Lincoln (48 page)

Mary was relieved to hear the cleverness of Dan Sickles endorsed; and somewhat bemused at being reminded by her husband of the famous shooting in Lafayette Square. In effect, the murderer Dan Sickles must now protect the wife of the President from being charged with … What would the charge be for having given, in wartime, a state paper to a journalist?

As President and First Lady stepped out onto the gaslit portico, Mary allowed, for an instant, a long-dreaded word to surface in her mind: Treason.

S
EWARD
stared at Dan Sickles, who stared back at him. The small office of the Secretary of State was blue with their combined cigar-smoke. Not for the first (and certainly not for the last) time did Seward think with envy of Chase’s magnificent airy office. Plainly, the difference between the two offices symbolized the importance of the “almighty dollar,” as Washington Irving had called it, over every department of the government, including that of the first magistrate himself. Although the Secretary of State was the first Cabinet officer, the duties were negligible except when a crisis, like the
Trent
Affair, arose. Fortunately, with the President’s hearty concurrence, Seward had now been allowed to take over the delicate business of censoring the press as well as the even more delicate task of determining, upon the advice of the various military commanders, who ought not to be at large. Currently, by Seward’s order, the mayor of Baltimore and the mayor of Washington were both in prison, where they would remain without trial until such time as he or the President was inspired to let them go. As a lawyer and as an office-holder, sworn to uphold the Constitution and its Bill of Rights, not to mention those inviolable protections of both persons and property so firmly spelled out in Magna Charta and in the whole subsequent accretion of the common law, Seward found that he quite enjoyed tearing up, one by one, those ancient liberties in the Union’s name. Never before had anyone ever exercised such power in the United States as he did now, with
Lincoln’s tacit blessing. Although, officially, the secret service was under the military, regular reports were made to Seward, in whose name letters were opened, copies of telegrams seized, arrests made.

“If only he had not sent that telegram to the
Herald
.” Seward knew, of course, that the “if only’s” of the world were the traditional solace of the condemned man and never of his lawyer. Even so, a major scandal involving Mrs. Lincoln would be a blow at the Administration, whose
de facto
chief he liked still to think he was; certainly, the world thought that he was the acting chief of the government.

Sickles made the usual lawyer’s response. “Forget the ‘if only,’ Governor. Wikoff sent the telegram. And the committee has a copy.”

“By what authority?” Seward had a sudden vision of United States marshals arriving at the Capitol and arresting the members of the committee. Then he recalled King Charles the First; and thought better of it.

Sickles ignored the question. “They have it. That’s enough. And they are in a foul mood. And they are mostly radicals. And they think Lincoln is too weak. And they think you’re too strong. And they think McClellan is too slow, not to mention too sick …”

“He sat up this morning, and had soup for lunch,” said Seward, idly; then added, “Well, the committee is not altogether wrong in its view of things.”

“So we will let them call Mrs. Lincoln?”

Seward gazed at Sickles, who had always been, in their native state of New York, loyal to the Seward-Weed organization. Now this was Washington; now this was war. “No,” said Seward, “we will not let them call Mrs. Lincoln.”

“How do we stop them?”

“We tell them that as she is not a government official, she does not come under their surveillance. To the extent that they might want information from her, she will gladly submit a written statement, that you and I will concoct.”

Sickles twirled his right moustache until it resembled a corkscrew. Seward thought, longingly, of port. “If that does not satisfy them?” asked Sickles.

Seward spread his hands. “It will have to. That is all.”

“I see,” said Sickles, without a smile. “You will send Congress home.”

“No. No. I pray that we shall never have to come to that. But the President’s inherent powers are such …”

“… as you choose to make them.” Sickles laughed, without much joy.

“The key to this,” said Seward, “is not Madam, but her chevalier. What does Wikoff intend to say?”

“No more than what he told the Speaker of the House, in private: that he is under an obligation of strict secrecy.”

“What does he say to you, Dan? This is between us.”

Sickles shrugged. “He does not say. But it is pretty clear. It was Mrs. Lincoln who gave him a copy of the message.”

“Why?”

Sickles got to his feet and began to pace the small room, whose worn Brussels carpet was as full of holes as the case Sickles had taken on. “Mrs. Lincoln is deeply in debt,” he said at last.

