. “I hardly think,” the lawyer continued, “that we particularly want Chase’s political ambitions, et cetera, et cetera, getting in the way of a fair trial.”
“That depends,” Sickles retorted, “on which way he runs to keep from being bitten.”
A moment’s general laughter, in which everyone joined but Dennard.
“I spoke with Seward last night,” said the President, back at the window, hands linked behind his back. “He thinks Chase wants to vote. He says Chase will not be able to bear the notion that events rest in the hands of others.”
As always, the name of the Secretary of State had an almost magical effect on the assembled company. Two years after the attack, Seward remained hidden from public view, in his house across Lafayette Park from the Mansion, tended by his son Frederick and a servant or two, seeing nobody except a few intimates—including Mr. Lincoln. Jonathan had never laid eyes on Seward. The latest Washington rumor had it that the Secretary was long dead, and the household maintained in the Clubhouse was a sort of conjuring trick, to preserve the public’s faith in the Administration. Lincoln, on the other hand, consulted Seward constantly. Dead or alive, Seward retained the canniest political mind in the country.
“I think,” said Sickles, “that we should give Mr. Chase a little bit more rope.”
“And let him hang himself,” said the President.
There was more laughter, in which Jonathan uneasily joined. Only Dennard struck a sour note. “Sir,” he said, “hanging the Chief Justice politically will not necessarily get you off the hook.”
Lincoln remained amicable. “It is not myself I am trying to save,” he said, voice scarcely above a murmur. “It is a country.”
“In that case—”
The President hated to be interrupted. “The threat to this country, Mr. Dennard, comes not from the Chief Justice. The threat comes from the president pro tempore.”
“Senator Wade?” Dennard seemed not to follow. “Wade will surely disqualify himself. It would be unseemly for the man who would succeed you to cast a vote on whether to remove you.”
“Being unseemly,” drawled Sickles, “has never bothered Mr. Wade.”
Lincoln was brisk; and devastating. “Benjamin Wade is an intelligent man. He is old and sick, but his mind is still sharp. He is ambitious. Not for himself. For the triumph of his own holy views. He alone knows what is best for the colored race. Just ask him. Ask his friends.”
Jonathan looked up sharply from his notepad. Rarely had he heard this tone from the President, who was so often gentle, even in describing his enemies.
“I am not concerned with whether or not Wade votes,” Lincoln continued. “But it is intolerable that such a man should sit in this chair.”
Dennard tried to interject: “Sir, with respect, the line of succession is as clear as—”
The President cut him off. “Under no circumstances,” he said, hard-eyed, “will I allow that event to occur.”
II
“Maybe it’s real,” said Jonathan. “The letter in Lincoln’s hand regarding military government. Maybe it actually exists.”
It was the afternoon of the same filthy day. There were three of them now—Jonathan, Abigail, and a truculent redhead called Rellman, a prudish soul whose green eyes and ready scowl punished whomever they happened upon, for sins not yet committed. Rellman, alarmingly fat, was James Speed’s clerk. Speed had left the Administration and found offices on Twelfth Street, but Rellman, they were told, would be spending half of his time here, because this was where Dennard would divide up the assignments each day; although, so far—apart from that single memorandum “for practice”—Abigail’s assignments continued to consist principally of dusting and deliveries.
“The atmosphere at the Mansion was eerie,” Jonathan continued. Abigail sat on one side of the conference table, Jonathan and Rellman on the other
. Books were heaped everywhere. Files were strewn across the credenza, each bound with its own brightly colored bow. “They all seem worried about something.”
Abigail pointed at the blackboard, and the ominous numbers: 15–32–7. “Perhaps they are simply counting the votes.”
Jonathan shook his head. “It’s more than that. And if the letter exists, and the Managers find it, I do not see how Mr. Lincoln could survive.”
