I
ON TUESDAY MORNING at half past eight, Abigail Canner boarded the horsecars on Seventh Street, just as she had every morning of her now ended employment at Dennard & McShane. She sat in the middle, as usual. High wispy clouds drifted across a distant slate sky. The weather had not yet realized that it was spring. At Pennsylvania Avenue, she changed to the Washington & Georgetown Line. Watching the hotels and office buildings slip past, she had the sensation that once she left each vista behind she would never see it again, as if this was a day for endings, not beginnings. Rather than alighting from the car where the tracks crossed Fourteenth Street, as she would if heading for the office, Abigail remained aboard until Lafayette Park. Here the carriage block was broad and flat and meticulously maintained. And no wonder. Lafayette Park was directly across the street from the White House.
She hesitated a moment, glancing at Secretary Seward’s grim castle to the west, going over the logic in her mind, then proceeded boldly across Pennsylvania Avenue. A uniformed soldier stopped her at the gate of the Executive Mansion, and she asked to see one of the doorkeepers. Once the guard realized that she was not undertaking some sort of elaborate joke, he passed her on to the front entrance. She knocked, then handed the startled doorkeeper a sealed envelope, addressed to Noah Brooks, the President’s private secretary.
“Put it directly in his hand,” she said, trying for the easy imperiousness that Dinah Berryhill would have mustered at such a moment. “Make sure the note goes to Mr. Brooks and no one else.”
Her attitude evidently made an impression, because the doorkeeper, an ancient and toothless Irishman, invited her into the lobby to wait. He hurried up the marble stairs. Under the watchful eye of a Bucktail, Abigail stood very still, continuing to disguise her nervousness in a show of hauteur.
The anger helped.
She had required three nights to make up her mind and prepare a plan. She had spent the past two months reacting to events, as, in a sense, she had done her whole life, working out what was expected of her—whether at the Quaker school, at Oberlin Collegiate Institute, or at Dennard & McShane—and then performing those tasks with an excellence so implausible that those around her—the white people around her—had no choice but to acknowledge the superiority of her brain. Yet all of that success was only reactive. The time she had spent with Kate Chase Sprague—and, although she hated to admit it, with Margaret Felix as well—had taught her the value of the life spent not responding to the demands of others, but making demands of your own. The path she had followed up until now guaranteed a form of success; but the path of acting rather than reacting, although riskier, led not to mere success but to triumph.
More now than at any moment in her young life, Abigail Canner was determined to triumph.
The doorkeeper was back, astonishment in his aged eyes. “Mr. Brooks instructs me to bring you right up.”
II
“May it please the court,” said Bingham, “the Managers have one rebuttal witness.”
Chase squinted down at him. “Call your witness,” he said.
“The Managers call Edwin Stanton.”
The secretary of the Senate echoed the call, the far door swung open, and the most feared man in Washington stepped into the chamber. His beard for once was dry, but his twisted sneer told the world that nobody had better notice.
Dennard was already on his feet. “Your Honor, we object to this witness.”
Bingham said, “Counsel for the respondent have built their case around the assertion that Mr. Lincoln neither knowingly flouted the will of this Congress nor acted at any time in a way that might lead to the overthrow of its authority. We have the right to rebut their evidence.”
Chase turned back to Dennard.
“Sir, the Managers will attempt to elicit privileged testimony—”
“This body has already ruled on the claim of privilege, Mr. Dennard. Step back.” To the clerk: “Swear the witness.”
Bingham stepped to the lectern.
“Mr. Stanton, what is your position?”
“I am the Secretary of War.”
“And you are therefore in constant contact with the President of the United States?”
Stanton never faltered. “Sir, it is my privilege to serve as one of Mr. Lincoln’s closest advisers.”
“Indeed, since the incapacitation of Secretary Seward, have you not been his closest adviser?”
Dennard objected. Chase told him to sit.
“That assessment is correct,” said Stanton smoothly. He began to comb the luxurious beard with his fingers.
“Mr. Stanton, I am going to ask you a series of questions regarding conversations you have had with the President of the United States. If at any time you feel that honor dictates leaving some matter aside, please feel free to specify.”
“I understand, Mr. Bingham.”
“Good. Now, then, Mr. Stanton, did you have any conversations with Mr. Lincoln regarding the implementation of the Reconstruction Acts?”
“Of course. We spoke of it frequently.”
“And did you bring to his attention the complaints of various general officers and military governors about the level of protection being afforded the freedmen?”
Again Dennard’s objection was overruled.
“I did.”
“What was the President’s response?”
III
“They tell me that you have been rather busy,” said Abraham Lincoln. “They tell me that you have been all over Washington City, and down in Richmond, too, gathering information.”
This time, only the two of them were in the office. Abigail, a bit overwhelmed to be alone in the presence of the President, managed to keep her voice relatively steady.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“You have just refused to leave this alone, haven’t you? You have had plenty of warnings—from Baker, from Stanton, even from that police inspector—but you will not stop, will you?” He was sitting behind his desk, chair leaning back against the wall. “Even when you don’t know where you’re going, you won’t stop. You’re like the man who says he can’t get his boots on until he’s worn them for a day or two to stretch the leather.” No smile. “Well, you’ve stretched the leather about as far as it will go, haven’t you? And Seward says you have about everything you need to work out what’s been going on.”
