The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (58 page)

Butler consulted his notes. “Did Mr. Lincoln say what should be done about the way the Congress was behaving?”

“He said that if the congressmen kept usurping his function, he might just have to find some way to usurp right back.”

“Was that all?”

“No, sir, it wasn’t. He said that I shouldn’t worry, because, if worse came to worst, he knew who had been loyal and who hadn’t. And then, I believe, he asked me to keep the conversation to myself.”

II

Sickles began the cross-examination far from where Butler had ended. He went back to Moorhead’s initial meeting with Lincoln, shortly after the 1860 election. After a bit of badgering, Moorhead conceded that one of his purposes had been to persuade Lincoln to appoint Simon Cameron to the Cabinet.

“You were for Cameron?” asked Sickles, feigning surprise.

“I thought he should be considered.”

“And this is the same Mr. Cameron of whom Mr. Manager Stevens once said, ‘I do not believe that he would steal a red-hot stove’?”

Laughter in the chamber, but anger, too, and Chase did not even wait for the objection before gaveling that line of inquiry to a halt. But the point had been made. This theatricality was what Sickles did best; no lawyer in the city was better.

“Stick to the direct examination, Mr. Sickles.”

“Of course, Mr. Chief Justice.”

“And no personal references to counsel on either side.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies.”

The room calmed a bit. Sickles faced the witness once more. “Now, as to the second meeting, the one in the President’s office. Isn’t it true that you went on so long that the President himself at last interrupted you?”

Laughter from the gallery, which Chase quelled with a quick rap of his gavel. But Moorhead was nothing if not self-possessed.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Sickles, the President is in the habit of interrupting whenever he likes.”

Sickles let this shot bounce off. “Do you happen to remember the content of his interruption?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t Mr. Lincoln ask you whether you had lived long enough to know that two men may honestly differ about a question and both be right?”

Moorhead colored, even though this thrust was not meant for him at all—it was a dagger aimed at the heart of the prosecution’s case. The few wavering Senators would shortly decide whether it had hit home.

“I don’t remember the President’s words,” said Moorhead. “I only remember his habit of interrupting.”

“I see.” Sickles reached into his jacket pocket—an act that always caused some tension, because his jacket pocket was where he had kept the gun with which he had killed Barton Key. But he withdrew only a handkerchief, and mopped at his brow. “Now, Mr. Moorhead. You said that, after you and several other members of Congress met with the President to discuss the treatment of the rebel leaders, you remained behind for a private conversation. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“How did this come about?”

“Excuse me?”

“The private conversation.” Sickles took a step to the right, placing himself between Moorhead and the Managers. “Had you arrived at the Mansion expecting to have a private conversation with the President, or were you summoned later?”

Sickles was playing to the pride of the great industrialist. He was not disappointed.

“I was not
summoned
, sir. I am a member of the House of Representatives. I am not at the President’s beck and call.”

“My apologies.” Again he passed the cloth across his forehead. “Very well. How were you requested to remain behind to meet with the President? Did the President himself ask you, or was it one of his aides?”

Moorhead, on thinner ice, took his time. “I believe it was the President.”

“I see. You were there in the office, with the other members of Congress, and perhaps a couple of the President’s assistants, and Mr. Lincoln asked you to remain behind.”

“I believe it was when we were shaking hands.”

“Shaking hands?”

“When our public meeting ended. The President shook hands with each of us before we departed.” Bolder, growing into the great confidence demanded by a great lie. “Yes. It was when we were shaking hands. The President put his hand on my arm and asked me to remain behind for a moment.”

“Did anyone hear him invite you to remain?”

“Are you questioning my word, sir?”

Sickles played with his moustaches. “Just now, sir, I am only asking if anyone heard the President invite you to remain for a private conversation after the others left.”

Moorhead drew himself up. The high, pale brow knitted. “I would hardly know who was listening, sir. Gentlemen do not listen to other gentlemen’s private conversation, but I fear that Mr. Lincoln’s White House is hardly a monument to discretion.”

