Jonathan said, “What would you like us to do?”
Sickles laughed. “Well, Rellman here has to go home and get a good night’s sleep. I’m afraid that sitting in your place at the counsel table has worn him out. You, too.” Addressing Jonathan. “Go on. Go home. Go get drunk. Go call on Miss Felix, or whoever it is you call on. Miss Canner and I have business to discuss.”
“It will be better if I stay,” said Jonathan at once. Rellman was already halfway to the door.
Abigail stared at Sickles. “I will be fine, Jonathan,” she said. “Go.”
II
“So it’s ‘Jonathan’ now,” said Sickles, once they were alone. “Even in public. Because, the way I remember, it is improper etiquette for a young lady to refer to a man by his first name in public.”
“I do not consider a law office a public place,” said Abigail. She was sitting at the conference table, its reassuring bulk between her and the reclining man. “Besides, Mr. Sickles, you are the one who keeps asking me to call you by your Christian name.”
“Only when we are alone, Miss Canner.”
“But that is not why you wished to see me.”
“No.” His face grew serious. As if on command, wind rattled the panes. “I want to know why you didn’t follow Hilliman’s advice. He wanted to wire me and have Chastain arrested. You talked him out of it.”
Abigail’s gaze was cool. “I do not believe that he knows who Chanticleer is.”
“But Zillah probably does.”
“Fine. Have them arrested tomorrow.”
“Oh, well, I don’t actually think that will be possible. I think, even if I can get the orders around Stanton’s people and down to Richmond, we will find Chastain and Zillah long gone.” He regarded her balefully. “And Chanticleer’s identity with them.”
Abigail said nothing.
“I think you’ve scared them off,” said Sickles.
“Why would I do that?”
He swung his wooden leg up onto the adjoining chair, rubbed at his thigh. “Well, not by accident. You’re too clever to make a mistake of that kind. No, Miss Canner. If you set them running, I am sure you had your reasons.” He laughed. “I guess I have only myself to blame. I trusted you.”
“And now you don’t?”
“Well, let me put it this way. I don’t think you’ve cast your lot with the Radicals. I don’t think you’ve turned against Mr. Lincoln exactly. But I am starting to worry about exactly what you think you are doing.” He used his right hand to count the fingers on his left. “One, you refuse to stop trying to figure out what happened the night Mr. McShane and the colored girl—I forget her name—Miss Deveaux—were killed, even though you are embarrassing our client, and even though you’ve been told to stop. Two”—he took another finger—“you don’t say a word about your suspicion of Miss Bessie Hale until she’s all set to flee to Europe.” And another. “Three, you go to see Chastain, and by now I’m sure he’s gone, too. Now, a lesser man than myself—or a more suspicious one, say—might guess that you are trying to sabotage the President’s case. Me? I’m just guessing that you have a stake in this that you’re not telling. A personal stake.”
For a bad moment, Abigail’s face almost betrayed her. She had spent years honing a confident yet inoffensive blankness to carry her through the higher levels of the white world, but the mask nearly slipped. Dan Sickles might not have been the most brilliant of the President’s men, but he was the one who saw most deeply into other people: their motives, their hopes, their fears. He was relentlessly seductive, and had drawn her out already over the past month on Judith, on her ambition, on her philosophy of life. If she tarried too long now, Heaven alone knew what secrets Sickles might winkle out of her.
“The hour is late,” she said, rising. “My aunt will be worried.”
“Those tricks might work with a young gentleman like Hilliman,” barked Sickles. He, too, struggled to his feet. “But I’m not a gentleman, and I’m neither charmed nor fooled.” Bad leg and all, he was moving around the common room. “Let’s talk about Blaine for a minute.”
“You told me that wasn’t my fault!”
“And it wasn’t.” Leaning heavily on his cane, stroking his moustaches. “But I’ve been thinking, Miss Canner. Stanton is gone, but we still seem to be leaking information to the Radicals. And, meanwhile, the spigot from Chanticleer seems to have shut off.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“That is what I would like to believe.” His face hardened. “Tell me, Miss Canner, have you heard anything lately from Mr. Yount?”
“What?”
“Your fiancé. Second Lieutenant Aaron Yount. Any news?”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Of course you do. My source has been through the records at the War Department, Miss Canner. Lieutenant Yount, of the Sixth Colored Troops, was declared missing after Petersburg. He was never officially identified as a prisoner of war. He also has not returned home. Most likely, he is lying in an unmarked grave—”
“He is not!” she cried.
Sickles was calm. “So you keep saying. And I am willing to believe that you believe it. But I marvel at your certainty. I wonder who might have given you the information on which you base your hopes that he is alive.” He gave a sad little nod. “I wonder what you might not promise, or perform, in return for that hope.”
Abigail looked at him for some while. The wind continued to whimper outside the windows.
“You accuse very easily, Mr. Sickles,” she finally said. “But your own conduct in this matter has not been above reproach.”
“In what way?”
“I am put in mind of our first encounter, when you removed a certain envelope from Mr. McShane’s desk. Do you recall that occasion, Mr. Sickles?”