“Our client says the letter doesn’t exist,” interjected Rellman. “Ergo, it doesn’t exist. The matter is closed.” He was pink and pudgy and exuded an air of superiority, no doubt because he had been Speed’s clerk for two years and would soon be sitting for his examinations. He spoke with his master’s certainty of rightness on matters he knew nothing about. His face had the saggy softness of a man carrying thrice his years. His eyes, tiny and dark, seemed lost in the broad flesh. “We have important tasks,” he added. He looked at Abigail, then at Jonathan, as if expecting them to take notes. “We should be about them.”
Abigail shut her eyes briefly. The “important tasks” assigned her consisted entirely of copying marked passages from various volumes onto sheets of paper the lawyers could carry in their files. Dennard had even remarked on the excellence of her copperplate.
The work was suddenly a struggle. She had slept poorly last night. A strange congruence was growing in her mind, a connection between the fate of her missing older sister and the fate of Rebecca Deveaux. She knew nothing about where Rebecca had come from; she had only the vaguest notions about where Judith had gone after Nanny put her out of the house. But both were, evidently, overfamiliar with men; and if one had been found
(sliced up)
dead, then why not the other? Unable to bear the tension any longer, Abigail stood abruptly. She stepped toward the door, knowing that both men were watching her. When Rellman went back to his work, she flicked her head to the side, indicating that Jonathan should join her.
Out in the shadowy corridor, he smiled nervously. “If we keep this up, people will talk.”
Abigail studied the worried features of this man who, whenever he chose, could leave Washington City, return home to Newport, claim his inheritance, and live as the rich do. “I require your assistance,” she said.
“Of course.” Still agitated, glancing at the half-open door to the office. “Naturally, I am happy to assist you in any way I—”
Abigail interrupted. “My concern, at the moment, is for Rebecca Deveaux. I see no evidence that her murder is being pursued in a serious manner.”
His pale jaw jutted slightly. “The murders”—emphasizing the plural—“took place outside a brothel. There is no real question of what happened.”
“Assuming that Miss Deveaux was employed there.”
“Do you know for a fact that she was not?”
“No. But I do not believe that Inspector Varak knows, either.”
“What do you suggest?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You are a man of means. A successful young man, welcome in every great house in this city. Surely you number, among your many acquaintances, at least one who might be of assistance.” His look of surprise was almost comical, and she smiled. In truth, Abigail did not much care for herself in this role—she considered this sort of teasing flattery more Dinah Berryhill’s talent than her own—but experience had taught her its effectiveness. “Madame Sophie’s establishment, I am given to understand, is at the higher end of the trade. Such establishments would not exist without the patronage of those who are well off.”
“I hardly think—”
“Naturally, I am not suggesting that you personally would possess any knowledge, but you surely are on terms with young men who might.”
“Do you seriously expect me simply to walk up to one of my friends and ask him whether he happens to know whether Madame Sophie employed a colored girl named Rebecca, now deceased?”
“Why not? Unless, that is, you would rather inquire of Madame Sophie herself.” Her smile broadened. “Think of it as another favor for Mrs. McShane.”
She went back inside.
III
Jonathan Hilliman had no intention of complying with Abigail’s absurd request. He was fond of her—they were friends, confound it—but the temerity of the woman, to think that he would do such a thing merely because she asked! He fumed most of the afternoon, and that evening, too, as he shared the tale with Fielding.
“Can you imagine?” Jonathan kept saying. “Who does she think she is?”
“More to the point, who does she think you are?”
Fielding found the whole thing hilarious, but, then, he was quite drunk. He had dined—poorly, he insisted—at the home of Congressman James Blaine, a longtime Lincoln friend and associate, who had inexplicably voted in favor of the impeachment resolution.
“Said he thought Lincoln should have the chance to clear himself at trial.” Fielding chuckled, shook his head, took a long pull on his cigar. Trembling fingers fumbled at his collar. He was sweating quite unreasonably. “Said it was only fair.”
“How thoughtful,” snapped Jonathan, in his dudgeon. Above the fireplace hung a standing portrait, a bad oil of an earlier, landed Bannerman who had fought on the wrong side in the Revolution. The eyes were half lidded, the face was waxy, and it occurred to Jonathan that the man might have been painted after the Continental Army hanged him.
