The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (46 page)

“Are there others?” asked Meg.

“Her fiancé is at the South,” said Kate, answering, as was her habit, a slightly different question. “And our Abigail, in the midst of so many admirers, remains true to him. I find that terribly romantic. Don’t you?”

Abigail had not told Mrs. Sprague anything about Aaron.

“Terribly,” said Meg.

“He must be a remarkable man,” said Kate.

Abigail said nothing. At this very moment, if he was alive, her remarkable Aaron was suffering in some dank Southern prison, if he had not actually been returned to slavery, a fate that the rebels had decreed randomly, not even according to their own laws but according instead to the need for labor. There were moments when she was nearly able to let go of the image, to accept what everyone told her. Whether sternly, like Nanny, or gently, like Dinah, everyone told Abigail that her husband-to-be was dead. She shivered. The temptation was strong. But then she would imagine him fully, the confidence of his smile, the warmth of his strong arms and thick body, the delight she felt in being near him, in stretching and squirming against him in ways most unladylike, the aching physical need for him to hold her once more, even if it was the final clasp before death. Judith used to tease her relentlessly—
He is going to war, you need to let him do what men do!
—but Abigail, although it frustrated both her and her beau, had remained true to her mother’s teachings. Another time, Judith, smiling maliciously, had told Abigail that their mother, had she lived, would have advised her to yield, in order to ensure the marriage, but that was not true. Hortense Canner had craved not marriage as such but the family’s upward progress. She would have counseled Abigail to give in only to a man of a higher class, and lighter hue, and Aaron was neither.

Her mother, Abigail realized with a start, would even have preferred a white man to Aaron; and a rich white man would have been better still.

“She had better remain true to her fiancé,” Margaret was saying. “Because rather horrible things can happen to people who don’t.”

II

The Senators decided to hear the testimony, and Corbin Yardley finished his story. He had visited the military governor, and been turned away empty-handed. The governor had told him that there was nothing to be done. The President—according to the governor—wanted the Union troops to interfere as little as possible. He thought it was time that the South took charge of its own destiny.

“Repeat that, please,” said Butler.

Yardley’s voice grew reedier than ever. “Sir, he said the President thought it was time the South took charge of its own destiny.”

“And by the President, you took him to mean Mr. Lincoln?”

Dennard objected, but Yardley had already answered—“Yes, sir”—and Chase merely shook his head.

“Did the governor say anything else about Mr. Lincoln?”

“Sir, he said that Mr. Lincoln wanted South Carolina to send folks to Congress as soon as possible.”

Angry mutters throughout the Senate Chamber. Hearsay or not, the testimony suggested that the President proposed to trespass on the Congress’s own sacred right to decide whether to seat new members.

“How would that be possible,” asked Butler, “given that South Carolina remains under martial law?”

Chase sustained Dennard’s objection: the matter was outside the competence of the witness.

Butler, having made his point, moved on. “Did you ever get full recompense for your feed business?”

“No, sir.”

“Were any of the men who burned your barn ever identified?”

“No, sir.”

Butler put a hand on the rail. “Mr. Yardley, you served in the Union Army, did you not?”

“Yes, sir. Second Colored Light Artillery.”

“Did you see action?”

“Sir, I was at Fort Pillow.”

Butler let the dread name hang in the air: the infamous massacre of colored troops by Confederates under the command of Nathan Bedford Forrest, who later led the Ku Klux.

“On behalf of the Congress of the United States,” Butler said at last,
“may I offer you the apologies of this nation, and the assurance that those who did these terrible things will receive their just punishment, whether now or in the world to come.”

With that, he tendered the witness.

“Another difficult day for Mr. Lincoln,” murmured Margaret Felix, scarcely able to conceal her delight.

“I think not,” said Kate, before Abigail could speak.

“Oh?”

“They have something. I can see it in her face.”

Both women were staring at Abigail, who knew that she should feel a sense of triumph: what was about to happen to Corbin Yardley was largely her doing.

Instead, she felt only the empty, painful throb of guilt.

III

“Cross-examination,” said Chase.

Dennard was a moment rising. He seemed to struggle. From behind the effect was comic, as though his bulk was too weighty for his legs. But his face, Abigail knew, would be thundery, and from the point of view of the witness, Dennard would appear a broad and powerful avenger. She understood this effect in part because her late father had used a version of the same trick when scolding his children, but mostly because Dennard, at his most pedantic, had explained his methods to her, proposing that she file the knowledge away until, in his words, she grew fat enough to use it.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Yardley,” said Dennard.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the witness, warily.

“I want to thank you for coming all this way to share your testimony with us today.” Yet his tone was anything but kindly. “And I would like to congratulate you on your freedom.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That my country admitted and sustained the wicked institution of slavery is a blot on our history, and always will be. The bloody war we fought to extinguish the institution was our just punishment for our sin.” He hitched up his pants, as if to say that the trial, sadly, nevertheless had to proceed. “Now, sir. You live where?”

“South Carolina, sir. Columbia.”

“And you were previously enslaved nearby?”

“Yes, sir. Out in Lexington County.”

“You were a slave until when?”

“Until the Proclamation, sir. Until about 1863.”

Dennard’s large head moved, as if to suggest surprise, but really to draw attention. “You were freed by the President’s Emancipation Proclamation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And are you grateful to Mr. Lincoln?”

Butler was on his feet, objecting. An argument before the bench. Butler was livid. And loud. This was not relevant. Whether the man was grateful was of no moment. The trial was about what Lincoln did, not how people felt. Dennard’s voice in response was pitched in his usual tones of low reasonableness, and Abigail could hardly hear.

Chase motioned for them to step back.

“The witness’s feelings about respondent are not relevant. Counsel will confine himself to what the witness saw and heard. Continue.”