Sickles toyed with his moustaches. “Rings a faint bell.”
“It occurs to me that the Managers are known to be searching for a certain letter, perhaps in the President’s own hand, concerning his supposed plan to place Washington City under military government—”
“Let me put your mind at ease, Miss Canner. A man of the sort to conceal evidence in order to protect himself would hardly cavil at destroying it instead.” A hard chuckle. “The letter you are describing would be too dangerous to preserve. It would have been burned in the grate at the first hint of trouble.”
“Then you are telling me—”
“I am telling you nothing, Miss Canner. The same nothing you are telling me. Let us leave matters as they are.”
He smiled. Feeling the tension lift, Abigail was emboldened to ask a question of her own. “What is a deposit?”
“I assume you do not mean bank deposit.”
“I am not sure. Dr. Chastain spoke of a deposit.”
Sickles looked interested. “What exactly did he say?”
“I do not recall his precise words.”
“I am sure you recall his words very precisely.” Shifting his weight, leaning on his cane. “Most of the better spies, if they’d been around for a while, would put aside what they called deposits. The deposit was a cache of papers hidden somewhere. Protection, in case the poor fellow met an untoward end.” His eyes lit up. “So Chastain had a deposit. Means he was worried. Well, well.”
Abigail was thoughtful. “I formed the impression that he had it no longer.”
She would say no more.
III
The same night found Jonathan and Meg at the National Theatre, where a strange drama called Brand, by an unknown but clearly mad Norwegian named Ibsen, was being performed to great acclaim. The plot, which Jonathan followed only with difficulty, was somehow related to the mysteries of sacrifice and obedience, but he found concentration difficult, not because of the complexities of the trial or the exhausted state of his mind, but because Meg refused to keep her hands to herself. She kept tickling his ribs. Margaret Felix, staid and prim daughter of the Lion, playing these games in the theate
r.
Most unlike her.
Most disturbing. Among those disturbed were nearby theatergoers, who were growing annoyed by the fidgeting couple.
The fidgeting couple left after the second act.
Back in the carriage, Jonathan asked Meg what exactly she thought she was doing.
Margaret Felix laughed. “Wasn’t it fun? I want us to have more fun.” She giggled, then hiccupped. “Where’s dinner?” She slipped her arm through his, put her head against his shoulder. “You did say dinner.”
“You’ve been drinking,” he said, astonished. “I should take you home.”
“Are you sure that’s where you want to take me?” Jonathan turned to her, aghast. The golden eyes were clever, and moist. “I want you to take me wherever you took Miss Lucy Lambert Hale,” she said. “That’s where I want you to take me.”
“Meg, I assure you—”
“I don’t want you to assure me. I want you to take me where you took Miss Hale.”
Jonathan was still objecting. “I never took Miss Hale anywhere.”
“You dined with her, at the National Hotel.”
“That was a friendly meal, Meg. Our families go way back.”
“My understanding”—a saucy wink—“is that it was a very friendly meal.”
“Someone has been spreading unsavory stories. You mustn’t believe them.”
Meg had begun to sniffle. Meg never sniffled; or drank; or was jealous. After that she wept for a little while. Jonathan turned the carriage toward her aunt Clara’s, but decided to take his time. If the Lion heard about Meg’s behavior there would be hell to pay.
“Then take me to Richmond,” she said. “You took your colored girl to Richmond. Why not me?”
“Meg, please. Stop.”
“Do you like her more than you like me? Is that it?”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“I don’t like feeling this way,” she said, suddenly. She shivered. He tucked the coach blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “I am not a miserable person. I am a happy person. I am marrying the man I love.”
“Try to rest,” he said awkwardly.
Meg put her head on his shoulder, linked her fingers around his arm. “I do not wish to tell you what to do, Jonathan. You are a man, after all. I told you in Philadelphia that I know, from living with my father, what men are.” A tight nod. “It is just, those stories about you and Miss Hale, and you and Miss Canner—”
“Please, Meg. Put the stories out of your mind. I had to spend time with Miss Hale because her father is a powerful man. There was nothing more. And Miss Canner and I work together.”
“A powerful man.” She yawned. “My father is also a powerful man.” Her voice was sleepy. “And he has powerful friends.”
“Ssssh. Rest, Meg.”
“His friends do not much care for your President.”
“I know.”
“They do not much care for Senator Wade, either.” She sighed, pressed closer. “I believe they are searching for an alternative.” Her eyes were closed. “Perhaps a military man.”
CHAPTER 40
Supplicant
I
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, a sharp skirmish began. The third count claimed that the President had defied congressional statutes. The prosecution now sought to introduce further evidence on the theme. Dennard objected that all that had really occurred was a difference in interpretation, nothing rising to a level that would necessitate impeachment.
“Your Honor, we should here be absolutely clear. The defiance of which the Managers keep speaking is a matter of the appropriate disposition of military forces. Nothing more. The bill in question commanded the President to maintain military governments in the Southern states until such time as conditions set forth by Congress are realized.”
Butler was on his feet. “Your Honor, counsel for the respondent is merely repeating what we have already established. This is not argument.”
