AT FOUR-THIRTY in the morning of November 3, General Winfield Scott left Washington from the Baltimore depot, en route to Europe. McClellan was now general-in-chief as well as commander of the Army of the Potomac. “I can do it all,” he had told the President.
But now, thought Seward, as he gazed at his former minion, Cameron, all was changed. McClellan no longer turned to Seward as the natural leader of the government; but then he did not turn to anyone, so great was his youthful vanity. Meanwhile, Cameron had made an unexpected alliance with Chase and the radically minded Republicans in Congress. Cameron had come out for enlisting in the army those former slaves that had been liberated by the Union army. Lincoln had been as furious with Cameron as he had been in September when General Frémont had not only declared martial law in Missouri but had then announced that he would confiscate the property of all secessionists, including their slaves, who were to be freed. This had delighted the abolitionists while causing Lincoln to declare, with anguish, to Seward, “This is a war for a great national idea, the Union, and now Frémont has tried to drag the Negro into it!” Lincoln annulled the proclamation; relieved Frémont of his command; and incurred the enmity of Congress’s radical Republicans.
Lincoln rose. Cabinet was over. As Chase said good-bye to the President, he hoped that he could be out of the room before Cameron could buttonhole him. “We’ll see you New Year’s Day, won’t we?” The President was amiable. “With both your handsome daughters?” Lincoln stared down at Chase, a vague smile on his lips. He was never anything but the soul of courtesy and forebearance, thought Chase, full of Christian charity on this the anniversary of Christ’s miraculous birth.
“Oh, yes, sir! My young ladies look forward with pleasure to seeing you—and Mrs. Lincoln, as do I.” Chase managed to ruin every “s” in the sentence; but did not care. Although he was not exactly at ease with Lincoln, he never felt any constraint when they were together. Chase was also aware of Lincoln’s profound regard for him as an educated man, with a lifetime’s experience in the higher realm of politics. “By the way, I suspect that the bankers will let us down on the payment in specie of the next loan, and I think that we should plan seriously for the issuance of our own government notes …”
“Mr. Chase!” Lincoln winced in a comical way. “Today, of all days, let me brood upon five sad things, not six. Be merciful.”
Chase inclined his head. “Our watchword—today—shall be ‘All quiet on the Potomac.’ ” This had been the daily report in every newspaper since McClellan had taken command of the army.
The President sighed. “As we all know, General McClellan is a great engineer, but I sometimes think his special talent is for the stationary engine.”
Chase smiled; and said good-day. He was first and forever a McDowell man. But after Bull Run, McDowell had been superseded by the thirty-four-year-old McClellan, who had kept a number of Virginian counties, now known as West Virginia, in the Union. McClellan was considered the perfect modern soldier, having been trained in Europe like McDowell but, unlike McDowell, he had seen action in the Crimea. He had then left the army to become chief engineer and vice-president of the Illinois Central Railroad, supporting for Senate the railroad’s counsel, Douglas, over Lincoln. McClellan was a Democrat, which Lincoln liked; but Chase did not. Lincoln tended to pamper pro-Union Democrats at the expense of loyal abolitionist Republicans. McClellan had just been made president of the Ohio & Mississippi Railroad, when he was called back to duty—and glory.
McClellan had taken Washington and the country—and even Chase—by storm. He was youthful, handsome if somewhat short and thick in stature, and confident to the point, Chase could not help but think, of hubris. But in a matter of months he had turned a frightened mass of men into a formidable modern army. Even Mr. Russell of the Times would now approve of their drilling. Chase had never realized just how awesome it could be to watch a well-drilled army of a hundred thousand men pass in review. But General McClellan loved the army so much and the army loved him so much that there had been, thus far, no military engagement of any kind except for a fracas at Bull’s Bluff, in nearby Virginia, which the Union army had lost, leaving dead on the field one of the President’s old Illinois friends, former senator Edward D. Baker. It was said that Lincoln had wept uncontrollably when he heard the news. Chase thought this unlikely. Despite all of Lincoln’s charm and cunning, Chase found him, at bottom, an unexpectedly hard man, who would never weep for anyone—or anything, saving perhaps power withheld.