“Simply a matter of trying to have it both ways, old man. A skill you should cultivate if you wish to succeed in this town.” He subsided, gazing into the fire. Like Jonathan, Fielding Bannerman was resisting pressure to enter upon the family business. Unlike Jonathan, he was unable to point to another goal he had to pursue first, unless of course one counted dissolution. “Oh, but say. On what your friend the negress asked about.”
“She has a name.”
“Miss Canner, then. The point is, she’s rather clever—isn’t that what you’re always telling me? An agile mind and so forth?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then, look, Hills. I have the most marvelous idea. Weren’t you up at Yale with Wily Whit?”
“Who?”
“Whitford Pesky. He was in your year, wasn’t he? I run into him at the club from time to time. Now, I’ve visited Mrs. Scott’s and a few of the finer establishments, but Whit knows the worst of those places inside and out. Keeps an eye on them for the Provost General. He’d be the one to ask.”
Jonathan rounded on him. “Have you heard a word I’ve said? I shall not spend my time blundering about Washington City asking questions about … about brothels. Really, Fields. Can you imagine if your cousin Meg heard?”
“You’re probably right.” Fielding lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “Better to let the police handle the investigation. From what you’ve told me, they’re doing a magnificent job.”
IV
In the morning, Dennard sent Jonathan down to the municipal courthouse to file motions of postponement in the firm’s other pending cases. Outside, the young man hailed a cab for the ride back to G Street. He felt half asleep. He had dreamed of the dead Bannerman above the fireplace, and awoke worried about being on the wrong side. He shouted a new destination. He had to shout several times before the black driver heard him above the clatter of hooves. He ordered the man to take him to the Provost General’s headquarters. At the gate, Jonathan asked for Major Pesky. As Fielding had pointed out just last night, Jonathan and Whitford Pesky had been up at Yale together. Jonathan was Skull and Bones, through two of his uncles. Whit, being new money, could not be considered, and had been tapped for Third Society instead. When the war broke out, both men enlisted. Jonathan went down to Virginia with the Thirty-fourth Massachusetts Volunteers, fought at Petersburg, and helped chase down Lee at the end, but the Peskys arranged for their son to stay behind the lines: thus the post with the Provost General, charged with military governance of Washington City. To his family’s dismay, Whit Pesky enjoyed military life, and stayed on. Rumor proposed
that the part he enjoyed most was pursuing the opportunities for corruption that his sinecure in the Provost’s office presented: in particular, the significant wartime traffic in forged discharge papers. Not that Whitford Pesky had any need of stained money. Like Jonathan, Whit would succeed to his family business one day. The Peskys were big in copper out west and enjoyed some loose connection to the Union Pacific. Jonathan suspected that Whit took bribes because he enjoyed the risk.
Whit was tall, and handsome in that naturally roguish way that most young men aspire to, some attain, and a chosen few, fated to cause women to swoon whenever they walk across a room, never outgrow. His uniform was crisp. Everything glittered. He said he was happy to see his old friend, but he had guessed that the visit was business, and the flared orange eyes were already calculating how much whatever Jonathan wanted might be worth. They went to the bar of the Maryland House hotel, a place Whit proposed when Jonathan said that he wanted nobody who knew him to overhear. It was illegal to serve alcohol this time of day, so they drank lemonade.
For ten minutes they kept up a stream of pleasantries.
Then Jonathan explained why he was there. He needed a simple piece of information. The Provost General kept meticulous records of the city’s bawdy houses. Jonathan wanted to know whether one of Sophia Harbour’s girls was missing.
“Missing?” Whit seemed to doubt his hearing; or his friend’s sanity. “Why would one of them be missing?” Then he got it. “Oh. I see. Of course.”
As it turned out, Whit had the answer at his fingertips. Some clamorous police inspector with a foreign name had been by just yesterday, he said, and the Provost General had instructed Major Pesky to give him whatever assistance he might require. So Whit had gone to the records and determined that, yes, the late Rebecca Deveaux was indeed one of Sophia Harbour’s girls.
“Does that answer your question?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.” But he felt oddly disappointed, for Abigail’s sake.
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 11
