The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (52 page)

Jonathan glanced quickly at Abigail, whose fingers had tightened on her untouched glass of lemonade. To his relief, she said, smoothly, “Despite our differences, Dr. Chastain, you did send the letter to Mr. McShane. You labored on behalf of the Union during the war.” She gave him the opportunity to dispute this, but he did not. Instead, the pastor inclined his head, waiting. Abigail took a breath. “Sir, it is not our wish to impose upon you. But, as you know, time is now short. So, please, bear with me. You sent the letter to Mr. McShane because you hoped that he would come to you before the trial ended, and that he would use your information to the good. We were his employees. Both of us,” she added, without emphasis. “The trial is nearing its end. We used the information about Mr. Yardley to good effect. But unless you tell us what else you planned to tell him, your secrets will be useless.”

But Chastain had a pace of his own. “Miss Canner, I noted a moment ago that you are plainly an educated woman. And yet it is also plain to me, from the shade of your skin, that you have, intermixed in your line, the blood of the white race.” He waved away her objection. “No, no. I make no criticism. Naturally, I do not approve of relations between our races, but it is well known that this occurs, and, indeed, if you examine the data collected by the census, you will discover that, as you move from the Lower South to the Upper South, the percentage of negroes
with white blood rises. And of course among the free negroes, it is highest of all. I believe that in Maryland, more than forty percent of the free negroes have white blood. There is a reason, therefore, that you have succeeded so well in freedom.”

“Perhaps, then,” she said, “you should reconsider whether to approve of relations between the races, if white blood suits us so well.”

Dead silence.

“You are a fascinating people,” the pastor finally said. He licked his lips, nervous for some reason. “Absolutely fascinating. That man cares nothing for you. We loved your people, and you …” He could not find the words. Again the tongue snaked across his lips. He shook his head, and, shivering, turned the rocker slightly away, as if he could bear to look on them no more. “Say what you have come to say,” he whispered, “and then go.”

“Sir,” said Jonathan, swiftly, “I apologize if we have given offense. That was never our intention.”

No response. The pastor was hunching into himself, drawing the jacket more tightly across his withered shoulders.

Jonathan tried again. “Sir, we are not here to argue over the past. Our only concern is the trial, and why you sent—”

Chastain revived, although his voice was now less commanding than querulous. “You are mistaken. Both of you. I did not at any point labor on behalf of the Union. What I did, always, was for the benefit of my own beloved state of Virginia, now subject to conquest and oppression because of that man.”

Abigail again: “But, sir, in the files of the War Department—”

“In the files of your War Department, I am doubtless listed as a turncoat, a traitor to my own nation who labored, as you say, on behalf of the Union.” He took another sip of lemonade, let it slosh about in his mouth before swallowing, as if he sought to wash away the taste of his own words. “And I suspect that it is that wretched file, rather than any solicitude on the part of that man for teachers of the faith, that has left my home and my church unmolested, when so much has been taken from us.” He lifted his chin, indicating the ruined city beyond the window. “But I was never a traitor. I wanted peace between our nations, rather than this pointless destruction. It was to that end that I was persuaded to labor.”

“You were persuaded,” Abigail echoed, gently.

A tight nod. Chastain had the rocker moving now, slowly, and in his
worn suit looked suddenly old. “I am an imperfect man. A miserable sinner, as we all are, in need of our Lord’s forgiveness. I have transgressions in my past.” His eyes were cast, if anywhere, on the carpeting, and perhaps down to the smoldering depths of Hell below. “Naturally, one’s associates … one’s domestic staff … they are aware of more than one thinks. It is as I said, Miss Canner. Your race is not unintelligent, and … and fascinating, as I said. I suppose I did not imagine … Well, they knew. They knew what I had done, and they … they told, and she came to me and said unless I …”

Chastain ran down. He had nothing more to say.

“When you say ‘she,’ ” Jonathan began, but Abigail put a hand on his wrist.