As Chase stepped out into the upstairs corridor, Cameron linked arms with him; and propelled him away from the others. “Governor,” Cameron’s voice was low and whispery and conspiratorial. “We have all the generals with us. There’s Frémont, who’s bound to get another command, which I’m working on. There’s Hunter. There’s Ben Butler, who’s declaring every nigger we free—I mean Negro—Federal property, so that he can confiscate them. He calls ’em contraband …”
“I know. I know.” Chase hated being told things that he already knew, which was how most of every day was spent, listening politely while others told him his business.
“I guess you heard what a success my swing through the North last month was. ‘Free the slaves!’ I said. ‘Arm the slaves!’ I said. The audiences just ate it up.” With an unexpectedly powerful grip, Cameron positioned Chase on the grand staircase; then helped him down, as if he were an elderly lady.
“It is certainly my wish,” said Chase. “But I’m alone in the Cabinet except, now, for you.” Chase could hardly believe that he and this embodiment of American political corruption were speaking so intimately. It must be a dream, he thought, as Old Edward met them at the bottom of the stairs. Cameron whispered in Chase’s ear, “We’ve got Sumner, the whole Committee on the Conduct of the War, the big generals …”
“Yes, yes,” said Chase. “I shall see you here, I suppose, on New Year’s Day.”
“Growing very cold, sir,” said Old Edward, as he led Chase out onto the portico where a line of carriages with smoking horses waited to collect the magnates.
“And the autumn was so beautiful,” said Chase, wistfully. It was true. There had never been such beautiful dry weather. There had never been such a perfect time to send an army straight to Richmond. There had never been such a rare opportunity, so peculiarly lost by the Young Napoleon.
As Chase drove away from the White House, the Chevalier Wikoff was being shown into Bettie Duvall’s parlor in Seventeenth Street. From time to time, in the most casual way, they had met at those houses where the grand people of every persuasion gathered. They had first been introduced to each other by the Widow Greenhow, whom the Chevalier had already come to know. He had found Miss Duvall plain in appearance but delightful in manner, largely because of her bold secessionist statements. Since the house arrest of Mrs. Greenhow in August, he had got to know Miss Duvall even better; and if she had charmed him he had also charmed her. But then, in a sense, each was in the same business.
Miss Duvall led the Chevalier into her somewhat overfurnished and overheated parlor. Miss Duvall’s aunt was not in view. But then she was never in view. Miss Duvall came and went as she pleased. It was said that she had money of her own. It was said that she had a beau, in the Confederate Army.
“This is a pleasure, Chevalier.”
“I was on my way to … the other house,” delicately, he indicated that corner of the Mansion which was visible through the iced-over window, “when I thought I’d pay my respects.”
Miss Duvall sent for tea. Then they sat in front of the coal fire. “I’m glad you dared to come. Mr. Pinkerton’s men watch me morning, noon and night. I expect to end up any day at Fort Greenhow.”
Wikoff was grave. “I pray you remain at large, Miss Duvall.”
“That is a generous prayer, Chevalier. Does this mean that you are a secret secessionist?”
“Pas moi.” But then Wikoff realized that despite Miss Duvall’s name, she did not speak French, unlike his patrone
ss the Republican Queen, Wikoff’s epithet for Mrs. Lincoln had so caught on throughout the country that now both the unfriendly as well as the friendly Press had taken it up, to the President’s dismay and to Mrs. Lincoln’s delight. Happily, neither suspected that Wikoff was the author. From the beginning, Bennett had agreed that Wikoff must never sign his dispatches; thus, he could continue to be not only Mrs. Lincoln’s devoted cavalier servente but Mr. Bennett’s man at the Mansion.
“I am,” said Wikoff, “simply a friend of the Lincolns. I particularly admire her. I always told Mrs. Greenhow what a pity it was that she did not go to the Mansion when … she could. She would have had a lot in common with Mrs. Lincoln.”
Miss Duvall was sardonic. “If what the papers write is true about Mrs. Lincoln’s loyalty to our native country, why, yes, I’m sure that our hearts all beat as one. But if that’s the case, then all the more reason for Rose—and me—to stay away and not compromise her. You realize, sir, that I am notorious for my outspoken sympathies.”
