The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (59 page)

“The Hillimans? There isn’t much to tell.”

“What are they like?”

“Are you asking if they would like you?”

She looked away. The conversation was going absurdly wrong. “No,
no, I—I just want to know.” She realized that there was no good way to put the question:
Would they conspire against the President?
She would have to seek information from some other source. And so she decided to have fun, and forced a smile. “Never mind. Tell me about your family instead.”

“Mine? They like money. There’s little else to say.”

“I am sure there is a good deal more—”

“Well, well,” said a voice at her shoulder. “I see you have found yourself another beau.”

General Baker stood beside the table, with a man she did not recognize, although he looked every bit as cruel.

Abigail stood, but Fielding was faster. “Go away and leave us alone.”

“This has nothing to do with you, son.”

“I will have you know—”

The general ignored him. He turned toward Abigail. “Don’t think I’m not still keeping an eye on you, miss. Because I am. Every minute of every day.” He allowed this to sink in. Then he laughed. “Dinner with this one. Rides in the country with young Addison. Going down to Richmond for a couple of days with young Hilliman. And of course lunch with the scandalous Sickles. You don’t half get around, do you?” To Fielding: “Please don’t let me interrupt.”

As Baker moved away, she heard the words “proper little hopper” drifting through the restaurant. Plainly she was meant to overhear. She had never come across the phrase before, not even in the pages of
Peterson’s
, but had little trouble puzzling out its meaning.

“You care for him, don’t you?” asked Fielding, a little sadly. “Hills, I mean. You really do care, don’t you?”

Abigail drew herself up. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Shall I take you home?”

“I intend to enjoy my dinner. And the company.”

But she was thinking about something else, something that had driven her questions about Jonathan’s family right out of her mind. Twice now, Lafayette Baker had “happened” upon her when she was out on the town. As if he knew where she would be. Perhaps this was because of an effective system of surveillance. But another possibility worried her.

Both times General Baker had appeared, Abigail had been out with Fielding Bannerman.

I

“
MAJOR CLANCY,
”
SAID
Benjamin Butler. “You are the President’s military aide, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you work in the Executive Mansion?”

“Sir, I have a desk on the first floor. I’m usually either there or over at the War Department. It’s just a block away, sir.”

It was Thursday afternoon, and the evidence for the Managers would shortly be concluded. They had entered upon consideration of the fourth count, and by far the most inflammatory: that the President had undertaken a design to overthrow the authority of the Congress. In all likelihood, Bingham had told the chamber, they would be calling only three more witnesses. Major Clancy was the first. He sat there in his blue uniform, trim and glistening, and sitting to attention. But his military bearing could not disguise either his nervousness or his reluctance to say a single word.

The President’s lawyers had objected to Clancy’s appearance, arguing that a presidential aide could not properly be questioned before the Congress about his conversations with the Chief Executive. The separation of powers, Speed had argued at some length, absolutely forbade such inquiry. Chase had sustained the objection—no man who hoped to serve as President could easily do otherwise—but the Senate had gone into caucus and, by an overwhelming margin, decided to hear the testimony. Even most of Lincoln’s friends had voted to overrule the Chief
Justice: there were institutional prerogatives at stake, and they did not want to set a precedent holding the President’s aides free of congressional inquiry.

“Tell us, Major,” said Butler now. “When did you undertake your current assignment?”

“Sir, July of 1866.”

“Eight months ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

Butler quickly established what was after all common ground: that the major’s job was not to advise the President but to see that his orders were properly conveyed to the War Department, and also to keep track of any War Department correspondence coming into the President’s office.

“So all communication with the War Department goes through you?”

“It is supposed to, sir. I’m afraid in this city things don’t always work the way they are supposed to.”

This was greeted with laughter. Even Butler smiled.

“Indeed. But is it fair to say that you see most of the correspondence?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“And most of the President’s orders? He would give them to you for transmission to the department?”

“Sir, like I said, the War Department is right near the Mansion. Most of the time, I’d just run the orders over to Mr. Stanton’s office.”

“Did you know the contents of the orders?”

“If the President dictated them, yes, sir. If he gave me a sealed envelope, then I wouldn’t know, of course.”

“Of course. Now, tell me, Major. Did any of the orders that he dictated to you—any correspondence known to you from the President—did any of it concern, in any way, a military department known as the Department of the Atlantic?”

Speed was back on his feet. Objection. Privileged communication with the President.

Chase was patient. “Counsel, your position is by now well understood. But the entire body has concurred in the admission of such testimony. There is no point to further argument.”

For the briefest of instants, Speed seemed inclined to press his point. But he returned, restless, to his seat.

“The witness will answer,” Chase said, kindly.

Clancy was growing noticeably more nervous. “Sir, I—I never transmitted to the War Department any orders regarding the Department of the Atlantic.”

Butler smiled rigidly. “Did you ever discuss with the President a military department of that name?”

“Yes, sir. I did. Yes.”

“What was the nature of that discussion?”

Speed looked about to rise. Everyone paused and glanced his way, expecting an objection just to break the flow, even if it would inevitably be overruled. But the lawyer remained in his chair.

“Sir, it was an afternoon in September or October of last year. I was in the President’s office to collect some commissions he had signed, appointing, um, new officers, and he asked me to stay for a minute.”