“You were coerced. Through the agency of your … domestic staff.” She glanced around; Zillah stood beside the fireplace, heavy arms folded. She went out. “You were coerced into … into laboring for the Union.”

“No,” said the pastor, sharply. His gaze grew fiery, and he waggled an admonishing finger. “Never. I did not labor on their behalf. I did
not
. I was persuaded to labor for peace between our two nations, and
that was all
.”

They gave him a moment to settle himself. “And these labors,” said Jonathan. “What did they consist of?”

“I passed messages. That was all. I held messages, I passed them on, and I put packages in the post. Nothing else. Do you hear?
Nothing else!
”

“The Chanticleer messages.”

“Yes. Yes. The messages from Chanticleer. I passed them on. That is all I ever did. All!”

In the ringing silence, Abigail caught the point an instant before Jonathan did: “You are not Chanticleer.”

“I? I, Chanticleer? What? No! Is that what the files say? If they do, they are false!” He was half on his feet, voice breaking, as he shook a trembling fist. “You go back and tell them that!” Looking around wildly. “Zillah! Where is Zillah?” Raging at them once more. “I never betrayed my country! I only worked for peace!”

The black woman hurried back in, crouched beside the chair, took the sobbing figure in her arms. “You go on, now,” she snarled.

“Wait,” cried Abigail. “Please, sir. Who is Chanticleer?”

He shook his head, weeping. “I had my deposit,” Chastain whispered. “My protection. Now it’s gone. She took it. I have no protection. None.”

“What does that mean?” said Jonathan. “What deposit?”

“I told you to go on,” Zillah repeated. “Hurry up, now, before I get the law after you.”

“We only have one or two more questions—”

“You done caused enough pain to Dr. Chastain. He’s a fine gentleman. He don’t never hurt nobody. Now, go on. Get out.” She turned to Chastain, patted his shoulder. “There, there,” she cooed. “There, there.”

Startled, Abigail and Jonathan left them that way, found their own way out. In the brilliant March sunshine, the coachman was waiting, brushing his horse.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he murmured happily. “Everybody likes Dr. Chastain.”

IV

“He knew her name,” said Jonathan as they rode back toward the depot. “Chanticleer is a woman, and he knew her name.”

“Wait—” said Abigail.

“He was on verge of telling us.” He rapped a hand against the side of the carriage. “I should have threatened him. One telegram to Sickles and I could have him arrested.”

“To what end?” Abigail was thoughtful as they passed through the demolished city.

“To make him tell! He cannot hide behind that clerical nonsense.” Big Red seemed to stiffen at this epithet, and Jonathan dropped his voice. “We should go back. We are leaving empty-handed.”

“I do not think Dr. Chastain would tell us anything else,” she said, staring at the coachman’s back. “You saw them. Zillah will not let us in the house.”

“I daresay Zillah will not withstand a company of Union soldiers!”

“Which we are not about to dispatch. Calm down, Jonathan.” Whispering now, touching his hand. “Wait until we are on the train.”

Again they sat in third class. The train back to Washington City was even emptier than the train down, as if the stream of commerce ran only in one direction. Or perhaps nobody at the South could get travel documents.

“I apologize,” she said when they were settled. “Big Red was too interested in our conversation.”

“Big Red? Ah, the coachman. Well, we are alone now. So tell me, please, Abigail. Why are we not going back to that house?”

“In the first place, Dr. Chastain never said that Chanticleer was a woman. He said that ‘she’ coerced him. But it is obvious, isn’t it, who runs that household? I do not know what he did that allowed him to be coerced, or what Zillah knows, or whether what he did”—she blushed—“involved Zillah somehow. But it strikes me that it is Zillah, not Dr. Chastain, who is, or was, in contact with Chanticleer.” The train was leaving the station. Abigail looked out upon the charred buildings. “It is my understanding,” she said, “that the slaves themselves were a crucial part of the Union spy effort during the war, both gathering information and forming networks through which messages could be passed from hand to hand, or even from mouth to mouth.”

