The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln

by Stephen L Carter

  “South Carolina, sir. Columbia.”

  “And you were previously enslaved nearby?”

  “Yes, sir. Out in Lexington County.”

  “You were a slave until when?”

  “Until the Proclamation, sir. Until about 1863.”

  Dennard’s large head moved, as if to suggest surprise, but really to draw attention. “You were freed by the President’s Emancipation Proclamation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you grateful to Mr. Lincoln?”

  Butler was on his feet, objecting. An argument before the bench. Butler was livid. And loud. This was not relevant. Whether the man was grateful was of no moment. The trial was about what Lincoln did, not how people felt. Dennard’s voice in response was pitched in his usual tones of low reasonableness, and Abigail could hardly hear.

  Chase motioned for them to step back.

  “The witness’s feelings about respondent are not relevant. Counsel will confine himself to what the witness saw and heard. Continue.”

  Dennard smiled at the witness, his bulk making him seem clownish. Abigail trembled. She knew what was coming. The next few minutes were going to be bloody.

  “So, Mr. Yardley,” said Dennard. “You are now a free man. And, in freedom, you have been successful, I believe. You run a fair-sized feed business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you also have a political career, so I am given to understand. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well. That is a great deal to accomplish in just four years. You are to be congratulated.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful, sir.”

  Dennard took a stroll back to the table. “Now, Mr. Yardley, you testified earlier that when the Ku Klux burned your warehouse, you went to the governor, and he wasn’t any help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The governor appointed by Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If we brought the governor here to testify, would he support your account?”

  The black man’s gaze darted. “Sir, I believe he is a diplomat in Argentina or one of those places.”

  “Would he support your account, Mr. Yardley?”

  “Sir, the governor told me that he would deny it ever happened.”

  Dennard let this remark, a useful one for the defense, linger in the room: just right. Then: “So, you met the governor where? At his office?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the governor said he was unable to be helpful because Mr. Lincoln thought it was time the Southerners took charge of their own destiny again.”

  No hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

  Dennard stood for a moment, staring. The tension froze Abigail in place. Kate noticed, and looked at her curiously, but said nothing.

  “This was last September.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dennard put out a hand. Jonathan had the document ready. For a mad instant, Abigail hated him, even though it was she who had provided the knife.

  “You are aware, Mr. Yardley, that your name does not appear anywhere on the governor’s schedule.”

  “Yes, sir.” He had plainly gone over this during preparation by the Managers. “We met after hours.”

  “You testified that it was the day of the hurricane, or maybe the day after. That’s how you remember that it was September.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dennard opened the document before him. “Mr. Yardley, I hold in my hand two pages from the register of Burgess’s, a colored hotel in Atlanta.” He dropped it on the table with a snap that startled the whole chamber. “The hurricane was on September 7 and 8 of last year. According to the register, you were at Burgess’s from September 6 through September 10 of last year.”

  Pandemonium in the chamber. Butler was on his feet again, furious. The provenance of the document had not been established—

  Chase pounded the gavel. “Counsel will ask no further questions regarding this document,” he intoned. “Not unless he is prepared to introduce testimony first as to its authenticity.”

  “We are so prepared, your honor,” proclaimed Dennard, although in actual fact the owners of Burgess’s had refused to come to Washington at all, once they learned that they would be called upon to testify against a man of what they called their own nation.

  Butler sneered. “Let him bring the witnesses.”

  Chase adjusted his glasses. “Unless you produce the witnesses, Mr. Dennard, it is my inclination to set aside this testimony.”

  Dennard said, “I have no further questions on the matter.”

  “One moment,” said Butler. “If I could please clarify. Is counsel saying that he has no more questions for the witness about the meeting with the governor, or that he has no more questions about the register? It is the position of the Managers”—thinking fast now—“that any further questions about the meeting will be designed to lead the Senators to contemplation of the register, and Your Honor has just excluded any further—”

  Chase waved him silent. “Mr. Dennard?”

  “Sir, I have no further questions about the meeting with the governor. I have further questions of the witness.”

  The Chief Justice told him to continue.

  “Now, Mr. Yardley. You are one of the more prominent colored men in Columbia, are you not?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

  “Still, for the past year you have sat on the city council in Columbia, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do not believe any colored man before you has ever been elected to the council.” Information gleaned from the newspaper articles stuffed in the package.

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. That is right, sir.”

  “So, you run a feed business in Columbia. You sit on the council. And you are also, I believe, a deacon of Reverend Johnson’s church.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are a man of influence. There are people who listen to what you have to say?”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “Now, one of the big disputes in Columbia lately involves the Augusta Railroad and the South Carolina Railroad, isn’t that so?”

  Chase looked automatically toward Butler, who seemed about to object, but sank into his seat once more. By now even the Managers had guessed where the cross was headed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you be so kind as to explain the dispute to the chamber.”

