The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  Then Booth’s eye fell on the little trio by the fireplace. “And what have we here?”

  Halsey had never been so happy to see anyone.

  Booth sauntered over, doffed his hat, and bowed. “The beautiful sister of my favorite Massachusetts Democrat, and”—Booth’s eyes turned to Samantha—“a young lady whose kindness to me in Boston keeps me forever in her debt.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Samantha, “you would repay me by seeing me to the train.”

  “The train?” said Halsey. “You’re leaving?”

  “My father has been taken ill.” She held up the telegram. “He may not survive.”

  Halsey reached out and touched her hand and now he said it: “I’m so sorry.”

  She pulled her hand back. “I’m sure that your sister will ease your pain.”

  Samantha offered her arm to Booth, who took it, tipped his hat to the others, and led her to the door, saying, “We will take a barouche. A lovely lady should not have to walk up the hill to the depot.… Harvey, see to my bags.”

  Constance watched them leave. Then she said to Halsey. “Just one question. Is she a Republican or a Democrat?” Then she slipped her arm into Halsey’s, and he let her lead him out onto the Avenue. What else could he do?

  * * *

  As Congress was now in recess, the Willard dining room was only half-full. So the talk and the harp-strumming echoed harshly off the high ceilings.

  Halsey had regained his composure on the walk.

  And Constance had said the right thing: “I expected that there would be other women drawn to you. It’s why I came back. I intend to fight for your affections, Lieutenant Halsey Hutchinson. So prepare for battle.”

  And he had to admit that she used weapons he could not resist. So he offered his arm and they walked together across the dining room.

  Benjamin Wood sat alone, staring out at the twilight.

  His skin had tightened across his forehead. His black beard appeared blacker, his complexion whiter, his face even more like a skull waiting for crossbones. A Congressional hearing could wear on a man, even if the committee had dissolved with no finding. Wood was not a traitor. He would not be thrown in the Old Cap. But he would be watched.

  As the young people sat, Wood greeted Halsey with this: “You, sir, are not an honorable man.”

  “Not honorable?” said Constance.

  “Before you say that again,” answered Halsey, “remember that I’m armed.”

  Wood said, “You could have warned me, and you didn’t. The Confiscation Act … compensated emancipation to the border states … these are things I should know about.”

  “As a Congressman,” said Halsey, “you should know about them before I do.”

  “Our agreement was that you’d tell me what you know and hear, not pass judgment on it. If you had, I might know about the latest rumor.”

  “What rumor?” asked Constance.

  “That two days ago, Lincoln told his cabinet he wants to emancipate the slaves in the rebellious states, and only there … as a military measure.”

  So, thought Halsey, Lincoln had presented his proclamation to the cabinet, at least. He said, “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “Fortunately”—the skeleton smiled—“you are not my only source. A secretary in Postmaster Blair’s office overheard him discussing it. They’ve decided to win a battle before they announce it. Otherwise, it appears as an act of desperation. But when it happens—if it happens—it will appear as what it is, an act of outright political cynicism.”

  “It’s an act of nobility,” said Constance suddenly.

  Benjamin looked at his niece. “What?”

  Another secret out, thought Halsey.

  “You heard me,” said Constance, “an act of nobility.”

  Just then, another man approached the table.

  This, Halsey surmised, was Uncle Fernando. He was almost as tall as his brother but appeared far less severe. He wore clothes that were well cut with nary a bit of black, a wardrobe designed to make men like him on sight rather than put them in mind of an undertaker: brown claw-hammer coat, burgundy satin waistcoat, yellow cravat. Fernando was a dandy. And despite the pockmarks that spread from chin to cheekbone, he went clean-shaven, so that his face appeared open and honest. It was all for show.

  In January of ’61, Mayor Fernando Wood had proposed that New York secede from the Union and declare itself a “free” city. This would have guaranteed that trade with the South continued, which would have guaranteed that Mayor Wood continued to control the patronage power of a bustling port. Fortunately for the nation and the reputation of New York, thought Halsey, the City Council rejected the proposal, and the voters turned Wood from office in the next election.

