by Steve Berry
The Lincoln Myth is a work of fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Steve Berry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Berry, Steve.
The Lincoln myth : a novel / Steve Berry.—First Edition.
pages; cm
ISBN 978-0-345-52657-1 (hardcover : acid-free paper) —
ISBN 978-0-345-52659-5 (ebook)
1. Malone, Cotton (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Official secrets—United States—Fiction. 3. Suspense fiction. 4. Political fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E764L56 2013
813′.6—dc23 2014002732
www.ballantinebooks.com
Jacket design: Scott Biel
Jacket image: Travel Images/UIG/Getty Images
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Two
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Part Four
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Writer’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them better.
This is a most valuable, a most sacred right—a right, which we hope and believe, is to liberate the world. Nor is this right confined to cases in which the whole people of an existing government may choose to exercise it.
Any portion of such people, that can, may revolutionize, and make their own of so much of the territory as they inhabit.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
January 12, 1848
PROLOGUE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SEPTEMBER 10, 1861
ABRAHAM LINCOLN KEPT HIS TEMPER UNDER CONTROL, BUT the woman standing across from him was taxing his patience.
“The general did only what all decent people believe to be right,” she said.
Jesse Benton Fremont was the wife of General John Fremont, United States Army, the man in charge of all Union military affairs west of the Mississippi River. A Mexican War hero and renowned explorer, Fremont had received his latest command appointment in May. Then, a month ago, with the Civil War raging in the South, he unilaterally issued a proclamation emancipating all slaves of Missouri Rebels who’d taken up arms against the United States. That was bad enough, but Fremont’s edict went even farther and declared that all prisoners of war would be shot.
“Madam,” he said, his voice low. “Is it truly your husband’s view that any captured Rebels be killed?”
“These men must know they are traitors to their country, and traitors have always been put to death.”
“Do you realize that once that is begun, the Confederates will shoot who they hold of ours in retaliation. Man for man. Indefinitely.”
“Sir, we did not start this rebellion.”
The clock on the mantel told him it was nearing midnight. A note had arrived at the presidential mansion three hours ago, its message concise. Mrs. Fremont brings to the president from General Fremont a letter and some verbal communications, which she would be glad to deliver with as little delay as possible. If it suits the president’s convenience will he name a time to receive them this evening or at some early hour tomorrow.
His response told her to come immediately.
They stood in the Red Parlor on the first floor, a chandelier burning brightly. He knew of this imposing woman. The daughter of a former U.S. senator, highly educated, raised in Washington, D.C., schooled in politics. She’d defied her parents and married Fremont at the age of seventeen, eventually birthing five children. She’d supported her husband during his explorations of the West and was there when he served as military governor of California and as one of that state’s initial U.S. senators. She’d campaigned with him when he became, in 1856, the first presidential nominee of the new Republican party. He came to be known as the Pathfinder, and his candidacy had reawakened popular enthusiasm. And though he lost to James Buchanan, if Pennsylvania had voted differently he would have been elected.
So, for Lincoln, as the first Republican party president actually elected, appointing John Fremont commander of the West had been an easy choice.
Now he regretted it.
He wondered if life could be any worse.
The immense pride he’d felt in March, taking the oath as the sixteenth president, had been replaced with the agony of the Civil War. Eleven states had seceded from the Union and formed their own confederacy. They’d attacked Fort Sumter, forcing him to blockade all Southern ports and suspend the writ of habeas corpus. The Union army had been dispatched, but suffered a humiliating defeat at Bull Run—that crushing blow convincing him this conflict would be long and bloody.
Now Fremont and his grand emancipation.
/> He could sympathize with the general. Rebels had soundly defeated Union forces in southern Missouri and were advancing northward. Fremont was isolated, with limited men and resources. The situation demanded action, so he’d placed Missouri under martial law. Then he’d gone too far, ordering the slaves from all Rebels freed.
Neither Lincoln himself, nor Congress had been so bold.
Several messages, and even a direct order, to modify the proclamation had been ignored. Now the general had dispatched his wife to deliver a letter and plead his case.
“Madam, there are considerations here far beyond those of Missouri. As you have reminded me, a war rages. Unfortunately, the issues that divide the opposing sides to that conflict are not so distinct.”
Slavery being the main misunderstanding.
