Sickles let this shot bounce off. “Do you happen to remember the content of his interruption?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t Mr. Lincoln ask you whether you had lived long enough to know that two men may honestly differ about a question and both be right?”
Moorhead colored, even though this thrust was not meant for him at all—it was a dagger aimed at the heart of the prosecution’s case. The few wavering Senators would shortly decide whether it had hit home.
“I don’t remember the President’s words,” said Moorhead. “I only remember his habit of interrupting.”
“I see.” Sickles reached into his jacket pocket—an act that always caused some tension, because his jacket pocket was where he had kept the gun with which he had killed Barton Key. But he withdrew only a handkerchief, and mopped at his brow. “Now, Mr. Moorhead. You said that, after you and several other members of Congress met with the President to discuss the treatment of the rebel leaders, you remained behind for a private conversation. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“How did this come about?”
“Excuse me?”
“The private conversation.” Sickles took a step to the right, placing himself between Moorhead and the Managers. “Had you arrived at the Mansion expecting to have a private conversation with the President, or were you summoned later?”
Sickles was playing to the pride of the great industrialist. He was not disappointed.
“I was not summoned, sir. I am a member of the House of Representatives. I am not at the President’s beck and call.”
“My apologies.” Again he passed the cloth across his forehead. “Very well. How were you requested to remain behind to meet with the President? Did the President himself ask you, or was it one of his aides?”
Moorhead, on thinner ice, took his time. “I believe it was the President.”
“I see. You were there in the office, with the other members of Congress, and perhaps a couple of the President’s assistants, and Mr. Lincoln asked you to remain behind.”
“I believe it was when we were shaking hands.”
“Shaking hands?”
“When our public meeting ended. The President shook hands with each of us before we departed.” Bolder, growing into the great confidence demanded by a great lie. “Yes. It was when we were shaking hands. The President put his hand on my arm and asked me to remain behind for a moment.”
“Did anyone hear him invite you to remain?”
“Are you questioning my word, sir?”
Sickles played with his moustaches. “Just now, sir, I am only asking if anyone heard the President invite you to remain for a private conversation after the others left.”
Moorhead drew himself up. The high, pale brow knitted. “I would hardly know who was listening, sir. Gentlemen do not listen to other gentlemen’s private conversation, but I fear that Mr. Lincoln’s White House is hardly a monument to discretion.”
Sickles strolled back to the counsel table. He winked at Jonathan, then said, not turning back toward the witness, “So … you had a private conversation there in the President’s office, and he joked about usurping the Congress. Is that your testimony?”
“He was not joking,” said Moorhead heavily.
Sickles’s tone remained casual. His back was still to the witness. “And how would you know that, exactly?”
“I know when a man is joking,” said the industrialist, stubbornly.
“Very well. The President told you he wanted to usurp the Congress.” A delicate pause, as he turned toward Moorhead once more. “By force?”
“Pardon me?”
“Did the President say he wanted to overthrow Congress by force? Or was he referring to an election?”
The industrialist glanced at the Managers, but their faces were stone. “I believe,” he said, licking his lips, “that he was referring to force.” By now everybody in the chamber understood, as Moorhead evidently did not, that when he began a sentence with the words “I believe,” what followed was a fabrication. “Yes. He was referring to force.”
“He said that?”
“He left me that impression.”
Sickles moved closer. “Excuse me, Congressman, if I give offense. You are asking this chamber to believe that the President of the United States chose you—not a friend, not a close confidant, not an adviser, but you, a relatively minor member of the Pennsylvania delegation—you are asking us to believe that he chose you, and you alone, to confide so extraordinary a plan?”
Jonathan saw Moorhead’s face, and knew that Sickles for once had allowed his natural theatricality to carry him over the edge. He had gone too far in making his point, and he was going to get slapped.
Hard.
“I have no reason to think,” said Moorhead, heavily, “that he chose me alone. I believe he vouchsafed this desire widely.”
Sickles made a nice recovery. “You know for a fact that he shared this desire, as you put it, with others?”
“I do.”
“Did Mr. Lincoln tell you that he had told others?”
“Sir, others told me.”
Again Sickles’s hand went to his pocket. By now the whole chamber was enthralled by this aspect of his magic. He drew out a thick pencil and a diary. “Their names, please?”
Moorhead’s frown of disapproval deepened. “I beg your pardon.”
“I would like you, please, to tell the Court the names of those others who told you about Mr. Lincoln’s plan to overthrow the Congress.”
“I cannot.”
“You don’t remember?” The pencil was poised. “Surely you remember one name?”
“Sir, a gentleman does not disclose the confidences of other gentlemen.”
“Except, evidently, to you.” General laughter. “Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer the question?”
Butler was on his feet. “Objection. Hearsay, twice over. The witness is being asked to say what others said the President said.”