Dennard smiled at the witness, his bulk making him seem clownish. Abigail trembled. She knew what was coming. The next few minutes were going to be bloody.

“So, Mr. Yardley,” said Dennard. “You are now a free man. And, in freedom, you have been successful, I believe. You run a fair-sized feed business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you also have a political career, so I am given to understand. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well. That is a great deal to accomplish in just four years. You are to be congratulated.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful, sir.”

Dennard took a stroll back to the table. “Now, Mr. Yardley, you testified earlier that when the Ku Klux burned your warehouse, you went to the governor, and he wasn’t any help.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The governor appointed by Mr. Lincoln.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If we brought the governor here to testify, would he support your account?”

The black man’s gaze darted. “Sir, I believe he is a diplomat in Argentina or one of those places.”

“Would he support your account, Mr. Yardley?”

“Sir, the governor told me that he would deny it ever happened.”

Dennard let this remark, a useful one for the defense, linger in the room: just right. Then: “So, you met the governor where? At his office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the governor said he was unable to be helpful because Mr. Lincoln thought it was time the Southerners took charge of their own destiny again.”

No hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

Dennard stood for a moment, staring. The tension froze Abigail in place. Kate noticed, and looked at her curiously, but said nothing.

“This was last September.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dennard put out a hand. Jonathan had the document ready. For a mad instant, Abigail hated him, even though it was she who had provided the knife.

“You are aware, Mr. Yardley, that your name does not appear anywhere on the governor’s schedule.”

“Yes, sir.” He had plainly gone over this during preparation by the Managers. “We met after hours.”

“You testified that it was the day of the hurricane, or maybe the day after. That’s how you remember that it was September.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dennard opened the document before him. “Mr. Yardley, I hold in my hand two pages from the register of Burgess’s, a colored hotel in Atlanta.” He dropped it on the table with a snap that startled the whole chamber. “The hurricane was on September 7 and 8 of last year. According to the register, you were at Burgess’s from September 6 through September 10 of last year.”

Pandemonium in the chamber. Butler was on his feet again, furious. The provenance of the document had not been established—

Chase pounded the gavel. “Counsel will ask no further questions regarding this document,” he intoned. “Not unless he is prepared to introduce testimony first as to its authenticity.”

“We are so prepared, your honor,” proclaimed Dennard, although in actual fact the owners of Burgess’s had refused to come to Washington at all, once they learned that they would be called upon to testify against a man of what they called their own nation.

Butler sneered. “Let him bring the witnesses.”

Chase adjusted his glasses. “Unless you produce the witnesses, Mr. Dennard, it is my inclination to set aside this testimony.”

Dennard said, “I have no further questions on the matter.”

“One moment,” said Butler. “If I could please clarify. Is counsel saying that he has no more questions for the witness about the meeting with the governor, or that he has no more questions about the register? It is the position of the Managers”—thinking fast now—“that any further questions about the meeting will be designed to lead the Senators to contemplation of the register, and Your Honor has just excluded any further—”

Chase waved him silent. “Mr. Dennard?”

“Sir, I have no further questions about the meeting with the governor. I have further questions of the witness.”

The Chief Justice told him to continue.

“Now, Mr. Yardley. You are one of the more prominent colored men in Columbia, are you not?”

“I don’t know, sir. I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

“Still, for the past year you have sat on the city council in Columbia, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As a matter of fact, I do not believe any colored man before you has ever been elected to the council.” Information gleaned from the newspaper articles stuffed in the package.

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. That is right, sir.”

“So, you run a feed business in Columbia. You sit on the council. And you are also, I believe, a deacon of Reverend Johnson’s church.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a man of influence. There are people who listen to what you have to say?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Now, one of the big disputes in Columbia lately involves the Augusta Railroad and the South Carolina Railroad, isn’t that so?”

Chase looked automatically toward Butler, who seemed about to object, but sank into his seat once more. By now even the Managers had guessed where the cross was headed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you be so kind as to explain the dispute to the chamber.”

Yardley scrunched up his face. “Well, sir, it’s like this. The Augusta Railroad, they needs to connect to the Charlotte Railroad, but the
South Carolina Railroad tracks is in the way. So the Augusta Railroad wants to cross the South Carolina Railroad tracks, and the South Carolina Railroad says no. Matter of fact, some days the South Carolina just drives an engine right up to where the Augusta Railroad needs to cross and blocks the tracks so’s they can’t build nothing.”

“And is the city council involved in the dispute at all?”

“Sir, it’s in the court. White mens always suing other white mens.”

Laughter in the chamber.

“Indeed.” Dennard’s smile was sympathetic. “Nevertheless, it is a fact, is it not, that there is a good deal of support in town for the Augusta Railroad? The Augusta Railroad employs many local people, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir. They’s real popular in Columbia.”

“And the completion of the line all the way to Charlotte and back down into Georgia will be of benefit to Columbia, will it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the city council ought to be in favor of the new line.” A statement.

For the first time, Yardley hesitated. “Sir, it’s in the court.”

“Isn’t it a fact that, just five months ago, in October of 1866, the city council proposed to vote in favor of the new line?”

The black man seemed increasingly uncertain of his ground. He even glanced toward the Managers. “We didn’t take no vote,” he said finally.

“But there was a proposal to take a vote, was there not?”

“Not that I recalls.”

“We have the minutes of the meeting,” said Dennard. Again Jonathan rushed the papers into his palm. “There was a proposal to put the council on record in favor of the line, and several members of the council objected. No vote was taken.” A pause. “You were among those who objected, were you not, Mr. Yardley?”

“Might have been. I can’t say that I recollect clearly.”

“You can’t,” said Dennard, in the tone of a disappointed schoolmaster. “Now, Mr. Yardley, you told us earlier that the Ku Klux burned your barn.”