“Not everything, sir.” Don’t react. Press forward. “But I have figured out enough to know that the House Managers are in for a surprise.”
The President’s sleepy eyelid drooped into a wink. “I suppose they are, aren’t they?”
IV
“Mr. Lincoln was angry,” said Stanton. “He told me that the treatment of the freedmen was an outrage. He ordered me to use whatever force was available to protect them.”
Bingham frowned, and consulted his notes. The play was not unfolding precisely according to script. “And was much force available?”
“No, sir.”
“And why was that?”
Dennard was about to object, but Sickles put a hand on his arm. Jonathan heard the men whispering together, and Dennard subsided.
“Sir, after the war, the President and this Congress worked out a reduction in the troop levels, as a means of saving money. Most of the conscripts were sent home. Our forces at the South were therefore spread more thinly than during the war.”
“Was the lack of money the only reason that there were few troops?” asked Bingham, obviously trying to signal the witness.
“Sir?” said Stanton.
“Hadn’t decisions been made by the President to withdraw most of the troops from certain states?”
Again the question, as phrased, was objectionable, and Chase glanced at the defense table. But Dennard didn’t budge.
“Sir, there are three states where a sufficient number of the white males of voting age have taken the oath of allegiance. They have formed governments in which no one who served in the rebel government is allowed to serve. They h
ave also ratified the Thirteenth Amendment, abolishing slavery. Those states have met the terms set out by the Commander-in-Chief and are therefore no longer under military government. We nevertheless have forces in those states, but the forces are relatively small.”
“So it would be fair to say that in three states, at least, the reason there are few troops is because of Mr. Lincoln’s decision?”
“Sir, we are no longer at war with those particular states.”
An uproar in the chamber. Stanton had hit on precisely the issue dividing the President and the Congress. When the tumult subsided, Bingham, back where he had hoped to be, asked the question he had been waiting to spring:
“So the freedmen received less protection in the states that the President has allowed to form governments?”
“No, sir,” said Stanton. Bingham, who had been swaggering a bit, stopped. He was stunned. “Mr. Lincoln ordered me to transfer such troops as were necessary to combat the night riders.”
“But—”
“We were moving troops constantly, sir. There were not enough to cover the entire South, but that was not because of Mr. Lincoln’s decision. That was because of the decision, concurred in by this Congress, to reduce the amount of the budget allotted to the Department of War. If there is fault, sir, it lies on both sides.”
V
“Tell me how you worked it out,” said the President. “I would like to see where we went wrong.”
“If I may, sir,” said Abigail, still refusing to react, “I will tell you what I think occurred, and allow you to correct me when I err in my analysis.”
Lincoln looked at her with fresh respect. “By all means.”
“About a year ago—maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less—you and Mr. Seward and Mr. Stanton decided that the threat of an impeachment trial was serious. Your divisions with the Congress had grown so great, and your humiliations of the Radicals had grown so frequent, that there was serious doubt whether the situation could be salvaged. You differed with the Congress over Reconstruction, but that was only one of many issues. And there were personal animosities as well. Your wife had recently died—excuse me—and, somehow—I don’t know—that increased the difficulties.”
The President had steepled his hands. “It was the worst time of my life,” he conceded. “Even worse than when we lost our boys. I considered leaving this horrible place, returning home. I seem to recall that a few of our friends on the Hill even suggested such a course of action.” He laughed. “Why, I do believe that Mr. Sumner might have been among the most … sympathetic.” The humor faded. “But I had not yet completed the task laid before me. The task of binding up the wounds of war.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Radicals want to punish the South. And, Heaven knows, I understand the impulse. But we will never re-create ourselves a mighty country”—a wink. “Never mind, Miss Canner. Tell me the rest of what I did, and why.”
And so she did. She told him what she knew or guessed. He had known that the Radicals were plotting against him, and he had known that there was another, separate plot, by powerful interests opposed to him on other grounds—“principally the tariff”—and had suspected, but could not prove, that the two sets of opponents, knowingly or unknowingly, had joined forces. At the same time, as Wade’s influence advanced in the capital, Lincoln had been less and less sure whom he could trust.
“And so you sent Secretary Stanton. He was to join the Radical faction, and to pretend that he was working secretly against you, when, in fact, he was searching for that connection. I don’t know how much he found out about the plot, but I am quite sure that he learned a lot about the impeachment case. In particular, he learned the names of those likely to testify long before the Managers turned them over to your lawyers. This enabled him to arrange for the gathering of information that might be turned against potential witnesses.”
“And how would he gather that information, Miss Canner? If, as you say, we did not know whom we could trust?”
“He used the Secret Service. The network of spies run by Mr. Seward during the war, and the network of federal police run by General Baker now.”