Sickles strolled back to the counsel table. He winked at Jonathan, then said, not turning back toward the witness, “So … you had a private conversation there in the President’s office, and he joked about usurping the Congress. Is that your testimony?”

“He was not joking,” said Moorhead heavily.

Sickles’s tone remained casual. His back was still to the witness. “And how would you know that, exactly?”

“I know when a man is joking,” said the industrialist, stubbornly.

“Very well. The President told you he wanted to usurp the Congress.” A delicate pause, as he turned toward Moorhead once more. “By force?”

“Pardon me?”

“Did the President say he wanted to overthrow Congress by force? Or was he referring to an election?”

The industrialist glanced at the Managers, but their faces were stone. “I believe,” he said, licking his lips, “that he was referring to force.” By now everybody in the chamber understood, as Moorhead evidently did not, that when he began a sentence with the words “I believe,” what followed was a fabrication. “Yes. He was referring to force.”

“He said that?”

“He left me that impression.”

Sickles moved closer. “Excuse me, Congressman, if I give offense. You are asking this chamber to believe that the President of the United States chose you—not a friend, not a close confidant, not an adviser, but
you, a relatively minor member of the Pennsylvania delegation—you are asking us to believe that he chose you, and you alone, to confide so extraordinary a plan?”

Jonathan saw Moorhead’s face, and knew that Sickles for once had allowed his natural theatricality to carry him over the edge. He had gone too far in making his point, and he was going to get slapped.

Hard.

“I have no reason to think,” said Moorhead, heavily, “that he chose me alone. I believe he vouchsafed this desire widely.”

Sickles made a nice recovery. “You know for a fact that he shared this desire, as you put it, with others?”

“I do.”

“Did Mr. Lincoln tell you that he had told others?”

“Sir, others told me.”

Again Sickles’s hand went to his pocket. By now the whole chamber was enthralled by this aspect of his magic. He drew out a thick pencil and a diary. “Their names, please?”

Moorhead’s frown of disapproval deepened. “I beg your pardon.”

“I would like you, please, to tell the Court the names of those others who told you about Mr. Lincoln’s plan to overthrow the Congress.”

“I cannot.”

“You don’t remember?” The pencil was poised. “Surely you remember one name?”

“Sir, a gentleman does not disclose the confidences of other gentlemen.”

“Except, evidently, to you.” General laughter. “Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer the question?”

Butler was on his feet. “Objection. Hearsay, twice over. The witness is being asked to say what others said the President said.”

“Your Honor,” said Sickles, “we are not asking the witness to testify to the words of others in order to determine their truth. We are asking the witness who else he believes”—a subtle emphasis on the verb—“to have been aware of the conspiracy to which he has testified. We will then, by way of subpoena, have them brought here and sworn.”

The Chief Justice pondered—no doubt, thought Jonathan, weighing the politics as much as the law.

“Overruled,” said Chase, at length. “The witness will answer.”

Moorhead shook his head. “I apologize to the Court. I cannot answer.”

Chase leaned forward, plainly irritated. “Sir, I have made my ruling. There is no ground on which you can refuse to answer.”

“But I have already explained, Your Honor. A gentleman cannot disclose another gentleman’s confidences.”

“That is not a proper ground, sir, and, in any case, the witness is not permitted to object.”

“Yes, but—”

Chase’s patience was gone. “The witness will answer the question or the witness will be in contempt.”

“Mr. President,” came a voice from the back.

Heads craned. It was the fierce Zachariah Chandler of Michigan, one of the most devoted of Lincoln’s opponents, addressing the Chief Justice according to the forms agreed upon.

Chase looked up, pink face full of wrath. “The Senator will be in order.”

“Sir, I have a motion on the way to your desk at this moment.” He nodded toward a running page. “I wish to poll the chamber on Your Honor’s ruling on the admissibility of the question from counsel for the respondent.”

Chase read the paper swiftly. He was struggling visibly to retain his judicial mien in the face of this slap at his authority. The whole point of the battle over who could appeal his rulings had been to avoid just this sort of public challenge. He mumbled something—perhaps a prayer—and nodded briskly. “Very well. There is a request to have the chamber polled.”