“Your Honor,” said Sickles, “we are not asking the witness to testify to the words of others in order to determine their truth. We are asking the witness who else he believes”—a subtle emphasis on the verb—“to have been aware of the conspiracy to which he has testified. We will then, by way of subpoena, have them brought here and sworn.”
The Chief Justice pondered—no doubt, thought Jonathan, weighing the politics as much as the law.
“Overruled,” said Chase, at length. “The witness will answer.”
Moorhead shook his head. “I apologize to the Court. I cannot answer.”
Chase leaned forward, plainly irritated. “Sir, I have made my ruling. There is no ground on which you can refuse to answer.”
“But I have already explained, Your Honor. A gentleman cannot disclose another gentleman’s confidences.”
“That is not a proper ground, sir, and, in any case, the witness is not permitted to object.”
“Yes, but—”
Chase’s patience was gone. “The witness will answer the question or the witness will be in contempt.”
“Mr. President,” came a voice from the back.
Heads craned. It was the fierce Zachariah Chandler of Michigan, one of the most devoted of Lincoln’s opponents, addressing the Chief Justice according to the forms agreed upon.
Chase looked up, pink face full of wrath. “The Senator will be in order.”
“Sir, I have a motion on the way to your desk at this moment.” He nodded toward a running page. “I wish to poll the chamber on Your Honor’s ruling on the admissibility of the question from counsel for the respondent.”
Chase read the paper swiftly. He was struggling visibly to retain his judicial mien in the face of this slap at his authority. The whole point of the battle over who could appeal his rulings had been to avoid just this sort of public challenge. He mumbled something—perhaps a prayer—and nodded briskly. “Very well. There is a request to have the chamber polled.”
A few voices called out to second the motion—quite unnecessarily, under the rules. Chandler said, “I have a further motion, on its way to the bench.”
Again Chase glanced over the request. “There is a motion that the Senate retire to its conference room to consider the matter.”
The motion passed swiftly.
“That was ill done,” Jonathan whispered as counsel stood, watching the members file out. “All Chandler is trying to do is give them time to think up a better story for Moorhead to tell.”
Sickles shook his head. “No. That’s not it. This isn’t about Moorhead. This is about Chase. He’s showing surprising signs of independence.”
“Good.”
“Maybe.” Sickles was thoughtful.
“Surely, if Chase refuses to lie down for his Radical friends, our chances of a fair trial are enhanced.”
“You still don’t understand the man, do you? He is driven by a single mania, remember. He wants to be President.” Sickles waved toward the shuttered doorway. “Oh, they’ll overrule him. They’ll vote with Chandler, and then adjourn for the day, because the argument will take hours. The Radicals will see to it. They don’t want us to have the opportunity to ask about Moorhead’s son on cross. By tomorrow, Moorhead will come down with a case of Potomac fever, or be called out of town to tend to a dying relative, and we’ll never get our questions answered.” He closed his diary. “Not that he has any answers.”
“And Chase—”
“Chase will have been instructed, by the vote to overrule him, that there are moments when he has to go along with his friends.”
III
After court, Jonathan wanted to rush back to the office: to see Abigail, to find the right words to apologize for his behavior last night. She had come to him in good faith, genuinely worried, and he had been a boor. But Dennard detained him at the conference room down the hall from the Senate Chamber. He had become aware, Dennard said, of the various activities in which Jonathan and Abigail had been engaging. He knew that they were still searching for the conspiracy against Lincoln. He reminded Jonathan of his repeated warnings not to jeopardize the case by chasing some mythical—
And Jonathan, for once, interrupted his master. “Sir, please. At least let me tell you what we have discovered.”
Dennard shrugged, as though there was nothing to be done, and told his clerk to go ahead. And so Jonathan offered a tightly edited summary of what they knew and what they guessed: Grafton, Blaine, Stanton, Judith, Rebecca, the bribes, and of course Chanticleer—
“I will grant you Chanticleer,” said Dennard, grudgingly. “Whoever he is. The rest is supposition. Inadmissible and therefore irrelevant.”
“A thing can be inadmissible in a court of law and nevertheless true.”
“If it does not help our client,” the lawyer rumbled, “I do not want my staff wasting their time on it. Bring me documentary evidence and we can proceed. Anything less, and your time is better spent on your assignments. Unless, of course, you feel that you are underworked, in which case I can add to your load.”
For this and other reasons, Jonathan was in a sullen mood as he climbed the stairs to the second floor and let himself into the office. Little was there, stoking the fire. The partners’ doors were shut. The room was otherwise empty.
“Where is Miss Abigail?” Jonathan said.
The old man, down on his arthritic knees, turned his head. “Ain’t seen her tonight.”
“She is supposed to be working!”
“Well, now, I know how it is with young people. Half the time, you uns don’t do what you’re spose to do.”
Hiding a childlike disappointment, Jonathan sat down to his books.
IV
As for Abigail, she had indeed allowed herself to be persuaded to see Fielding again: even if she was now armed with an agenda. Once more, she had accompanied him to the late buffet at the National Hotel. Once more, he was beautiful.