From Lincoln’s standpoint slavery simply was not an issue. He’d already thrown the secessionists an offer, telling them that they could keep their slaves. They could even raise a new flag, send representatives to Montgomery, and have their confederacy—provided they allowed the collection of Northern tariffs in their ports. If the South became free of tariffs, Northern industrial interests would be crippled, the national government would be rendered broke. No armies would be required to defeat it. Tariffs were the country’s main source of revenue. Without them, the North would flounder.
But the South had rejected his overtures, firing on Fort Sumter.
“Mr. President, I have traveled for three days in an overcrowded train, the weather hot and miserable. It was not a journey I enjoyed, but I came because the general wants you to understand that the only considerations relevant are those of the utmost importance to this nation. Rebels have taken arms against us. They must be stopped and slavery ended.”
“I have written to the general, and he knows what I want done,” he made clear.
“He feels he is at the great disadvantage of being opposed by people in whom you have every confidence.”
A curious retort. “Who do you mean?”
“He thinks that your advisers, men closer to you than him, have a better hold on your ear.”
“And that accounts for his disobeying my orders? Madam, his emancipation proclamation does not come within the range of military law or necessity. He has made a political decision, one that is not his to make. Just a few weeks ago I sent my personal secretary, Mr. Hay, to see the general, who asked him to modify the part of the proclamation that freed all slaves in Missouri. No answer was given to my request. Instead, the general has now sent you to speak to me directly.”
Even worse, Hay’s reports had made clear that Fremont’s command was rife with corruption, his troops on the verge of rebellion. Not surprising. Fremont was stubborn, hysterical, and rash. His whole career had been one fiasco after another. Back in 1856 he’d ignored the advice of political experts and made slavery that presidential campaign’s main issue. But the country was not yet ready for such an uprooting. Sentiment wasn’t right.
And it cost him a victory.
“The general’s conviction,” she said, “is that it will be long and dreadful work to conquer the Rebels by arms alone. To secure the support of foreign countries, other considerations have to be recognized. The general knows of the English feeling for gradual emancipation, and the strong wish to meet that feeling on the part of important men in the South. We cannot allow that to happen. As president, surely you know that we are on the eve of England, France, and Spain recognizing the South. England on account of her cotton interests. France because the emperor dislikes us—”
“You are quite a female politician.”
“I am not ignorant of the world. Perhaps yourself, a man who barely laid claim to this great office, should be mindful of other people’s opinions.”
An insult he’d heard before. He’d won the 1860 election thanks to a fracture in the Democratic party, which stupidly had offered two candidates. Then the upstart Constitutional Union party chose another of its own. Among them the three garnered 48% of the popular vote and split 123 electoral votes, which allowed his 40% and 180 electoral votes to claim victory. True, he was but a lawyer from Illinois, the extent of his national experience one term in the House of Representatives. He’d even lost the 1858 Illinois race for the U.S. Senate to his longtime nemesis Stephen Douglas. But now, at fifty-two years old, ensconced in the White House with a four-year term, he found himself at the center of the greatest constitutional crisis the nation had ever faced.
“I must say, madam, that I cannot be unmindful of others’ thoughts, as I am barraged by them every day. The general should never have dragged the Negro into this war. This is a conflict for a great national object and the Negro has nothing to do with it.”
“You are mistaken, sir.”
He’d allowed this woman some latitude, mindful that she was merely defending her husband, as a wife should.
But now the Fremonts were both bordering on treason.
“Madam, the general’s actions have caused Kentucky to rethink whether it will stay with the Union or join the Rebels. Maryland, Missouri, and several other border states are likewise reconsidering their positions. If this conflict be about the freeing of slaves, then we shall surely lose.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a lift of his hand.
“I have not left anyone in doubt. My task is to save the Union. I would save it the shortest way under the Constitution. The sooner the national authority can be restored, the nearer the Union will be the Union as it was. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it. If I could save it by freeing all slaves, I would do it. If I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. What I do about slavery, and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union. What I forbear, I forbear because I don’t believe it would help to save the Union. I shall do less whenever I shall believe what I am doing hurts the cause, and I shall do more whenever I shall believe doing more will help the cause.”
“Then you are not my president, sir. Nor would you be the president of those who voted for you.”
“But I am president. So take this message back to the general. He was sent west to move the army to Memphis and keep advancing eastward. Those are still his orders. He shall either obey them or be removed from his post.”