“Do you think that Bennett pays her? Through Wikoff?”

“I don’t know.” Sickles turned toward Seward. “I don’t want to know. But …” Sickles paused to stump out his cigar in a metal tray. “Shall I send for Wikoff? Do
you
want to talk to him?”

“No, no, Dan. I don’t want to talk to him, ever, in this vale of tears. Anyway, he was arrested an hour ago. He’s in Old Capitol prison.”

“My God! How could you let this happen?”

“How could I not? I’m not about to stop Congress. At this point, anyway. What has Mrs. Lincoln said to you?”

“She’s shocked, and I feel somewhat responsible. After all, Henry Wikoff was—is—my friend. That’s why I’m willing to go through the embarrassment of defending him in the uniform of a general, so help me …”

“God,” concluded Seward piously. He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a folder, marked “Mrs. Lincoln.” He opened it. “I think I have a fairly clear idea of the lady’s expenditures on the White House. Major French gives me copies of all the bills, both paid and outstanding. There is one unpaid bill here, presented by a Mr. Carryl, that is for a sum larger than the entire sum Congress appropriated to renovate the mansion. There is also a rug that cost ten thousand dollars. There is another rug that cost twenty-five hundred dollars. There are something called ‘patent spring mattresses.’ There are wallpapers that cost—”

“But all this is for the White House, which belongs to the nation. None of it is for Mrs. Lincoln personally.” Sickles rehearsed, as it were, a defense.

“There is another file, for her expenditures in New York—for herself.” Seward rummaged in the drawer.

“But
not
paid for with Federal money.”

Seward smiled. “No. Just not paid for at all. I’m afraid that the poor woman has a compulsion to spend money. It is a madness, like gambling.”

“I wouldn’t know, Governor.” For the first time Sickles smiled; and the two men made a date for a game of poker at the Old Club House with
the Barons Schleiden and Stoeckl. “Now I must go see my client at the Old Capitol. How do I get in?”

Seward scribbled a note. “All you need,” he said, airily, “is a word from me.” He gave the slip of paper to Sickles. “You know, Dan, that sooner or later your friend will have to tell the committee the truth.”

“No, Governor. He won’t even have to tell them the truth. But he will have to tell them something.”

Seward nodded, approvingly. “Good boy. I am sure that there are all sorts of people lurking about the Mansion who could have got their hands on the President’s message, and passed it on.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Sickles. He paused at the door. “How much does Mr. Lincoln know?”

Seward frowned. “Unless Madam has told him, which is unlikely, I shouldn’t think he knows anything other than the fact that Wikoff has been accused, which is all
we
know.” Seward paused; then added, “Isn’t it, Dan?”

“Yes, Governor. That’s all we know. Well, I must see the Chevalier. And then I must practise my gentle arts on my old colleagues in the House.”

“You do that, Dan. Meanwhile, let’s not forget that there is a spy … a second spy, loose in the Mansion. Who can it be, I wonder? One of the servants?”

“Or one of the groundsmen?”

“Capital,” said Seward, waving good-bye to Sickles, who marched from the room, head high, as if leading an army into battle.

FOR THE
third day in a row the President had not joined his family at lunch, and so Mary herself brought him exactly what he had asked for, and no more—bread with honey from the comb. She avoided the crowd in the corridor by slipping through the side doors from the oval sitting room into the Reception Room, which was empty, and then into the President’s office, where she found her husband at his writing table between the windows, feet on a straight chair. Nicolay was at his side, with a stack of books.

“Molly!” The face was tired; the eyes, too. “Come on in. I’m sorry about dinner. But there’s no time to eat.”

“You’ll eat this, Father.” Mary put the plate down. Lincoln sat up more or less straight.

“Leave the books, Mr. Nicolay, and hold off the hungry hordes for the next five”—he looked at Mary—“ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” Nicolay left the room. Lincoln absently smeared honey on a fragment of bread. Mary picked up a sheaf of papers. “
On Military Genius
,” she read. “I think General McClellan should be reading this, not you.”