“I was afraid you no longer wished my company,” said Fielding.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Hills says—”
“I am not a woman who needs a man to speak for me.”
Over those delightful crabs, they traded pleasantries for a good half-hour, and then she proceeded to the matter most on her mind.
“May I ask you a question, Fielding?”
“Anything.”
“It’s about Jonathan.”
His face fell, but to show it was all in jest he folded hands over his heart. “I shall not survive it,” he declaimed. “The course of true love never did run smooth!”
Abigail laughed along with him, hoping that he was serious about joking. Then she pressed on. “I would like to know about Jonathan’s family.”
“The Hillimans? There isn’t much to tell.”
“What are they like?”
“Are you asking if they would like you?”
She looked away. The conversation was going absurdly wrong. “No, no, I—I just want to know.” She realized that there was no good way to put the question: Would they conspire against the President? She would have to seek information from some other source. And so she decided to have fun, and forced a smile. “Never mind. Tell me about your family instead.”
“Mine? They like money. There’s little else to say.”
“I am sure there is a good deal more—”
“Well, well,” said a voice at her shoulder. “I see you have found yourself another beau.”
General Baker stood beside the table, with a man she did not recognize, although he looked every bit as cruel.
Abigail stood, but Fielding was faster. “Go away and leave us alone.”
“This has nothing to do with you, son.”
“I will have you know—”
The general ignored him. He turned toward Abigail. “Don’t think I’m not still keeping an eye on you, miss. Because I am. Every minute of every day.” He allowed this to sink in. Then he laughed. “Dinner with this one. Rides in the country with young Addison. Going down to Richmond for a couple of days with young Hilliman. And of course lunch with the scandalous Sickles. You don’t half get around, do you?” To Fielding: “Please don’t let me interrupt.”
As Baker moved away, she heard the words “proper little hopper” drifting through the restaurant. Plainly she was meant to overhear. She had never come across the phrase before, not even in the pages of Peterson’s, but had little trouble puzzling out its meaning.
“You care for him, don’t you?” asked Fielding, a little sadly. “Hills, I mean. You really do care, don’t you?”
Abigail drew herself up. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Shall I take you home?”
“I intend to enjoy my dinner. And the company.”
But she was thinking about something else, something that had driven her questions about Jonathan’s family right out of her mind. Twice now, Lafayette Baker had “happened” upon her when she was out on the town. As if he knew where she would be. Perhaps this was because of an effective system of surveillance. But another possibility worried her.
Both times General Baker had appeared, Abigail had been out with Fielding Bannerman.
CHAPTER 44
Department
I
“MAJOR CLANCY,” SAID Benjamin Butler. “You are the President’s military aide, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you work in the Executive Mansion?”
“Sir, I have a desk on the first floor. I’m usually either there or over at the War Department. It’s just a block away, sir.”
It was Thursday afternoon, and the evidence for the Managers would shortly be concluded. They had entered upon consideration of the fourth count, and by far the most inflammatory: that the President had undertaken a design to overthrow the authority of the Congress. In all likelihood, Bingham had told the chamber, they would be calling only three more witnesses. Major Clancy was the first. He sat there in his blue uniform, trim and glistening,
and sitting to attention. But his military bearing could not disguise either his nervousness or his reluctance to say a single word.
The President’s lawyers had objected to Clancy’s appearance, arguing that a presidential aide could not properly be questioned before the Congress about his conversations with the Chief Executive. The separation of powers, Speed had argued at some length, absolutely forbade such inquiry. Chase had sustained the objection—no man who hoped to serve as President could easily do otherwise—but the Senate had gone into caucus and, by an overwhelming margin, decided to hear the testimony. Even most of Lincoln’s friends had voted to overrule the Chief Justice: there were institutional prerogatives at stake, and they did not want to set a precedent holding the President’s aides free of congressional inquiry.
“Tell us, Major,” said Butler now. “When did you undertake your current assignment?”
“Sir, July of 1866.”
“Eight months ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
Butler quickly established what was after all common ground: that the major’s job was not to advise the President but to see that his orders were properly conveyed to the War Department, and also to keep track of any War Department correspondence coming into the President’s office.
“So all communication with the War Department goes through you?”
“It is supposed to, sir. I’m afraid in this city things don’t always work the way they are supposed to.”
This was greeted with laughter. Even Butler smiled.
“Indeed. But is it fair to say that you see most of the correspondence?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And most of the President’s orders? He would give them to you for transmission to the department?”
“Sir, like I said, the War Department is right near the Mansion. Most of the time, I’d just run the orders over to Mr. Stanton’s office.”
“Did you know the contents of the orders?”
“If the President dictated them, yes, sir. If he gave me a sealed envelope, then I wouldn’t know, of course.”
“Of course. Now, tell me, Major. Did any of the orders that he dictated to you—any correspondence known to you from the President—did any of it concern, in any way, a military department known as the Department of the Atlantic?”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 44
