Lincoln (39 page)

“I don’t know what they could mean by that, sir. Where would the reinforcements come from? General Johnston has thirteen regiments near Harper’s Ferry. If he had moved, we would know. Never fear, sir. The day is ours.” The old man gave a great yawn; and requested a general pardon, which was granted. He was then allowed to go back to sleep.

“Jefferson Davis is on his way to Manassas by rail,” said Lincoln, more to himself than to Hay.

“How do you know this, sir?” Hay could now hear the chattering of his own teeth; he hoped the President could not.

“We have our spies, too.”

“Did their Congress meet yesterday?”

Lincoln was precise. “There was a
meeting
at Richmond. I guess just
about any meeting can call itself a congress—a bringing together of people; in this case, rebels.”

At five o’clock, Nicolay insisted that Hay take to his bed but Hay was not about to miss a moment of what might be the decisive—even the terminal—day of the rebellion. Assured that all was well, the President and Madam went for a drive in the cool of the evening. Although there was no decisive word from McDowell, Hay had noticed that the guns were firing at less-frequent intervals. Could they have run out of shells? he wondered, beginning to feel a bit light in the head and unreal. But reality was restored at six o’clock when Seward appeared like a ghost at the door to Nicolay’s office. Seward’s normally pink face was sallow white, and the plumes of white hair were as dishevelled as Lincoln’s. He smelled, even more strongly than usual, of cigar smoke and after-dinner port. Nicolay and Hay sprang to their feet.

“Where is the President?” Seward made a curious gesture: he pressed the backs of his hands against the door frame, as if to keep from falling; but then the premier’s short legs in their flapping pantaloons always looked to Hay as if they were about to buckle. Nicolay said that the Lincolns had gone for a drive at five o’clock.

“Had he—have you any late news?”

Nicolay said, “No more than what we have heard since morning. The rebels have fallen back. We are winning …”

“Tell no one.” Seward’s voice was a harsh whisper. “But the battle is lost. It has just come in on the telegraph. McDowell is in full retreat, and he has just urged General Scott to do whatever he can to save the capital.”

“My God!” Nicolay stood, mouth working, as though trying to catch his breath. Hay wondered whether or not this might all be part of the delirium which did not set in, usually, until close to midnight.

Hay moved for the next few hours as in a fever dream, which indeed he was; yet he knew what was happening, and did what he had to do. On the authority of the Secretary of State, he sent word to each member of the Cabinet to come immediately to the Mansion. But in the end, one hour later, Cabinet and President met not in the Mansion but in General Scott’s quarters.

Lincoln had gone the color of old ashes when he was told of McDowell’s dispatch. But he had said nothing; and seemed grateful that Hay had not reported the bad news until Madam had gone into the White House. By now, guards or no guards, a considerable crowd had begun to gather in front of the Mansion. The word was spreading. Also, the long-threatened rain had begun, lightly, to fall.

In full uniform and fully shaved, Scott was enthroned beside the map
of Virginia. Generals came and went like boy-messengers, while Mr. Cameron stared at the cracked ceiling, as if wondering to whom the contract should be given for its repair, and how much commission he should ask.

Hay now saw everything in, as it were, lightning flashes. The room filled up with the Cabinet. Pale Chase said, “We will have to evacuate the city.” No one listened to him. He repeated himself, more loudly. But all eyes were on Lincoln, who glared at the map as if the map held some secret.

Scott was stunned; and for all his bulk seemed fragile. “I could not believe it. Would not believe it if McDowell himself hadn’t sent word. Sir, at three o’clock, the rebels were in flight.”

“But then they were reinforced,” said Lincoln, almost casually, as if presenting some minor evidence to a jury of no particular consequence. “General Beauregard had twelve regiments in the field this morning. By afternoon, he had twenty-five. How do you think this happened?”

The lightning in Hay’s head illuminated for an instant Scott’s ancient face; saw the worms at work in it; saw the massive skull that soon earth would know. “The rebel General Johnston,” Scott wheezed, “who was at Harper’s Ferry, made rendezvous with Beauregard sometime last night.”

Lincoln turned to Scott. “Why did our General Patterson not stop him? Or at least tell us that Johnston had moved out?”

There was no answer from Scott. But the militant and military-minded Blair suddenly roared an oath, which caused Chase to shudder with revulsion, which inspired Lincoln to take command, as if Scott was no longer present.

“We shall want every soldier on duty in and around the city to be on the alert this night. The Long Bridge, Chain Bridge and the Aqueduct are to be heavily guarded at either end.”

“Yes, sir,” said Scott.

In the course of the meeting, Hay heard the Adjutant-General announce that the brother of the Secretary of War was among those killed. For an instant, Hay felt a certain compassion for this lord of corruption, who ceased his study of the ceiling and looked as if someone had flung snow in his face. Lincoln put his hand on Cameron’s shoulder; and said nothing.

Further dispatches were read aloud. At first, McDowell hoped to fall back and make a stand at Centerville; then he hoped to make a stand at Fairfax Court House; then he reported that the troops would not re-form, that they were in full flight to the Potomac. He had no idea whether
or not the rebels would follow up their advantage, and seize the city.