A few voices called out to second the motion—quite unnecessarily, under the rules. Chandler said, “I have a further motion, on its way to the bench.”

Again Chase glanced over the request. “There is a motion that the Senate retire to its conference room to consider the matter.”

The motion passed swiftly.

“That was ill done,” Jonathan whispered as counsel stood, watching the members file out. “All Chandler is trying to do is give them time to think up a better story for Moorhead to tell.”

Sickles shook his head. “No. That’s not it. This isn’t about Moorhead. This is about Chase. He’s showing surprising signs of independence.”

“Good.”

“Maybe.” Sickles was thoughtful.

“Surely, if Chase refuses to lie down for his Radical friends, our chances of a fair trial are enhanced.”

“You still don’t understand the man, do you? He is driven by a single mania, remember. He wants to be President.” Sickles waved toward the shuttered doorway. “Oh, they’ll overrule him. They’ll vote with Chandler, and then adjourn for the day, because the argument will take hours. The Radicals will see to it. They don’t want us to have the opportunity to ask about Moorhead’s son on cross. By tomorrow, Moorhead will come down with a case of Potomac fever, or be called out of town to tend to a dying relative, and we’ll never get our questions answered.” He closed his diary. “Not that he has any answers.”

“And Chase—”

“Chase will have been instructed, by the vote to overrule him, that there are moments when he has to go along with his friends.”

III

After court, Jonathan wanted to rush back to the office: to see Abigail, to find the right words to apologize for his behavior last night. She had come to him in good faith, genuinely worried, and he had been a boor. But Dennard detained him at the conference room down the hall from the Senate Chamber. He had become aware, Dennard said, of the various activities in which Jonathan and Abigail had been engaging. He knew that they were still searching for the conspiracy against Lincoln. He reminded Jonathan of his repeated warnings not to jeopardize the case by chasing some mythical—

And Jonathan, for once, interrupted his master. “Sir, please. At least let me tell you what we have discovered.”

Dennard shrugged, as though there was nothing to be done, and told his clerk to go ahead. And so Jonathan offered a tightly edited summary of what they knew and what they guessed: Grafton, Blaine, Stanton, Judith, Rebecca, the bribes, and of course Chanticleer—

“I will grant you Chanticleer,” said Dennard, grudgingly. “Whoever he is. The rest is supposition. Inadmissible and therefore irrelevant.”

“A thing can be inadmissible in a court of law and nevertheless true.”

“If it does not help our client,” the lawyer rumbled, “I do not want my staff wasting their time on it. Bring me documentary evidence and we can proceed. Anything less, and your time is better spent on your
assignments. Unless, of course, you feel that you are underworked, in which case I can add to your load.”

For this and other reasons, Jonathan was in a sullen mood as he climbed the stairs to the second floor and let himself into the office. Little was there, stoking the fire. The partners’ doors were shut. The room was otherwise empty.

“Where is Miss Abigail?” Jonathan said.

The old man, down on his arthritic knees, turned his head. “Ain’t seen her tonight.”

“She is supposed to be working!”

“Well, now, I know how it is with young people. Half the time, you uns don’t do what you’re spose to do.”

Hiding a childlike disappointment, Jonathan sat down to his books.

IV

As for Abigail, she had indeed allowed herself to be persuaded to see Fielding again: even if she was now armed with an agenda. Once more, she had accompanied him to the late buffet at the National Hotel. Once more, he was beautiful.

“I was afraid you no longer wished my company,” said Fielding.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Hills says—”

“I am not a woman who needs a man to speak for me.”

Over those delightful crabs, they traded pleasantries for a good half-hour, and then she proceeded to the matter most on her mind.

“May I ask you a question, Fielding?”

“Anything.”

“It’s about Jonathan.”

His face fell, but to show it was all in jest he folded hands over his heart. “I shall not survive it,” he declaimed. “The course of true love never did run smooth!”

Abigail laughed along with him, hoping that he was serious about joking. Then she pressed on. “I would like to know about Jonathan’s family.”