Wikoff raised one hand, as if in benediction. “Miss Duvall, you are much admired for your candor and your courage. I shouldn’t be surprised if the President himself does not think you a valuable asset at this time, to keep a line, as it were, of communication to the reb— To the Confederates.”
Miss Duvall stared into the silver teapot to see at what state the brewing had got. “Well, if he is so eager to use me—and I am happy to be of use—tell him that I’d appreciate it if he would ask Mr. Pinkerton’s secret service to stop staring through my windows, and going through my desk when no one’s in the house. We spies never leave evidence lying about.”
“I don’t quite know how I shall put that to him, but I’ll do my best if I have the chance.” Wikoff was somewhat uncomfortable. He had not been aware that the house was being watched. But then the ambassador of James Gordon Bennett ought to be above suspicion. “Actually, General McClellan’s the person to speak to about the secret service. Apparently, Mr. Pinkerton used to work for the Illinois Central, the General’s old employer. Anyway, the secret service now reports directly to our Young Napoleon and not to the Executive Mansion.”
“Whoever his men report to, they’re watching us now, especially today.”
“Why today?”
“Because we’ve just won a great victory.” Miss Duvall added hot water to the teapot. “Mr. Lincoln has given way. He will let our commissioners go on to London. Now, if I were truly brave, I’d give you champagne, to celebrate. But I don’t want to go to Fort Greenhow just yet. So we shall have tea instead—and liberty. How, by the way, am I to know whether you are not a spy, sent here to trap me?”
Wikoff made a self-abasing gesture. “I am practically a foreigner. I’m hardly apt to be trusted by Mr. Pinkerton. Besides, I did not encourage you just now to compromise yourself by pouring champagne.”
“That is true.” Miss Duvall poured tea; and the Chevalier stated his errand. “I want,” he said, “to go to Richmond.”
With a sharp click, Miss Duvall put her saucer down on a mother-of-pearl inlaid table. “Why?”
“I want to write a sort of … peace letter for the New York Herald.”
“What is a peace letter?”
“Just that. As you know, Mr. Bennett is against the war. He also inclines to the South.”
“But not too far. After all, he has yet to go to jail for his principles. How many newspapers has Mr. Lincoln shut down?” Miss Duvall’s somewhat beaky smile did not waver as her thin lips tightened, and the sharp curved nose more than ever resembled a crow’s beak.
“A dozen, perhaps. But I think that it is more Mr. Seward—and the generals—who do the shutting down of presses and the arresting of editors. It is my impression, perhaps mistaken, that Mr. Lincoln spends a great deal of his time getting Mr. Seward’s political enemies out of prison. But then this is war, Miss Duvall.”
“A war that your generals don’t dare fight.”
“Oh, dear lady, not my generals. I take no sides. I’m not a Republican or a Democrat or a Confederate or a Unionist. I’ve lived abroad too long. If anything, I’m a Bonapartist. Anyway, Mr. Bennett and I do not want to see this war grow any bloodier than it has been thus far. That’s why we think that if I should, somehow, get to Richmond, I could then send back a peace letter to the Herald, showing the Confederacy in a favorable—and formidable—light, and mentioning on what terms the South might be willing to make peace, terms acceptable to President Davis and to … Mr. Bennett, if not Mr. Lincoln. I should tell you that last July Mrs. Greenhow had agreed to try to get me through. But then she was arrested.”
Bettie Duvall stared a moment into the fire. The Chevalier stared at his own large white soft hands. “Let me … talk to friends,” said Miss Duvall, finally, as the maid appeared in the doorway. “It’s the boy from Thompson’s, Miss.”
“Oh, give him my prescription, will you? It’s upstairs on the …” But then Miss Duvall was on her feet. “I better talk to him.” Wikoff had risen but she motioned for him to take his seat. “I’ll be right back.” Bettie Duvall crossed to the vestibule, where David stood, shivering slightly despite a heavy, brand-new, only slightly adapted Union army overcoat, bought on the sly at half price from an army quartermaster.
