This time Sickles ignored him.
Stevens was describing Stanton now as a man of rare probity, admired by all sides, a true leader who would never allow mere politics …
Jonathan was hardly listening. Once again, Lincoln and his men had been outplayed. Matters were as simple as that. The Secretary of War had broken his solemn word that he would not testify. Perhaps the Managers were exaggerating. Nevertheless, if Stanton endorsed under oath half of what Thaddeus Stevens had just assured the chamber that he would, there was no way for the President’s lawyers to meet his proof.
VIII
Chase gaveled the session to a close. The defense would present its opening argument tomorrow. Standing in the grand foyer, Daniel Grafton watched the great of Washington come sweeping down the staircase, tittering madly. He suspected that they were whispering not of the trial they were witnessing but of what they would wear to tonight’s parties. He knew that men like Congressman Blaine thought him decadent, but he was nothing compared to the city’s true rich, for whom even the war had played out as a sideshow to their otherwise unbothered lives, occasionally forcing them to grab their heirlooms and flee to the battlements of the capital from their mansions in the surrounding countryside, but, for the most part, affecting neither their social season nor their wealth. It occurred to him that it was possible to be rich enough that it actually made no difference who sat in the White House or ruled the Congress. His clients were men like that, and did not even realize it. Their hoards of gold shielded them from everyday concerns, and yet they responded to every change in the price of iron ore as if the barbarians were massing outside the gate. He supposed that there must be people like that in every age, people wielding more power than mere governments but not truly understanding their own capabilities. That was why men like Grafton himself had to exist: to wield the power his clients possessed but did not comprehend.
That was also why men like Benjamin Butler had to exist: men who were, in their own minds, beacons of goodness and light, but whose ambitions were easily twisted in the direction of political mayhem. Grafton liked the men of grand reputation and perfect integrity best: men so beloved that their constituents happily overlooked the destruction they wreaked in the climb toward the top. And they were willing to serve, with perfectly self-interested integrity, the interests of those who stood in the background, twisting democracy to their advantage. Daniel Grafton was among the best of the manipulators.
Based on events so far, he had every reason to be proud of his work.
CHAPTER 30
Consolation
I
“NOT A BAD first day,” said Dan Sickles. “Not bad at all.”
“We had to sit there and let them say those terrible things—”
“I know, Miss Canner, I know.” He was back on the settee, fingers working hard on the thigh muscles, heedless of what others might think. Sitting motionless on the chair for the better part of five hours must have been a considerable chore. “But nothing they said was any worse than we expected.”
“What about Mr. Stanton?”
Sickles shut his eyes briefly, perhaps in response to the pain; or perhaps in worry. Jonathan and Nathan Rellman were at the other end of the room, double-checking the catalogue of exhibits. Speed and Dennard were at Fessenden’s house, closeted with a group of pro-Lincoln Senators, working out some details for tomorrow, when the defense would present its opening statement. “I do not believe,” said Sickles after a moment, “that Stanton will testify.”
“Do you think Mr. Stevens was lying?”
“Not at all. But I reckon Stanton will change his mind, once he sees how things are going.” He looked at her again. “Things will go our way, Miss Canner. And when they do, Stanton will hop back aboard the ship as nimbly as he hopped off.”
“Mr. Stevens said the same thing that Miss Hale did, that the Managers have a letter from the President—”
“Well, no, Miss Canner. That’s not exactly what he said. He said they have evidence of a letter. That could mean somebody’s just going to testify to what the letter said. And if that’s all there is—if there’s no actual letter—why, then, we have a shot at keeping the evidence from being admitted. That means hunting through the cases, I reckon. More work for you and Hilliman.” He grimaced, and shifted the bad leg. “I admit I was a little surprised by Stevens. He’s an honest man, and I’m sure he has the evidence he says he has. But I’ve known Mr. Lincoln a long time. He would never commit to paper anything incriminating. Even if there were a letter, it would be, at best, ambiguous.”