“I had forgotten,” said Jonathan. “But you are right. We used to call the messages from the slave network the ‘black dispatches.’ ”

“Well, then, it is obvious what has happened, isn’t it? Chanticleer, whoever he or she is, has revived the old network from the war—your black dispatches—and is using it to aid Mr. Lincoln, by providing damaging information about the witnesses called by the Radicals.”

“So it is Zillah, not Chastain, who is part of the network.”

“He gives Zillah cover. Perhaps she receives packages from Chanticleer, and Dr. Chastain posts them. And Zillah … well, she takes care of him.”

Imagination briefly made them both uncomfortable.

“And the deposit?” Jonathan finally said. “What is that? What did he mean when he said he lost his protection?”

Abigail studied the wreck of a factory, then the remains of a fort. Pondering, she tapped her chin. He hid a smile. “I don’t know, Jonathan,” she said. “I’m not quite there yet. But we’re closer. I can sense it. And I am quite certain that Dr. Chastain and Zillah, between them, have told us nearly everything that we need to work out what has been going on.”

I

THE PROSECUTION DECIDED
to skip most of the widows and orphans. This, said Sickles, represented the sensible strategy. If the Managers brought to the witness box a parade of unfortunates whose husbands and fathers had been locked up by the execrable tyrant Abraham Lincoln, then Dennard, on cross-examination, would have the opportunity to explore exactly what those poor husbands and fathers were supposed to have done. “When they all turn out to be Southern sympathizers, Copperheads, and Knights of the Golden Circle,” he said, “the country will swing back Lincoln’s way.” This, at least, was the way Sickles put it when, on Wednesday evening, he met Jonathan and Abigail at the office. Little had met them at the Washington depot, with instructions that Sickles wanted to see them at once.

Pudgy Rellman was there, too, and looked unhappy.

Speed and Dennard were at the Mansion.

“What that means,” Sickles continued, “is that, no later than Monday, the real trial starts.”

“Real how?” asked Abigail.

“The Radicals never expected to remove him from office with the first two counts. Those are just for show. The idea was to damage his standing with the public. It’s a bit early to say how well it worked. The fact that they want to move on so swiftly suggests they think they’ve done enough damage already.”

“Or that they’re not doing enough,” Jonathan suggested.

Sickles grimaced, put both hands on his stump, tried to find a more comfortable position. “Either way, they’ll spend one more day making speeches about how Mr. Lincoln has violated the fundamental liberties of the American people, and then they’ll move on.”

“To Counts Three and Four,” said Abigail.

“Precisely. Counts Three and Four. Ignoring congressional mandates on how to reconstruct the South. That’s Count Three. Count Four, you will remember, says that Mr. Lincoln has been conspiring to make himself king of America. That’s the way some of the Radical papers are putting it, anyway.”

“The proposition is an absurdity.”

Sickles lifted an eyebrow. “All that matters, Miss Canner, is whether the Managers can persuade people that it is true.” He pointed to a sheaf of papers awaiting delivery to the copyist. “We can write as many arguments and motions as we like. The arguments don’t really matter. This is politics, not law.” He saw their faces. “Don’t worry. We might be doing politics, but a trial is a trial, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you can’t tell midway through a trial how it’s going to come out.”

Jonathan said, “What would you like us to do?”

Sickles laughed. “Well, Rellman here has to go home and get a good night’s sleep. I’m afraid that sitting in your place at the counsel table has worn him out. You, too.” Addressing Jonathan. “Go on. Go home. Go get drunk. Go call on Miss Felix, or whoever it is you call on. Miss Canner and I have business to discuss.”

“It will be better if I stay,” said Jonathan at once. Rellman was already halfway to the door.

Abigail stared at Sickles. “I will be fine, Jonathan,” she said. “Go.”

II