As orders were given for the defense of Washington, Hay was experiencing a sense of extraordinary well-being, which was in no way disturbed when he heard Scott say to the Tycoon, “Sir, I am the greatest coward in America. I deserve removal because I did not stand up, when the army was not in condition to fight, and resist this campaign to the last.”

Lincoln turned on him, the left eyebrow raised; often, Hay knew, a sign of danger—to others. “Do you imply, General, that I forced you to fight this battle?”

“No president that I have served has ever been more kind to me,” said the old man, which was not, Hay knew, an answer.

There was no sleep for anyone that rainy night. Lincoln lay on a settee in his office and received a stream of visitors. A number of senators had gone out to watch the battle, along with a crowd of sightseers, including diplomats and society ladies, all eager to cheer the army on to Richmond. Picnic lunches had been catered by Gautier’s and the mood that morning had been most festive as hundreds of carriages had crossed the bridges to the Virginia side. Now the would-be celebrants were scurrying back in a state of panic.

One member of Congress, whose name Hay could not recall, declared, “I saw it all! We beat them hollow. There’s absolutely no doubt of that, Mr. President. They are beaten.”

“So,” said Lincoln, a harsh edge of mockery in his voice, “after we beat them, our soldiers ran all the way home?”

Senators Wade and Chandler and Grimes and Trumbull and Wilson each came to report. Their clothes were covered with dust; their faces dark with dust and sweat. Lincoln listened; and listened; and listened. “It is damn bad,” he said at one point, and Hay realized that this was the first time that he had ever heard the Ancient swear.

Meanwhile, Nicolay urged Hay to go to bed, but Hay would not, not yet. He compromised. “I’ll go over to Willard’s and see if there’s something to eat.” In the early stages of his ague, he was hungry; and could eat and drink enormous amounts. Later, the sight of food would make him ill.

As Hay crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, he was astonished to see, late and rainy as it was, that the entire avenue was filled with people. At the door to Willard’s, a Zouave—one of Ellsworth’s so-called blood-tubs—was enthralling a group with his account of the battle, while all up and down the avenue, Union officers rode toward the War Office to report, and the
first cavalrymen could be seen, moving toward camp. The infantry would not appear for several hours.

Hay was greeted at the cigar-stand by Thurlow Weed. “What news?”

“Nothing good, sir.”

“I just saw Burnside. He went up to his room without a word to anyone.”

“And without his troops?” Hay knew that he ought not to betray bitterness to the ever-devious Thurlow Weed; but he was now beyond mere discretion.

“You look a bit green,” said the great politician and newspaper editor.

“A touch of the ague, sir. It will pass.”

“Most things do.” Weed held out his hand to Senator Wade, who had just come from the President. Hay pushed through the crowd to the first dining room, which was shut—not only was this Sunday but all the best provender had been sent on to Manassas for the elegant onlookers. Hay’s friend, George Washington, the headwaiter, was nowhere in sight. Finally, Hay was obliged to go into the crowded bar; here he stuffed himself with ham and drank brandy-smashes, all the while staring into the gaunt dirty face of the boy-governor, who was emptying glass after glass of gin. Men pressed against them; and called out for drinks. The smoke of cigars was heavy. Hay wondered what time it was. He had the sense that he had, somehow, mislaid most of the night.

“I took over the artillery battery,” was Sprague’s constant refrain. “Look,” Sprague pulled at the sleeve to his dirt-smeared tunic. There were two bullet holes, one above the other, near the left elbow.

“Were you hurt?”

“I was scratched. There’s another hole …” Sprague searched in the dim light for his third martial souvenir but could not find it. “We held the line forty minutes. Just us. Just Rhode Island. I was in front. They cheered me. All twelve hundred men. Then my horse was shot from under me. I changed the saddle in front of them. We held on. But nobody came. We were ordered back. Burnside led them back. That’s when I took over the battery. That’s when Johnston’s army appeared. God knows how they got there. That’s when our soldiers—not mine, theirs—started to run. The Zouaves were the first. Yellow to the core. Then they all ran and ran and ran. There is no army now.”

Hay listened, as if in a dream; and then, still dreaming, he left Willard’s, to find that it was indeed morning; and that he had not slept all night unless, of course, he had been asleep on his feet and had dreamed that he had been talking to Sprague in the bar at Willard’s.

In the secretary’s office, Nicolay was talking to a group of journalists. When he saw Hay at the door, he excused himself. “Get to bed,” he muttered. He touched Hay’s hand. “You’re burning up.”

“I will. I will. What’s happening?” At that moment, the door to the office opened and Lincoln appeared, Cameron beside him. The President looked exhausted, thought Hay, himself now barely conscious. From what seemed the other side of the Potomac, Hay heard Lincoln say, “Mr. Cameron, send for General McDowell.”

Hay blundered through the usual crowd in the corridor to his bedroom; flung himself on the military cot; and let the fever take charge of him. But before he lost all consciousness, he realized that Lincoln had not said, “Send for General McDowell.” Lincoln had said, “Send for General McClellan.” They were now back at the beginning.

PART II