The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (42 page)

“Now, that,” said Kate, chuckling, “was unhelpful.”

Not for the first time, Abigail told herself that Lincoln’s decision to have Speed share the counsel duties was a terrible mistake. She hoped the consequences would not be too grave.

IV

Back at the office, once the others had left, Jonathan tried to apologize for what had happened, insisting that he had not known what Speed was going to say.

“I would never hold one man accountable for another’s statements,” Abigail assured him. He was behind her, helping her into her coat. Now she turned cool gray eyes his way. “In any event, you owe me no apology.”

He hesitated. “Abigail, we should talk—”

“I have an engagement.”

Fielding again, he suspected. An awkward silence. Were he to comment in any way, he would sound a fool. “I only need a moment,” he said. “It is about Miss Hale.”

Her brown face softened in that mysterious smile that so enchanted him. “I was under the impression that she had embarked with her father for Spain.”

“They went to Boston, and they should be departing within the week.”

“You keep excellent track of her travels.” But the teasing was by habit, carrying none of the gamine lilt that made conversation with Abigail such fun.

“Your sister Judith—didn’t she say that Miss Deveaux told her that a young lady often carried messages on behalf of the conspirators? A woman of the upper classes, who seemed wise in the ways of Washington?”

“There are many such women in this city, Jonathan. Perhaps Miss Hale merely enjoys politics, as does everyone else in this dreadful place. You can hardly charge her with conspiracy merely because she has a brain.”

“It is just that her departure seems convenient.”

“Perhaps.” She had finished buttoning her coat and was adjusting her scarf. “You are free to speculate as you please, Jonathan. I am afraid I have other matters on my mind. Good night.”

V

Jonathan, as it happened, had a dinner engagement of his own. His uncle Brighton was in town, on business he coyly declined to specify. “Look at it this way,” said Brighton as he tucked into his veal at the Willard. “You work for the lawyers. I work for the company. If I go sharing information with you, all kinds of conflicts might arise.” Brighton was a voracious eater, and, as Margaret liked to say, a voracious dresser as well. He was always attired in the latest European fashions, and, in Jonathan’s judgment, usually looked like the fool he never quite was. He had also somehow acquired spacious lands north of Boston and was building a manor house, at a time when Hilliman & Sons was struggling to stay afloat. “Don’t you worry, boy,” said Brighton. “Once you’re ready to come back and take the reins, why, the books are yours to inspect.”

“I am certainly looking forward to that,” said Jonathan coldly.

Brighton asked after Margaret and certain other mutual acquaintances, and then, as he liked to put it, got down to the meat.

“I’ve been talking to your mother,” he said. “And she agrees. We think this might just be the right moment for you to leave Washington City.” He saw Jonathan’s face. “No, no, don’t worry. Nobody is thinking about bringing you into the company. Not just yet. No, boy. Your time
would be your own. Europe. Now, that’s a place. Paris. Berlin. Rome. Top up your culture, attend the lectures. Take a year. More if you like. The family would sponsor you, naturally.”

Jonathan’s voice was icier than ever. “That is very kind of you and Mother, Uncle, but, as you may have noticed, we are in the middle of trial.”

“Yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about that, boy. The trial. This whole Lincoln business. There are rumors that he’s done a deal with the bankers. If he’ll agree to lower the tariff, they’ll call off the dogs.” Brighton chewed noisily. “You see what would happen, don’t you? The tariff goes down, we have to cut our prices because of those British imports. Profits fall. The company might even go under.” Hunching forward. “And even if we survived—well, you see the problem, don’t you, boy? If Lincoln really has done a deal, and it becomes known that the Hilliman heir was part of it, the other companies might turn on us. You see how that could be, don’t you?” Nodding as if in confirmation of his own thesis. He wiped greasy fingers on the soiled napkin at his neck. “Better if you’re not part of it. Better to leave now.”

“Good night, Uncle,” said Jonathan, rising.

Brighton put a hand on his arm. The fun had died in his eyes. “If you decide to stay with Lincoln,” he said, “I am not sure how much longer we can afford to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.”

Only after he had arrived back at the Bannerman manor and found, to his inestimable relief, that Fielding was at home, and had been home all evening, did it occur to Jonathan that the protection of which his uncle spoke might have nothing to do with business.

VI

She sat with Dan Sickles in his grand barouche at the entrance to the Center Market, which was shuttered for the night. The stalls were empty shadows. Today’s buyers and sellers had trampled the day’s snow into Washingmud. As recently as two weeks ago, sitting beside a man in the inky darkness—especially a man like Sickles—would have scandalized her, but by now these nocturnal peregrinations were as natural as breathing. Blaine was supposed to arrive at nine, so he was already late. Sickles was entertaining her with unlikely stories of his adventures: how his disobedience to orders would have won the Battle of Gettysburg
that much sooner had the cannonball not taken off his leg for him, and how, on his trip to New Granada two years ago, he and his staff wound up in the middle of a pitched battle between two Indian tribes, who left off fighting each other because it was more interesting to join forces against the hideous white invaders in their midst. “I’ve never known such ferocity on the field. If they had fought the Spanish that way, no European would have dared set foot on this continent.”

Abigail listened, half dozing in the cold, and pulled the two plush blankets he had provided more tightly around her shoulders. She reminded herself that this was work, and important; and that she had to stay awake.

He had just started on the history of the carriage in which they were sitting—a gift from his army, said Sickles, in gratitude for his leadership, meaning that, whatever propriety might demand, he could not insult his men by turning it down—when a second carriage drew up.

Sickles tensed. The rig was black, with fancy running lights, and pulled by a beautiful quartet of white horses.