  Fernando said, “So this is the young man who has captivated our Constance.”

  “Our Constance is an Abolitionist.” Benjamin almost spat the words.

  Fernando sat and looked at her. “Then it’s true that you went to New York to see that highfalutin’ coon, Frederick Douglass?”

  She sat back, surprised. “Who told you that?”

  “I may be out of office, but I have my spies.” Fernando turned to Halsey. “Is this your doing? Turning this girl into an Abolitionist?”

  “No,” answered Halsey. “But she may turn me into one.”

  Constance gave Halsey a raised eyebrow, a look of surprise, a little smile.

  “Has that been her pillow talk?” Fernando asked Halsey. “Read Frederick Douglass, dear Lieutenant, and hear the whip whistle? Then I will kiss you again?”

  “How dare you, Uncle?” said Constance.

  Benjamin said, “Did you think, Lieutenant, that you could have this girl for nothing?”

  “Have me?” said Constance angrily. “Have me?”

  Benjamin ignored her. “Tell us everything you hear about this emancipation business, Lieutenant. Let us make the judgment on what’s important.”

  “Meanwhile, we’ll count on our armies to keep losing,” said Fernando. “But even if McClellan finds a way to win a battle, the proclamation works to our benefit.”

  Halsey was now confused, but politics could be confusing. “Benefit? How?”

  “By giving us a club to beat the Republicans in the next election,” said Fernando.

  “There are plenty of people in the North,” added Benjamin, “who will rebel if Lincoln turns this into a war of nigger insurrection.”

  “And they will elect me to Congress,” said Fernando, “so that I can help my brother stop Lincoln from ruining the country.”

  Benjamin kept his eyes on Halsey. “If we take the House, we can force a negotiated peace and bring the South back into the Union on the old standing. Help us, and we’ll let you see Constance again.”

  “Again?” she said. “Again?” She stood.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said Benjamin.

  “It’s not where I’m going, Uncles. It’s where you’ve been, and who you’ve seen, and why.” She looked at Halsey. “Ask them where. Ask them who. Hear them lie.”

  Halsey noticed the Woods exchange glances.

  “In the meanwhile,” she said, “I will take a bit of air.” She stepped away from the table and stalked toward the door.

  Heads turned to watch her. Heads always turned to watch her.

  Halsey pushed back from the table and rose.

  Benjamin Wood said, “Stay, Lieutenant. Order your supper. I’m buying.”

  Fernando stood and took Halsey’s hand. There was rock-strength in the grip of this New York ward boss. “We’ll be forever in your debt if you help us take the House.”

  “Excuse, me,” said Halsey, “but the young lady needs an escort.”

  “Whether she has an escort,” said Fernando, “is less important than whether we have an understanding.”

  “Understanding?” said Halsey. “Understanding where you’ve been, perhaps?”

  “I’ve been to the hearings to support my brother. A
nd I’ve been to Harrison’s Landing to see for myself the condition of our armies.”

  Benjamin rose and put a hand on Halsey’s arm. “Remember, we are the true Sons of Liberty. I live in hope that we can restore this Union, but I am not so unnatural a worshipper of it that I’ll build it upon the dead bodies of my countrymen.”

  Fernando winked at Halsey. “He’s quoting himself now … his last speech before Congress. He speaks like that for the eavesdroppers.”

  As if he liked that idea, Benjamin stepped back, looked around, and proclaimed, “Whatever this president may be planning about emancipation, I will resist it. When the Executive hand, for the first time in our history, was interposed between the citizen and his rights, the germ was planted of a danger far mightier than rebellion. Now he’s calling for three hundred thousand more troops, he’s drafting out of the state militias, and Stanton threatens to arrest any who question this recruitment plan.”

  “As the Wood brothers do so question,” said Fernando.