“Since he’s still abed, I have to look after his shop as well as my own. Fact, I’ve been thinking about borrowing that army of his, and going for an excursion in Virginia.”

“I wish you would. Because, left to himself, he’ll never move, except to run for president, which he is busy doing at this very moment.”

“Well, I think it’s actually typhoid fever that he is busy doing at the moment. But I must admit a lot of Democrats are getting in to see him, while I can’t.” Lincoln picked up the book which he had been reading. “Listen to this: ‘War is the realm of uncertainty: threequarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty. A sensitive and discriminating judgment is called for, a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth … and the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead.’ ”

“You have the courage, God knows. And the judgment,” said Mary.

Lincoln began, slowly, to munch the bread and honey. “I’ve also got that fog of uncertainty. And I’ve got a general that won’t see me.”

“McClellan won’t see
you?
” Mary was still angry over the snub that the general-in-chief had administered the President.

Lincoln shook his head. “Every time I stop by, they tell me he’s sleeping. I suppose I rile him too much.”

“Replace him!”

“With what?” Lincoln drank water from a brown-glazed cup.

“Anybody!”

“I can’t take just anybody. That’s the problem. I’ve got to have
somebody.
” Lincoln gave her a sidelong glance. “What’s wrong, Mother?”

“The Chevalier Wikoff has been arrested.” It was Mary’s usual policy with her husband to come straight to the point, except on money matters, where she simply lied as best she could.

“I know. Is he going to tell the committee that it was you who gave him the message?” Lincoln’s voice was calm and untroubled; and so all the more troubling for Mary.

“If he does, he will be lying!” Mary felt her cheeks grow warm.

“People do lie, Mother.” With a napkin Lincoln mopped a spot of honey from his desk.

“I thought he was my friend.” Mary was bleak.

“I’m sure he was. I’m sure he is. But he’s also Mr. Bennett’s man at the White House. We can never be too careful here.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m afraid I’m just as careless as you in these matters. I seem constitutionally unable to keep a secret. Anyway, I don’t think that Mr. Wikoff wants to harm you.”

“
I
can’t be harmed, Father. I don’t matter. But you can be harmed.”

Lincoln smiled. “Well, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I’m not about to lose a moment’s sleep over who’s been purloining my messages to Congress, which I tend to leave all around the house, anyway. But more important”—Lincoln picked up a sheaf of papers—“are these bills that keep coming in, and coming in. Major French says that you’ve spent nearly seven thousand dollars
more
than Congress gave us, all to buy flub-dubs for this damned old house!”

“But, Father, the house was falling apart! Nothing has been spent on it for fifty years, and so I …”

“So you’re trying to spend all at once what the other presidents did not spend for half a century? Mother, I can’t get the money to buy enough blankets for the soldiers and here you are spending ten thousand dollars on a carpet. On a carpet! Why, you can buy a fine house back home for that money, or ten thousand blankets, or …”

“Father, I know I’ve been … I’ve been …” But no word came to her. “I’ll stop. I have stopped. You’ll see. The worst is over. I swear it is.”

Lincoln nodded, somewhat wanly, Mary thought. Now deeply penitent, she started to explain the necessity of each of her purchases, as well as the innumerable economies that she had practised. But Lincoln had pulled the bell cord beside his table and Hay entered the office. Lincoln turned to Mary. “We have a surprise visitor, from Springfield.”

“I’d better go.”

“No, stay a moment and say ‘hello’ to Billy.”

“Billy?” In the doorway now stood Mary’s true nemesis, William Herndon, Lincoln’s law partner. Tall and gray and uncouth, Herndon was nine years younger than Lincoln; and the same age as Mary. Although Herndon was indisputably brilliant—and far better read than Lincoln—he was, to say the least, eccentric. For one thing, he was often a heavy drinker. For another, he was radical in his politics—a fiery abolitionist. It was often said by the Springfield “scrubs”—as the ordinary folk were known—that Herndon was Lincoln’s last direct connection with them, a connection that Mary would very much like to sever. When Lincoln married, he had moved into the ruling class of not only Springfield and Illinois but of Lexington and Kentucky, leaving Herndon behind with the sort of people that Lincoln had originally represented as a Whig legislator from Sangamon county, the scrubs.