“These facts,” said Dennard, “are crucial to our argument.”
Chase waved an impatient hand. “Get to the point, counsel.”
“Mr. Chief Justice, Senators, it is our contention, with all respect, that the Congress lacks authority to dictate to the President in matters regarding the disposition of military forces.”
A murmur of dismay from the floor. Chase removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose: a sure sign, as the whole room knew, of irritation.
“Continue, counsel.”
“Sir,” said Dennard, “under Article II of the Constitution, the President is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the United States. Article I grants to the Congress the power to declare war and to make appropriations. But once a state of war exists—as it did during the late rebellion—and once the money to support the armed forces has been appropriated—which it was—it is up to the Executive, not the legislature, to decide how those forces are to be deployed.” He mopped his forehead. “Members of this august body may have honest disagreements with the President’s decisions on these matters. It may even be, in some circumstances, that the policy of the Senate would be a wiser one than the policy of the Executive. But the Framers of the Constitution did not place that authority in the Senate’s hands. In their wisdom or their folly, they placed it in the Executive.”
Dennard took his seat. The Chief Justice prepared to move on, but Thaddeus Stevens pounded a fist on the table, demanding to be heard. Although the two men were friends of long standing, Chase’s eyes narrowed at the old man’s discourtesy.
“Mr. Manager Stevens,” said Chase, coldly.
“I consider counsel’s contention an outrage,” huffed Stevens, rising. “I cannot believe that counsel for the respondent seriously intend to come into this chamber and argue that an act of the Congress is unconstitutional. Plainly, the Senate has heard that case, and disagreed, for the bill passed this house overwhelmingly. Thus, the question of constitutionality is, in this chamber, a matter of res judicata.” Stevens coughed, wiped his mouth, took a breath. He pointed to a sheaf of papers held by a colleague. “I would ask leave to file the argument.”
Chase tapped his chin, then nodded. “So ordered.”
A much more detailed version of the argument would be published in the Congressional Globe, creating on the printed page the impression that the entire chamber had sat rapt as counsel extemporized. In reality, as Sickles never tired of pointing out, hardly anybody even listened to the short versions of House and Senate speeches, so nobody was likely to read the long ones—although he supposed that scholars years hence might mistake them for arguments actually made on this bill or that one. “As for me,” he liked to say, “when I was in Congress, I don’t think I opened the Globe once.”
Now, with Stevens silenced, Chase determined once more to move on. He glanced at Dennard.
“Does counsel for respondent wish to be heard?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Chase puffed out a lot of air. Plainly, he had been hoping for a different answer. “Very well. Counsel for the respondent will be heard. But be brief.”
“May it please the Court, I can state our position in two sentences. It is the Managers who have put the President’s state of mind into issue. Surely, then, it matters that he believed the statute unconstitutional.”
“So noted. He believed it. I am sure the Managers will accept that.” Fully in charge once more, Chase did not wait for the prosecution to say whether he was right. “As to the rest, we will file the argument and we will move on. Now sit.”
Stevens sought recognition. Chase ignored him. “Fifteen-minute recess,” he declared, and left the bench in a temper.
II
“I have not had the opportunity to talk to you,” whispered Kate, as Margaret, standing nearby, held court with several other Washington ladies. “About poor Mr. Blaine, I mean. That was horrible.”
“Horrible,” Abigail agreed, wondering why Mrs. Sprague chose this moment to bring it up.
“But, once again, the police seem to be making no progress.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
Kate leaned closer. “There is a rumor, dear, that you have been looking into what happened to poor Mr. McShane.”
Abigail stiffened. “I was, briefly. I am no longer. I am busy with trial.”
“So, you would have no interest in information about Blaine?”
“None whatever.”
“Then there would be no point in my telling you,” murmured Kate with that tiny smile, “that he was often in the company of a certain young lady about whom we spoke when you and I were last at table.”
And she leaned away again, striking up a conversation with the woman sitting to her left.
III
Following the recess, the Managers called Eliza Caffey, the housekeeper for the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher, a popular Abolitionist preacher in New York and, when it suited him, one of the Lincoln’s leading supporters. The President’s lawyers had noticed her name on the witness list, but had been unable to ascertain precisely what the prosecution expected her to say.
“If I might,” said Dennard, rising. “For what purpose is this witness offered?”
“Your Honor,” said Bingham, “Miss Caffey’s testimony will help to establish the President’s state of mind at the time of the events in question.”
“We object, Mr. Chief Justice. The President’s state of mind is not relevant to any of the offenses charged.”
Chase turned to Bingham.
“Mr. Chief Justice, Senators, counsel for the respondent has argued as recently as today that the offenses alleged in Counts Three and Four amount to differences in judgment. The Managers do not agree. But let us take counsel at their word. It is the position of the Managers that if indeed Mr. Lincoln did exercise poor judgment, the reason might have been his distress over the tragic death of Mrs. Lincoln. Perhaps, for a time, he lost his reason.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the rising tumult: gasps, cries, even curses. “We offer this witness, Your Honor, in order to establish this possibility.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 40