  Benjamin continued to fulminate. “Tyrannical encroachment by an executive is rebellion against the only sovereignty I acknowledge—that of the people. I will not let this executive step on the necks of free men to mount his throne.”

  A few in the dining room applauded. A few more hissed. The rest kept eating.

  There was, thought Halsey, no man less inclined toward mounting a throne than Lincoln … and no greater windbag than this cadaverous congressman, unless it was his fast-talking brother. He broke away and went after Constance.

  * * *

  He did not see her in the rambling lobby.

  He thought about going upstairs to knock on her door, but … air. She had said she needed air. So he went out onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Streetlamps were glowing. Carriages were clattering by. People were hurrying east toward the Capitol and west toward the White House, or they were crossing to the “bad” side of the street, where business boomed when the sun went down.

  And there she was, heading toward the pillared bulk of the Treasury Building. He called her name and caught up to her as she crossed Fifteenth.

  “They’re as bad as rebels, Halsey. I had to get away from them.”

  “You can’t get away from them. Men like that are everywhere.”

  They walked south, so the President’s Park came into view on their right. The canvas tents shimmered in the gloaming. The overhanging branches gave pattern to the glow of the streetlamps.

  She said, “Did you ask them where they went?”

  “Harrison’s Landing.”

  “That’s all they said? That’s all you know?” She started walking more quickly.

  He grabbed her and turned her. “I have to get to work. And I can’t let you walk farther alone. That way’s not safe.”

  She tried to pull away. “I can see my way back myself.”

  He held her arm and said, “Tell me what else I should know.”

  “Halsey, let me go.”

  That caused two men across the street to call out, “Hey! Hey, mister!” One had an eye patch; the other wore a Union kepi, a red tie, a blue suit, a neat Vandyke.

  Halsey released her and reached for his pistol, because little good ever happened south of Pennsylvania, even when two men appeared ready to help a lady in distress.

  The one in the kepi asked Constance, “Is this Halsey feller botherin’ you, miss?”

  “No, gentlemen. But thank you.”

  “Well, you be good, Mr. Halsey,” said the one with the eye patch. Then they retreated into the shadows.

  “Everybody’s a hero,” Halsey muttered. Then he turned back to Constance. “Now … what more should I know?”

  “It’s what the president should know.” She paused, as if for dramatic effect.

  Halsey realized that the whole night, from her appearance in his bed to that dinner with the two-headed Wood snake to this scene beneath the streetlamp had all been for effect.

  She said, “My uncles went to Harrison’s Landing to see McClellan.”

  “A congressman and a candidate, going to see a general … it seems reasonable.”

  “Unless you know why.”

  “Why?”

  “They went to ask McClellan to run for president against Lincoln in two years.”

  “Ask him directly? How do you know?”

  She raised her chin and set her jaw, as if to say that she had returned to the fight, and she expected Halsey to join her. “They thought I was coming back to Washington simply because I missed you. But I came to spy on them … and I missed you.”

  A barouche went past with a colonel and two giddy women sharing a champagne bottle. Three soldiers sauntered by. Piano playing and laughter came from a saloon across the street. “Oh! Susanna” was the tune. Men leaned against trees, lurking, lounging. Halsey noticed all these things. But his mind had turned to McClellan. A general is supposed to carry the fight to the enemy, not entertain the politicians who want to carry the fight to the president.

  So that was his game.

  Constance said, “You see the president every night. You must tell him. You must tell him what McClellan told my uncles.”

  “What was that?”

  She pulled from her purse a sheet of paper. “I slipped Uncle Benjamin’s notes from his briefcase and copied them.” She held the sheet up under the streetlamp and read, “‘McClellan wonders what would happen if he took his rather large military family up to Washington to bring some order.’” She looked at Halsey.

  “That’s military insurrection,” he said.

  She read more. “‘… calls emancipation an abomination … sees God’s wise purpose in his loss on the Peninsula, says if he had taken Richmond, the fanatics of the North might have gained the political upper hand, making reunion impossible … knows that turning this into a war of slave insurrection will mean total war, rather than limited war he has tried to fight.’”