“You wanted to see me?” Since the arrest of Mrs. Greenhow, Miss Duvall had had two or three occasions to send David on mysterious errands. Since she did not dare to be seen talking to him at Thompson’s, they had agreed that whenever she placed a certain vase in the front-parlor window, he would stop at her house when he made his rounds of the neighborhood.
“I did. But I don’t now. It’s too late.”
“For what?”
“Next week Mrs. Greenhow and all the other ladies are being moved to Old Capitol prison.
David whistled; then he smiled. “I reckon she’ll give them Feds a mighty hard time.”
“I reckon she will,” said Bettie Duvall. “But, one thing, we’ll have an easier time getting to her there than we’ve had here, with everybody watching. So you be careful,” she added, as she turned back into the hall.
“Don’t worry, Miss. Nobody ever pays me any mind.” This was true, he thought, bitterly, as he went out into the street. Despite the new overcoat, he found the day arctic. But then for the true Southerner, winter is never not a disagreeable surprise.
David turned left into Pennsylvania Avenue. At Lafayette Square, he stopped and stared at the President and his spiffy-looking young secretary Mr. Hay, whose moustaches were now longer and silkier than his own. Of course, Hay was at least four years older than he. Even so, Hay’s new moustaches were far more effective than his own dull dark ones. The two men, one tall and thin, the other short and slight, looked like two black sticks against the snow. They were walking, quickly, toward Mr. Seward’s house. As always, they were talking animatedly; and, as always, there were no guards in sight except for the cavalryman at the corner of Sixteenth Street who sharply raised his sabre in salute, causing the President absently to raise his tall silk hat. Then the two men entered the Old Club House.
Miss Duvall and the Chevalier Wikoff had also witnessed this not unfamiliar scene. “How easy,” said the girl, thoughtfully, “it would be to kill him.”
“He says the same, which is why he won’t have guards. Mrs. Lincoln is terrified for him. But he is indifferent, or so he says.”
“He’s also safe.” Miss Duvall turned back into the parlor. “At least from the Confederate government. They would never do such a thing. After all, what would be the point? Mr. Seward’s the real power …”
“So shoot Mr. Seward!” The Chevalier was buoyant.
“It is certainly tempting.” Miss Duvall was equally buoyant. “Unfortunately, assassination is abhorrent to President Davis, and all that he … that we stand for. For now the tyrants are safe. Tell me, was it you who gave the President’s message to the Herald?”
Wikoff took, smoothly, this sudden assault. “As assassination is abhorrent to Presid
ent Davis, so theft is abominable to me, dear lady.”
“Then how could you ever have been suspected, Chevalier?” Miss Duvall held out her hand, which the Chevalier actually kissed, instead of his own thumb.
“At every court, Miss Duvall, there are favorites, and I am thought to be one at this court. Also, at every court, there are gossips. I hope that I am not a gossip—except when I praise the brilliance of our Republican Queen. Finally, at every court there are those who envy the favorite, and so … Dear Lady, you know the world.”
“Better, I believe, for having known you, Chevalier.” Miss Duvall swept him a great mock curtsey. “Come back in a week,” she said in a low voice. “I shall have an answer for you from Richmond.”
Happily, neither Seward nor Lincoln had the slightest inkling of what was being plotted in nearby Seventeenth Street. The President was stretched out on a settee with his legs dangling over the arm—so long were the legs that the feet rested on the floor—while Seward sat, demurely, at the massive desk which he had used in the days—happy days, he now thought—when he had been governor of New York. John Hay and Frederick Seward had been sent off to the adjacent parlor, as Seward had jovially put it, “To play.”
“Governor, tell me, what shall I write to the Queen of England?”
Seward was prepared. He had written a draft of a letter of condolence to Queen Victoria, whose husband, Prince Albert, had died, while making more palatable to the Americans the British government’s response to the Trent Affair. Seward read the letter in his special high-Episcopal voice. He was pleased that Lincoln seemed pleased. “Send it tomorrow, Governor, and I’ll copy it out.”
“Prince Albert was the best of the lot over there, and not even a politician. I suppose you’ve seen the press today on our statesmanlike resolution of the Trent Affair?” Seward could never believe that Lincoln was as indifferent to newspapers—other than Messrs. Greeley and Bennett—as he claimed.