“That isn’t Blaine,” he said, and reached for something out of sight.

From inside, two pale faces turned their way as the carriage kept going past them, vanishing into the fog until they heard only the clatter of hooves on frozen mud.

Abigail wondered sleepily whether it was the same coach she had spotted behind her the night she was out with Dinah Berryhill.

Now Sickles was detailing his crucial role in Lincoln’s re-election victory in 1864. “I was one of the organizers of Democrats for Lincoln,” he said. “You should have heard my speech at the Cooper Institute rally, just before Election Day. That was where I uttered my famous line that no man, not even the candidate, had the courage to stand on the Democratic platform. The crowd was huge. They were cheering wildly, of course—”

“Look,” she said.

She had been watching the figure for some time now, a tall man approaching through the mist, on foot. He had been waiting inside the Center Market itself, a place where no gentleman of quality would ever be found. Crossing the muddy field, he kept pausing to peer into the night. He had a hand in his jacket pocket, and either was clutching a gun or wanted to be thought to be.

Then James Blaine was beside the carriage, looking every bit as stern
and censorious as when Abigail had met him at the restaurant in the Willard Hotel.

“Did you bring it?” he said.

Sickles nodded.

“And you have brought Miss Canner.”

“I have upheld my side of the bargain, Blaine.” His voice was hostile. “Now suppose you uphold yours.”

“May I see the letter?”

“See. Not keep.” He drew a slim package from his jacket, still keeping his free hand between the seats. He had not offered to climb down; Blaine had not tried to climb up.

The congressman ran his fingers lightly over the envelope. “Speaker of the House,” he said wonderingly.

Sickles was impatient. “You have your letter. Now, let’s hear the story.”

“They can’t know we spoke.”

“They won’t.”

Blaine glanced at Sickles, then looked over at Abigail. “I had an intriguing conversation, my dear Miss Canner. With an Inspector Varak. Your name was mentioned.”

“The story,” said Sickles, before Abigail could speak.

“This Varak seems to believe that his trail leads to high places. I wonder how long he will be permitted to continue.” Abruptly, he handed the envelope back, unopened. “I have changed my mind,” he said. Again he paused and squinted into the mist. “There is no conspiracy. There have been no bribes paid that I know of.” He was watching Abigail, not Sickles, as he spoke, measuring the effect of his words. “Any allegations of a conspiracy are the fruit of Mr. Lincoln’s desperate efforts to escape just punishment for his crimes.”

Not waiting for any reply, Blaine backed away, then broke into a run, and was lost in the night fog.

I

LINCOLN HAD CONCEDED
the facts of Counts One and Two, which covered the suspension of habeas corpus, the shuttering of a handful of newspapers, and the seizure of copies of all telegrams sent within the United States. In consequence, the Senate had decided to spend a single trial day allowing both sides to argue the significance of the President’s actions. The Managers would argue Count One for an hour, followed by counsel for the respondent; then the same on Count Two. The great Thaddeus Stevens, sick as he was, would be presenting argument. Although her client’s interests were opposed to his, Abigail looked forward to hearing him speak. She had a weakness for oratory, and hoped that the great man’s words would be a tonic for the tiny waves of anxiety that rippled through her whenever she thought of last night’s adventure, and saw poor James Blaine, who hoped to be Speaker of the House in a couple of years, running terrified into the night.

Shortly after Abigail reached the office, however, Dennard called her in and told her that she would once again miss most of the trial day—this time for a very different reason.

Sickles had discovered who Corbin Yardley was, and even where he was boarding during the trial. It was Abigail’s task to try to obtain from Mr. Yardley a preview of his testimony.

“You understand why you’re getting this assignment?” asked Dennard, wise old eyes probing. A file was open on his desk.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a colored man.”

“He is indeed.” The lawyer waited for a response; heard none. “Mr. Sickles tells me that the gentleman is currently residing at the Metzerott Hotel.”

Abigail, standing before the desk, shifted slightly. “I know the Metzerott.”

Dennard nodded. “So I am given to understand.” He closed the folder, and began tying the green ribbon with his arthritic fingers. But he had trouble, and she took over automatically. “I am well aware that a part of you feels underused, Miss Canner. You wish to be more involved in matters. So let me be clear. What I am asking is of enormous importance. We have to know what Yardley will say in order to prepare cross-examination.” He was already turning away. “Please file that before you go.”

II

Corbin Yardley was moon-faced and sad: on his shining dark countenance she could read all the woes of his life. He was about forty, a former slave who owned a feed business in Columbia, South Carolina. His broad shoulders sagged in a suit several sizes too small, and he was ready at every moment to share tales of how badly he had been treated. He rarely made eye contact. Mostly he watched his own hands as they lay, palm upmost, on the table, the long fingers wiggling and twitching. She had sent a note up from the Metzerott lobby. In response, his sister Constance had come clumping down the stairs to inform Abigail that her brother was willing to meet, but only with her along as chaperone.

And so they sat in the lounge and talked; or tried to.

“I don’t know what you want of us,” Constance kept saying. She was wide and stolid and entirely intimidating. “We’re hardworking people trying to hold body and soul together. All we ask is to be left alone to earn a little bit of a living until the Lord in His wisdom decides to take us. That’s all.”

Abigail tried again, addressing herself to the brother. “What I would like to know, Mr. Yardley, is what you intend to say in your testimony.”

“He’ll tell the truth,” snapped Constance, with an accusing glare.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell her, Corbin.”

He addressed his hands. “Miss, ise gonna tell the truth. Nothin else.”

Abigail consulted her notes. “I understand, Mr. Yardley, that your testimony will be in support of the proposition that the President has not done enough to protect the freedmen—”