  Halsey Hutchinson was shocked. All he could say was, “Good God.”

  “He promises a response soon.” She folded the notes and put them into the pocket of her peltote. “That is what the president needs to know. My uncles have to be stopped. The Copperheads have to be stopped, or Lincoln will lose Congress in November and the White House in two years … if he hasn’t lost the war by then.”

  * * *

  Constance was right.

  But would Lincoln accept information that Halsey claimed a young woman had copied from notes she had taken from the briefcase of a congressman who had heard the conversation and then written it down? That, the lawyer-president might suggest, was hearsay of the highest order.

  But Halsey had something else that might indict McClellan.

  Around ten o’clock, he opened the drawer in his desk, pried up the false bottom, and took out the original of McClellan’s June 28 telegram. He put it into his pocket and waited for the familiar footfalls, but the president never appeared that night.

  At 6 A.M., however, Secretary Stanton looked into the cipher room and scowled. He always scowled, but lately he had reason, as his son had died of the failed inoculation. He scowled at Homer Bates, who was deciphering a telegram. Then he scowled at Halsey and pulled a sheaf of papers from under his arm. “An errand, Lieutenant. Deliver these to the president so that he can peruse them before our morning meeting.”

  It was the perfect assignment.

  Soon, Halsey was riding a borrowed horse north of the city. He had forgotten how peaceful these green fields and woodlots could appear. Even the new Harewood Military Hospital, a dozen whitewashed barracks rising from a confiscated farm, had the quaint look of a country retreat.

  After about three miles, he turned up a graveled drive lined with fir trees. It led to a plateau atop which sat the Old Soldiers’ Home, a great stone castle where war veterans could live out their days in dignity amidst trees and gardens. And when they passed, they could go into the ground in the peaceful cemetery across the road, though both the home and the cemetery appeared to be
at full capacity.

  Flanking the castle were two stucco cottages. The larger, perched on the ridge best situated to catch the cooling breeze, was the president’s summer retreat, his escape from the bugs and miasmic heat near the river.

  Lincoln’s valet, a light-skinned Negro named William Slade, answered the door. “The president is having breakfast with his family, sir.”

  “I have important papers,” said Halsey. “I’ve been ordered to deliver them to his hand.” That was a lie, but Halsey had to see the president.

  So Slade ushered him through the house to a porch where Lincoln was sitting in the sunlight with his son Tad.

  As Halsey stepped out, he caught sight of a tiny woman in a long white robe disappearing through another door. He said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.”

  “Mrs. Lincoln’s sensitive about young men seeing her in her nightclothes,” answered Lincoln. Then he told Tad, “Say hello to the lieutenant.”

  The boy looked up at Halsey with eyes that seemed sad but filled with hopeful curiosity, the eyes of a lonely boy who had lost his brother and playmate and seemed to be wondering if this newcomer might bring some fun. He said hello.

  Halsey smiled. “Hello, Tad. You have quite a spot to enjoy breakfast.”

  The view was to the south, across the rolling farmland, toward two distant shapes: the unfinished Capitol dome and the unfinished Washington obelisk.

  Tad’s response, lisped through a cleft palate: “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  The president said, “Now, Tad, you know not to ask questions like that.”

  “I was in a battle,” said Halsey. And as if to offer a bit of brotherhood to a boy with his own deformity, he pulled back his collar and showed Tad his scar. “I was shot.”

  “Oh,” said the boy. “Did it hurt?”

  “For a long time,” said Halsey. “But not now.”

  Lincoln said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  Halsey put the papers on the table. “Secretary Stanton wanted you to see these.”

  Tad grabbed a piece of toast and went running off.

  Lincoln glanced at the papers. “These could have waited.”

  Halsey heard a door slamming and from the house, a woman grumbling about “business at all hours … not a moment’s peace,” and a male voice placating her.