  Yardley scrunched up his face. “Well, sir, it’s like this. The Augusta Railroad, they needs to connect to the Charlotte Railroad, but the South Carolina Railroad tracks is in the way. So the Augusta Railroad wants to cross the South Carolina Railroad tracks, and the South Carolina Railroad says no. Matter of fact, some days the South Carolina just drives an engine right up to where the Augusta Railroad needs to cross and blocks the tracks so’s they can’t build nothing.”

  “And is the city council involved in the dispute at all?”

  “Sir, it’s in the court. White mens always suing other white mens.”

  Laughter in the chamber.

  “Indeed.” Dennard’s smile was sympathetic. “Nevertheless, it is a fact, is it not, that there is a good deal of support in town for the Augusta Railroad? The Augusta Railroad employs many local people, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, sir. They’s real popular in Columbia.”

  “And the completion of the line all the way to Charlotte and back down into Georgia will be of benefit to Columbia, will it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So the city council ought to be in favor of the new line.” A statement.

  For the first time, Yardley hesitated. “Sir, it’s in the court.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that, just five months ago, in October of 1866, the city council proposed to vote in favor of the new line?”

  The black man seemed increasingly uncertain of his ground. He even glanced toward the Managers. “W
e didn’t take no vote,” he said finally.

  “But there was a proposal to take a vote, was there not?”

  “Not that I recalls.”

  “We have the minutes of the meeting,” said Dennard. Again Jonathan rushed the papers into his palm. “There was a proposal to put the council on record in favor of the line, and several members of the council objected. No vote was taken.” A pause. “You were among those who objected, were you not, Mr. Yardley?”

  “Might have been. I can’t say that I recollect clearly.”

  “You can’t,” said Dennard, in the tone of a disappointed schoolmaster. “Now, Mr. Yardley, you told us earlier that the Ku Klux burned your barn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has the barn been rebuilt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when was the work begun?”

  “In November.”

  “So, in September, you complained to the governor that the Ku Klux had burned your barn. In November, you had the money to rebuild. Was the barn insured?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then where did the money come from?” Silence.

  “I don’t recollect.”

  “Let me understand, Councilman. You remember that the barn was burned by the Ku Klux. You remember to the day when the governor turned down your request for help. You remember that the governor told you that Mr. Lincoln had ordered him to cooperate with the white Southerners. You remember that conversation word for word. You remember that the barn was not insured. You run a successful business and you are a member of the city council. And yet you are telling this chamber that you do not know where the money came from to rebuild your own barn, completed just two months ago?”

  Abigail could take no more. Drowning in guilt and confusion, she leaped to her feet and hurried up the aisle. The ladies of Washington exchanged knowing smiles. Poor thing, she imagined them thinking, she couldn’t hold it any longer. Because of course she could not use the facilities here at the Capitol of her country. Any calls of nature would require her to walk, or run, four blocks to the nearest colored hotel, over on D Street. In truth, Abigail simply could not bear her complicity in the destruction of another human being: a person of her own color particularly.

  She was in the Rotunda now, fists clenched as she marched back and forth under the wary eyes of guards who by now knew who she was and how much trouble she could cause them and liked her the less for it. She imagined the scene as it would unfold. Dennard had Yardley in a corner. He would squirm and lie and squirm some more, and the Managers would come up with one objection after another, but in the end, the truth would come out.

  Poor Yardley had taken a bribe.

  That was why he had been in Atlanta. He had gone to another state for safety’s sake, and there had met officials of the South Carolina Railroad, and they had paid him to vote their way. They had paid white men, too—it was those very white members of the council who had told them Yardley could be bought—but it was the black man who would be forced to confess before all the world’s press. Abigail harbored the secret theory that the Ku Klux had burned the barn to begin with on the railroad’s orders, first to intimidate Corbin Yardley and then, if necessary, to provide the means to bribe him. But he had taken the bribe nevertheless, and had even boasted of it to friends. Chanticleer’s notes quoted his words: “I’ve been sold four or five times in my life, sir. This is the first time I ever got the money.”

  Whoever Chanticleer was.

  Before they left for Capitol Hill this morning, Dan Sickles had taken Abigail aside to applaud her magnificent work—meaning, her work of providing the means to destroy Corbin Yardley on the witness stand. Sensing her unease, Sickles had reminded her that the job of a lawyer was to do everything possible to defend the client. If she were to scruple at the truthful cross-examination of an untruthful witness, he said, her career would be short. Then he smiled and told her not to worry. It would be a great day for the defense, he said; and it was. But it seemed to Abigail that it was a wretched day for the race, and, at the moment, that mattered a lot more.

  “Are you unwell?” said Fielding from behind. “Shall I drive you home?”

  IV

  She wiped away a tear. She had no idea that he had followed; or how long he had been observing her distress. “Thank you. I am quite well.”