“I must warn you, sir, that it could be hard if you continue to oppose the general. He could set up for himself.”
The federal treasury was empty. The War Department a mess. No Union army anywhere was prepared to advance. And now this woman, and her insolent husband, were threatening revolt? He should have them both arrested. Unfortunately, however, Fremont’s unilateral emancipation had become popular with abolitionists and liberal Republicans who wanted slavery ended now. A bold strike at their champion could be political suicide.
He said, “This meeting is over.”
She threw him a glare, one that said she was unaccustomed to being dismissed. But he ignored her sneer and stepped across the room, opening the door for her to leave. Hay, his personal secretary, was on duty outside, as was one of the stewards. Mrs. Fremont passed Hay without saying a word, and the steward led her away. He waited until he heard the front door open, then close, before signaling for Hay to join him in the parlor.
“That is an impertinent soul,” he said. “We never even sat. She gave me no chance to offer her a seat. She taxed me so violently with so many things that I had to exercise all the awkward tact I have to avoid quarreling with her.”
“Her husband is no better. His command is a failure.”
He nodded. “Fremont’s mistake is that he isolates himself. He does not know what is going on in the matter he is dealing with.”
“And he refuses to listen.”
“She actually threatened that he might set up his own government.”
Hay shook his head in disgust.
He made a decision. “The general will be removed. But not until a suitable replacement is found. Loc
ate one. Quietly, of course.”
Hay nodded. “I understand.”
He noticed a large envelope that his trusted aide held and motioned toward it. “What is that?”
“It arrived late today from Pennsylvania. Wheatland.”
He knew the location. The family home of his predecessor, James Buchanan. A man vilified by the North. Many said he paved the way for South Carolina to secede, blaming that act on the intemperate interference of the northern people with the question of slavery.
Strong, partisan words from a president.
Then Buchanan went farther and said that slave states should be left alone to manage their domestic institutions in their own way. Northern states should also repeal all laws that encouraged slaves to become fugitives. If not, then the injured states, after having first used all peaceful and constitutional means to effect redress, would be justified in revolutionary resistance to the government of the Union.
Tantamount to a presidential endorsement of rebellion.
“What does the former president want?”
“I did not open it.” Hay handed him the envelope. Scrawled across the front were the words FOR THE EYES OF MR. LINCOLN ONLY. “I respected his wishes.”
He was tired, and Mrs. Fremont had sapped what little strength remained from a long day. But he was curious. Buchanan had been so eager to leave office. On Inauguration Day, during their carriage ride back from the Capitol, he’d made his intentions clear. If you are as happy in entering the White House as I shall feel on returning to Wheatland, you are a happy man indeed.
“You may go,” he said to Hay. “I’ll study this, then be off to bed myself.”
His secretary left, and he sat alone inside the parlor. He broke the wax seal on the envelope and slid out two pages. One, a parchment—brown with age, water-stained, dry and brittle. The second, a soft vellum, newer, the black ink fresh, in a firm masculine hand.
He read the vellum first.
It is a sorry place, the country which I left you, and for that I apologize. My first mistake was declaring at my inauguration that I would not become a candidate for reelection. My motive was pure. I wanted nothing to influence my conduct in administering the government except the desire to ably and faithfully serve and to live in grateful memory of my countrymen. But that proved not to be the case. On my return to the White House the day I accepted the oath a sealed package awaited me, similar in shape and size to this one. Inside was a note from my predecessor, Mr. Pierce, along with the second document I have enclosed. Pierce wrote that the enclosure was first given to Washington himself, who decided that it would be passed from president to president, each man free to do with it as he saw fit. I know you and many others blame me for the current national conflict. But before you criticize any further, read the document. To my credit, I tried in every way possible to fulfill its mandate. I listened carefully to your speech on Inauguration Day. You called the Union explicitly perpetual in name and text. Don’t be so sure. All is not as it seems. My initial intentions were not to pass this on. Instead, I planned to set it afire. Over the past few months, away from the turmoil of government and the pressures of the national crisis, I have come to believe that the truth should not be avoided. When South Carolina broke the Union I stated publicly that I could be the last president of the United States. You openly called that comment ludicrous. Perhaps you will see that I was not as foolish as you thought. I now feel that my duty has been faithfully executed, though it may have been imperfectly performed. Whatever the result, I shall carry to my grave the belief that I at least meant well for my country.