“Surely even the Secret Service could be corrupted.”
“No doubt. Except for one highly trusted agent. Chanticleer.”
VI
Bingham had moved on hastily from Count Three to Count Four, as the consternation in the chamber grew. It was obvious to everyone that the witness was not responding as expected, and that the Managers had made a mistake by calling him. The wily Stanton, it seemed, had changed sides again.
“Now, Mr. Stanton, let us discuss the Department of the Atlantic.”
“Please.”
“You have heard of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In what context?”
The eyes were growing watery again. “Sir, the President and I several times discussed the possible establishment of a military district in Washington. The district was to be called the Department of the Atlantic.”
Bingham was visibly relieved. “What was the nature of these discussions?”
“The President was worried about the security of the capital. You will recall that after the war there were rumors of a Confederate regiment hiding out in the Smoky Mountains, living off the land. If that regiment existed, and we drew down our troop strength as planned, then that regiment would have a straight line of march through North Carolina and Virginia to this city. They could cross the Potomac River up high during low tide, as General Lee did during the war, and come down through Maryland. That was the President’s concern, and I shared it.”
“And the Department of the Atlantic was the solution?”
“It might have been, sir, but we never went beyond the talking stage.”
“Why not?”
“Sir, the President was of the opinion that establishing the Department of the Atlantic would require the consent of the Congress, and that consent would not be forthcoming.”
A flurry at the prosecution table. Someone handed Bingham a note.
“Mr. Stanton, did not you tell Mr. Manager Stevens in private conversation that Mr. Lincoln wanted to establish the Department of the Atlantic, and that it was only your own adamant opposition that prevented this?”
“Sir, if I said those words, I was mistaken.”
Bingham groped for control. “Did not you tell Mr. Manager Stevens in private conversation that the President stated that he saw the establishment of the Department of the Atlantic as the only way to rein in the Congress?”
“Sir, if I said those words, I was mistaken.”
“Did you not tell Mr. Manager Stevens in private conversation that Mr. Lincoln, on frequent occasion, referred to this august body as obstreperous and obstructionist, and that he expressed the wish that he could shut the Congress down and send it home?”
“Yes, sir. And, might I add, that anyone who serves in the executive branch will at times yield to that view. I have had the honor of being acquainted with a number of Presidents, sir, and I daresay Mr. Lincoln yielded to that temptation a good deal less than others I have known.”
VII
“You faced two difficulties,” said Abigail. “One was concealing Mr. Stanton’s dual role. The other was finding a plausible way to route the information that he obtained out of his hands and into yours, and the hands of your counsel. Needless to say, this had to be done in such a way that it would never reflect on you, or on your Administration. If the plan went sour, it would be Mr. Stanton, and he alone, who would be punished. Beyond that, nobody from this White House could have any official role.”
The President was amused at the casual description of his convolutions. “So, how did we accomplish those tasks?”
“Through the agent Chanticleer. Chanticleer had been a highly reliable agent during the war, traveling frequently through the South, collecting information from a wide variety of sources, and returning to Washington to deliver the information to Mr. Seward. Chanticleer was
never suspected, by either side, of playing this key role during the war. Therefore, when Mr. Seward reactivated Chanticleer after the war, nobody was the wiser. Two flows of information were established. One of the flows, the identities of the prosecution witnesses and the nature of their testimony, went from Mr. Stanton to Chanticleer, who would then contact sources around the country to gather damaging facts to be used in cross-examination. These were delivered to Mr. McShane’s office quite openly, as they would be on the surface entirely innocuous, and nobody would guess that they involved the impeachment trial. The other flow—the trickier one—was information more closely related to the conspiracy. This was the more valuable information, and so a more elaborate system was devised. This information flowed from Stanton, to Chanticleer, through Rebecca Deveaux, to Mr. McShane.”
“Why would Chanticleer be necessary? I was under the impression that Miss Deveaux had worked for the Stantons.”
“I believe that to be the fulcrum, Mr. President. I suspect that the arrangement began with Rebecca, not Chanticleer. They knew each other already, you see. Rebecca had worked for at least one of the conspirators, and possibly more. She removed notes from their houses and shared them with Chanticleer. Rebecca was likely unaware of Chanticleer’s involvement in the Secret Service. Probably she was simply frightened by what she had discovered, and wanted advice. I suspect that Chanticleer went to Mr. Seward, who had previously run the Secret Service, and who, from his sickbed, devised the system under which Rebecca would continue to provide information on the conspiracy and Chanticleer would revive the slave network to investigate the backgrounds of the witnesses against you.” She was watching the President closely now, but the wise, experienced face gave not a flicker.
“But the plan went wrong. The friendship between Chanticleer and Rebecca Deveaux led to two unexpected consequences. First, Chanticleer, who knew how the world worked, was worried that something might happen to Rebecca, who was after all little more than a child. And so Chanticleer advised her to hide a document that would protect her, just in case. Chanticleer called this the deposit. This led to the second problem. The deposit could obviously not be one of the documents that Chanticleer obtained from Mr. Stanton.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 51