“Was that unusual?”

“No, sir. The President often asked me to stay, when he had an idea he wanted to discuss. He told me that several of his advisers had suggested that a new military department be created, with responsibility—”

Now Speed was on his feet, asking for permission to approach the bench. Chase waved him forward. Butler joined them. The argument was brief, but animated. Chase waved them back. He turned to the witness. “Let’s leave the other advisers out. You may answer, but tell the story without them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clancy. He looked confused. “Sir,” he said, contriving to look at the Chief Justice and Butler at once. “The President said he had been considering the idea of creating a new military department, with responsibility for Washington City. He suggested that it might be called the Department of the Atlantic.”

“And what is a military department?”

“Sir, when there is military government of an area, the military department is in charge of administration, keeping order, and so forth.”

“So, when the President proposed creating this Department of the Atlantic—”

Speed was up at once. “Object to ‘proposed.’ That is not the testimony.”

Chase turned to Butler.

“May it please the Court, it seems a fair interpretation.”

“The witness has only testified,” said Speed, “that the respondent said he was considering the idea.”

“It’s the same thing,” said Butler.

Chase pondered. “Overruled,” he said. “Continue, Mr. Manager.”

“Thank you, sir. Major Clancy, just to clarify. A military department, you said, is responsible for administration and keeping order where there is military government.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, when the President proposed”—tiny emphasis, just right—“the creation of a military department to be called the Department of the Atlantic in Washington City, what did you take him to be suggesting?”

Again Speed objected: it made no difference what the witness thought that the respondent was suggesting; he could testify only to what he had seen and heard.

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

Clancy swallowed. “Sir, I thought that he was suggesting a military government for Washington City.”

A sigh ran through the chamber. The Managers had struck gold.

“A military government,” Butler echoed. “With a headquarters here in Washington.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are there other military departments in the country?”

“Yes, sir. There are departments in each of the Southern states, for instance—that is, except for the ones that have been readmitted—”

Chase did not wait for the objection. Lincoln held that the Southern states, although led astray by their leaders, had never actually left the Union, and should soon be allowed to send representatives to Congress; the Radicals sharply disagreed. “The witness will refrain from expressing a view on whether or not any states have been readmitted.”

Clancy foundered a bit, but, with some prodding from Butler, at last found a phrasing that was acceptable: “Sir, there are military departments governing all the Southern states except the ones where the President has directed that the military government be phased out.”

A helpful answer for the prosecution.

“Now, then, Major,” said Butler, “would a military department typically be placed above the civilian government?”

“Objection. He is testifying for the witness.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer.”

Clancy was sweating now. Battle might not frighten him as much as sitting in this chamber, damaging a commander-in-chief he clearly
admired. “Sir, yes, sir. A military government is placed above a civilian government. There would be no point, otherwise, would there?”

“So—just to be clear—when the President proposed the formation of the Department of the Atlantic, to be headquartered in Washington, you took him to be proposing a military government to be placed above the civilian government in Washington.”

Clancy answered, albeit unwillingly. “Yes, sir. That is what I thought.”

Butler half turned, waving his hand toward the ranks of Senators and, beyond them, congressmen. “When Mr. Lincoln offered this proposal, Major, were you aware of the law, passed by these gentlemen here, prohibiting general officers from entering Washington City without permission?”

Clancy sat, if anything, straighter. His voice trembled. “Yes, sir. I was.”

“And were you also aware that the Congress had directed that there be no military department headquartered in Washington City?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was the President aware of these laws?”

Again Speed objected. Chase told Butler to rephrase the question.

“Major, did the President say anything to you to indicate an awareness of these laws?”

The look in Speed’s eyes suggested that he was ready to complain again. But he kept his seat.

“Sir, not exactly,” said the major.

“Explain that, if you please.”

“Sir, the President didn’t say anything about the congressional law—”

To everyone’s surprise, the Chief Justice himself ventured a rare interruption. “Major, the statutes in question are statutes of the United States, not of the Congress.”

The witness paled, his Adam’s apple bobbing faster. “Yes, sir.” He turned back to Butler. “Sir, the President didn’t say anything about the, um, the law.” He brightened. “But I did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that I wasn’t sure that the Department of the Atlantic would be legal.”

“An excellent point, Major.” Butler nodded his approval. “And what did Mr. Lincoln say to that?”

“Sir, he laughed. He said something about how the world is full of highly legal illegalities and highly illegal legalities. I’m not trained in the law, sir. I wasn’t really sure what he meant.”

Butler smiled. “I am trained in the law, Major, and I’m not sure, either.” Restrained laughter, but only from the gallery; the Senators were on edge. “And what else did the President say?”

“Sir, he said that he was the commander-in-chief, and if there was any legal trouble, that was his lookout, not mine.” He hesitated. “That’s what he said, sir. ‘Lookout.’ ”

“Did the conversation return to the subject of Congress?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what else did the President say?”

“Sir, he told me a story. He said there was this farmer who bought himself a nice farm, and everything was fine until the storm came and knocked down a gigantic tree. The tree was in the middle of his biggest field. It was an old tree, too heavy to move and too big to run the plow through. Everybody figured the farmer would have to give up. But when the fall came, he had the biggest harvest of anybody. Turned out, he’d just left the tree where it was and plowed around it.”