  He tilted his head toward the massive, guarded doors to the Senate Chamber. “Is it like that every day? All that shouting and silliness and so forth?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Then it is no place for a lady; or a gentleman.” A laugh, not entirely self-deprecating. “I do not think I will be putting myself through that again. Say.” Eyes aglow. “We should attend the theater again soon.”

  “The trial keeps me rather busy.”

  “I shall keep every night free for you,” he said, and bowed.

  As Fielding crossed the Rotunda, heading for the west lawn, Abigail felt watched. Swinging around, she saw Constance Yardley, the witness’s sister, standing at the foot of the steps to the public gallery. In her eyes was the planation field hand’s undiluted hatred of the house servant who treated her no better than the whites did.

  CHAPTER 35

  Interruption

  I

  AFTER COURT, THE lawyers went to the Mansion. Once more, they took Jonathan along; once more, they left Abigail to return, alone, to the office. She had hoped to join them in the corridor outside the conference room; when she reached the barrier, the guard told her where they had gone.

  Annoyed, Abigail made her way out front, joining the line of those waiting for their carriages. A light snow had started to fall: almost certainly the last of the season. The rest of the afternoon had been occupied by battles over other documents the Managers wanted on the record, most of them letters telling tales similar to Yardley’s. Chase had allowed some, disallowed others, marking the division according to no evidentiary theory that Abigail understood. She assumed that the constant stream of objections from the President’s lawyers represented a holding action, that they wanted to make it to adjournment before any more testimony was admitted. That, in turn, meant that they were worried about what was coming tomorrow, and needed to consult their client.

  Without Abigail, who seemed fated to remain a merely public face.

  The line shuffled forward. Abigail tilted her head back, wanting the gently chilling prickle on her cheeks. As a child, she had believed that snowflakes on her face meant happiness. She shut her eyes and wished for a snickerdoodle. When she opened them again, Kate Sprague was standing beside her, a slight smile on her slim face. Now that Abigail thought back, she realized that Kate had been with her the whole time, not only in the carriage line, but earlier: Mrs. Sprague had even witnessed her humiliation when the guard told her everyone else had gone to the White House.

  “Come to dinner,” said Kate.

  “It would be my pleasure to fix a date,” stuttered Abigail, very surprised.

  “I meant tonight.”

  Abigail had trouble taking in the words. Perhaps the snow was making her stupid. Or guilt over today’s events. She stared at the woman beside her. She had taken both the invitation and her response as rote recitations, simply the way ladies behaved. “I … tonight?”

  “Father is dining with Justice Clifford. My husband has a caucus. So it will be just the two of us.”

  “I … um …”

  “I promise, we shall not speak of the trial.” Kate, smiling, touched her arm with a gloved hand. “Well, not unless you bring it up.”

  Abigail said what had to be said: “Mrs. Sprague—”

  “Kate.”

  “Kate. Please. There is no need to … to risk the opinion of others in order, uh, in order to prove … to prove to me …”

  “I am inviting you for one reason, Abigail. Because I enjoy the company of intelligent, educated, fascinating people. Women in particular.” She raised a slender hand to quell further objection. “As for the opinion of others,
that has never concerned me before. I see no reason to allow it to deter me now. Shall we say eight?”

  II

  The dining room was too large for the two of them. The heavy, dark table was too long, the curtains were too red, the chinaware was too expensive, and the food was too plain. Given more time, Abigail was sure she could invent more reasons to explain the nervous flutter in her stomach as she sat alone with the most influential hostess in Washington, making social talk.

  Casual conversation had never been among Abigail’s talents—she did what she could to avoid situations in which she might be called upon to offer it—but Kate Sprague was sufficiently skillful that the conversation never flagged, and, indeed, became enjoyable. Despite her domination of the Washington social scene, Kate was only a few years older than Abigail herself; and told wonderful stories. She had a funny tale about a young woman whom Abigail had known at Oberlin and Kate had known at Miss Haines’ School in New York; and another about one of Abigail’s most terrifying professors, who turned out to have been a down-on-his-luck friend of the Chase family in their Cincinnati days.

  Then, when Abigail was at her ease, Kate murmured, “Father has asked about you.”

  The black woman, raising her goblet, felt her hand freeze halfway to her mouth. She managed, with difficulty, to finish the sip.

  “Has he?”

  Kate laughed gently. “You needn’t make that face. There is no impropriety. Simply, when this unpleasantness is over, he believes he can help you to find a more suitable place.” Before the astonished Abigail could quite take this in, Kate had more: “If you seriously mean to be a lawyer, you should have the best tuition. Father would take you on himself. So would Senator Sumner.” She leaned forward, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I believe that the two of them see you as a prize over which they might compete. There are, after all, only half a dozen colored lawyers practicing in American courts, and no women.”