Abigail hid her surprise. She would have expected Sickles to insist that there could be no incriminating letter because the President had done no wrong.
He saw her face, but for once misread her concern. “Don’t worry, Miss Canner. Mr. Lincoln’s not worried; therefore, I’m not worried; therefore, you should not be worried. The Managers were eloquent, but they offered no surprises. They swung no votes.” He nodded at the blackboard. “We are where we were days ago, with six undecided votes, of which we must win four.”
“Meaning, we must still persuade Senator Sumner.”
“Afraid so.” He smiled and teased his moustache. “And I am sorry, Miss Canner, that you had to stay up in the gallery. Looks like you made a friend, though.”
Abigail returned the smile uneasily. “Mrs. Sprague seems the very soul of kindness.”
“And so she is.” Sickles winked. “Until she turns into the Princess of Darkness and steals your soul.”
“You should not joke about such matters, Mr. Sickles.”
Sickles looked at her with renewed interest as he took hold of the chair arm and, with difficulty, arose. He dropped his voice. “And, Miss Canner. For your own private ear—I have made progress with Blaine. I think he is prepared to tell us who bought him. But I will need your help.” He leaned closer. “He wants two things. He wants a note from the President, promising to support him for Speaker—”
“Why, he is still selling himself!”
“Can’t change his spots, even when he’s trying to be honest.” That wild, piratical grin flickered, then faded. “The other thing Blaine insists on, Miss Canner, is that you be there when he tells his story. Wouldn’t say why. Will you do it?”
“Of course I will,” she whispered, feeling herself crossing the boundary at last. They needed her. Not just for show.
“It will be soon, probably with little warning. I will let you know. But you mustn’t tell a soul.” The other clerks were on their way back over. “Well, let’s get to work.”
The work was evaluating the witness list, finally turned over by the Managers today. There would be no witnesses on the first two counts of the impeachment resolution. The President’s coterie was conceding that Lincoln had suspended habeas corpus, seized telegrams, and shuttered newspapers. Under the agreement worked out with the Managers and approved by the Senate, on these two counts the lawyers would present only argument.
That left Counts Three and Four.
Under Count Three, the supposed refusal of the President to protect the freedmen, there were two witnesses listed—a Corbin Yardley and an Eliza Caffey, neither of whom anybody could identify. Ordinarily, a request would have gone out to the federal police or the Secret Service, but these were both under the control of Baker, meaning Stanton, meaning the Radicals, and therefore not to be trusted. They would have to dig; very fast.
Under Count Four, the President’s secret plan to establish the Department of the Atlantic and put Washington City—including the Congress—under martial law, three witnesses were listed. All were known: Major Clancy, who was at the moment the President’s military aide; James K. Moorhead, a Republican congressman from Pittsburgh; and Mrs. Sally Orne, a close friend of the late Mrs. Lincoln.
Clancy they could interview at their leisure. Sickles said he and Speed would find ways to talk to Moorhead and Mrs. Orne.
The others they would have to track down.
II
“I
have seen those names before,” said Abigail. “I cannot remember where, but I have seen them.”
“Some of them are pretty well known,” said Jonathan.
“But I have seen them together. Not all of them, but at least three. Yardley. Caffey. Moorhead. Together somewhere.”
They were in the Bannerman carriage. Jonathan had offered, pro forma, to drive her home. Almost always, Abigail declined, usually on the grounds that her brother would be meeting her. Tonight, however, Michael was evidently busy, because she said yes at once.
“It will come to you,” Jonathan said, with perfect confidence.
Abigail scowled. She disliked being unable to live up to her own legend. Jonathan drove the horses cautiously. Yesterday’s snow was packed hard and, with nightfall, had started to freeze. To hurry would be to court disaster.
Near the shadowy bulk of the Smithsonian Castle, Jonathan drew in the reins, then slewed to the side to let a column of mounted cavalry pass. They rode in good order, and not hastily, and so he assumed they were not answering an emergency. It was odd to see so many of them at this time of night, but for weeks there had been rumors throughout the city of strange military movements.
“Do you miss Miss Hale?” she said suddenly.
Jonathan was surprised. “That was only—I was asked—”
“I know. It was your grim duty to spend time in her company.” She laughed shortly, covering her confusion. She had no idea why she had brought the matter up. “You must be pleased,” she said, a little desperately, “that her return to Spain has put an end to unfortunate necessity.”
Jonathan fell silent. Abigail sensed that for once her teasing had gone too far, that she had wounded him. It had not previously occurred to her that she might possess the power to do so. She would have apologized, but her mother’s years of stern instructions on the behavior of a lady prevented her: she dared not even acknowledge that the gentleman sitting beside her was capable of an emotional pain.
Gliding through the snow, wrapped securely in the blanket as Jonathan drove the horses, Abigail found herself remembering a story in Peterson’s Magazine about a young woman and her suitor, whom she despised, traveling in a sleigh that became caught in a blizzard. She was not really permitted to read such material, but she had snuck a glance anyway, at her older sister’s diabolical urging, and then read it again, and a third time, and perhaps a fourth. The tale had lingered in her mind ever since. Once the sleigh was stuck, the two young people wrapped themselves in the single available blanket. Previously feuding, they began to talk, then to nestle close, after which the editors coyly declined to “follow them through all the hours of that long night.” The editors added: “Suffice it to say that time sped swiftly, when on the wings of love.” In the morning, the storm abated and the young woman’s uncle came searching for them. He discovered them both underneath the blanket—an image that Abigail refused to envision, yet could not help wondering about—“enjoying themselves finely.” Perhaps the editors had meant only that they were wrapped up and watching the clean winter morning after the storm. Or perhaps they had meant to imply—
But there Abigail’s imagination stopped, walled off by the stiff, proud morality of her raising. She saw Nanny Pork’s dark face, stern and censorious, and she realized that she felt eerily if warmly alive, and that the carriage was bouncing beneath her because—
“Hold on!” Jonathan cried, as her eyes snapped open.
“What is it?” she gasped. She looked around. They were in deeper snow, strewn here and there with boulders, and she realized that they were streaking across a meadow. At first she thought Jonathan had lost the reins, but he was holding them tighter than ever, working the whip with a vengeance to which she was unaccustomed. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t look back!” he shouted.
And so she did.
The crisp shiny snow was moon-dappled and bright. Lonely, leafless trees swayed gently with the night breeze. The scene was beautiful, like a clipping from one of her magazines. There was absolutely no one in sight, except for the trio of masked men on horseback, chasing the carriage and getting closer.
III
There were no night riders within Washington City. This well-known fact was presented by the newspapers with a certain disdainful pride. Whatever might be happening at the South, up here—so the editorials proclaimed—the white citizens knew how to treat the negroes.
A sentiment to which the negroes generally responded Amen—even if they took it in a somewhat different spirit.
The capital had its share of brigands, of course, but the ordinary class of ruffian did not present the principal danger. The larger challenge was the roaming bands of soldiers in tatters of uniform, some Union, some Confederate, some both, all hungry, and angry, and certain that they had been betrayed.
But there were no night riders.
Everybody knew it.
Which was why, when Jonathan saw that the horsemen had covered their faces with bandannas, he assumed that they must be highwaymen. Indeed, even as he sensed Abigail stiffening beside him, he wanted to turn and reassure her that the three masked men, whoever they might be, were not the White Camellia or the Ku Klux. He might have said it, too, but he was by then too busy using the whip, which he had hardly raised in his life. The carriage careened across the meadow toward Ninth Street, rocking and bucking along the slippery frozen mud, the horses protesting as he drove them mercilessly. Abigail was shouting something beside him, and he was shouting at her to get down, and remembering how Dan Sickles had told him once that any man who wandered Washington City without a pistol was a fool. Remembering the tales of the Ku Klux and their various companions in terror, Jonathan knew in his bones that he would never ignore Sickles again.
They clattered across the canal. The houses were thinner now, and shuttered against the frigid night. Here and there a lamp burned in an upper window, but Jonathan was not about to chance his luck by stopping. Abigail was screaming at him to slow down. Instead, he gave the team its head, urging more speed. But horses pulling a rig will rarely outrun horses carrying men, and the riders drew alongside. One tugged at the bridle of the horse on the right, and another got his hand on the edge of the seat. Jonathan smacked the gloved fingers with his whip, and the rider reeled away. Another man had pulled a derringer, and Jonathan swung the rig toward him, a trick he had learned in the army, knocking the gun from his hand and almost knocking the man from his horse. Another hand grabbed at him. Jonathan jerked the horses the other way, and as the attacker flailed, his glove came off.
Jonathan realized that something wasn’t right.
The wrist was dark brown.
The attackers were negroes.
An instant later, the horsemen released the bridles and sped off into the darkness, their laughter carrying back to the carriage on the night air.
Jonathan slowed the rig to a trot. He turned to Abigail, asked if she was all right.
“I am perfectly fine,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it.
“I don’t know why they left us alone—”
“Because I was with you.” Abigail pinched her forehead and shut her eyes. “That was my brother, Michael, and his friends,” she said.
“Your brother is a highwayman?” he asked, incredulous.
“He is much more than that, Mr. Hilliman. He is a killer.”
IV
The horses were cooling down. They sat in the rig not far from the house where she lived with Louisa and Nanny Pork. The fog had lifted, unveiling a sky of brilliant violet. Tiny unseen animals skittered through the underbrush.
“You told me he worked in Baltimore,” Jonathan said. He had stopped to pick up the derringer, and was turning it over and over in his hands. “You told me he was a printer’s devil.”
“He was. At least for a time.”
“And now he’s a criminal?”
Her face hardened and she turned away, as if searching for the answer out toward the fetid river. “My brother i
s not a criminal.”
“You said he is a killer.”
“But not a criminal.”
Jonathan leaned forward, felt the horse’s flank, decided to wait a bit longer. “He’s a killer but not a criminal. Is he a soldier?”
Again he sensed her hesitation, less a desire to deceive him than a duty to avoid an admission against interest. “Not by your lights,” she finally said. “He has never worn a uniform.”
In the middle distance, the wind swayed dark trees against darker sky. “I am not asking out of idle curiosity. Your brother’s occupation may affect the trial of our client.”
Abigail was a long time answering, but finally nodded as if to say he had left her no choice. “You have heard of the Ku Klux.”
“Of course.”
“They began in Tennessee, but they have branches everywhere at the South now. I am told that they are in parts of the North as well. They ride by night, seeking to intimidate those among my people who assert the most basic civil rights. Going to school, owning property or firearms. Voting.” A husky sigh as if the truth was too weighty. “There is no defense against the Ku Klux, Jonathan. In this the Managers are entirely correct. The federal authorities rarely intervene. When they do, there is little to be done. And so we must do it ourselves.”
“Are you saying—”
“Some of my people have organized riders of our own. Their purpose is to protect us against the Ku Klux and the White Camellia and the other marauders who terrorize us. My brother is a member of one of those groups.” She turned to him with an assumed boldness, but he heard the tremolo in her voice. “Are you going to inform Mr. Dennard now? Do you wish me to leave the firm?”
The intensity in those eyes was too much. Jonathan turned away. The night wind had picked up. This afternoon’s light snow swirled in the faint glow of the coach lamps. He gazed at the Smithsonian tower to the north: the direction in which Michael and his gang had vanished.
He thought of Meg; and of the family business; and wondered whether he still wanted any part of the future he had imagined. He thought of Abigail beside him, of her stolid certainties about right and wrong; about her intellect, and her Aaron, and her dreams.
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 30
