“I must,” said Stanton, controlling heroically his asthma, “congratulate you on the Trent Affair. I thought your … summing-up was masterful.”
“I know so little international law.” Seward played at modesty. “And I know almost nothing about arbitration.”
“But you know everything, sir, about politics.”
“Well, I certainly know something.” One of the things that Seward knew which Stanton did not know that he knew was Stanton’s anger at the Administration for having given way to England. Seward smiled, almost warmly, at the odd but brilliant Ohio lawyer who would soon be joining a Cabinet that, such was his oddness and honesty and irritability—there was no other word—he could never stop attacking in private. “Stanton is two-faced,” a disapproving senator had said to Seward, who was rather pleased with his own classical response: “So was Janus, the god of war.” But Seward was not above torturing, ever so slightly, his highly anxious soon-to-be colleague. “I saw your old friend Joseph Holt at the White House yesterday.”
The look of pain in Stanton’s face gave Seward exquisite pleasure; thus, he began to balance out their accounts with each other. The Kentuckian Holt had served with Stanton in Buchanan’s Cabinet. Like Stanton, Holt was a pro-Union Democrat; he was also an anti-abolitionist, unlike Stanton, whose second face forever smiled upon the radicals. “The President is more inclined to you than to Holt, of course. But there are great pressures upon him. Great pressures.” Seward frowned.
Stanton scowled. “Mr. Holt is very able, of course. And does not hate the black man as much as people say.”
Feeble, thought Seward; but prompt. “Mr. Chase, of course, is your sponsor in all of this. You are both from Ohio.”
“But I am removed to Pennsylvania.”
“Like Mr. Cameron, yes. You are also Mr. Cameron’s choice, if he should leave.”
“I did not know.”
Seward appreciated the honest and open way that Stanton lied; it was the hallmark of the truly great lawyer, and demonstrated a professional mastery not unlike his own. Otherwise, they had little in common. Stanton was mercurial and vain and compulsively duplicitous; nevertheless, he was incorruptible when it came to money—a matter of some importance in the wake of Cameron and his friends who, like so many carrion-birds, had feasted off the Treasury. Stanton was also a passionate worker; again, a perfect contrast to the indolent Cameron.
“Mr. Blair favors Senator Wade,” said Seward, accurately.
“In order to get him to leave the Joint Committee?” Stanton was quick to respond.
“Well, sometimes it is better to have your critics and rivals working for you than against you.”
“I am sure,” said Stanton, upper lip curling, “that Mr. Lincoln has been a beneficiary of this unusual system.”
“Oh, he has! He has! But there are times when he knows that when all is said and done, the most able man must be appointed.” Seward was aware that he was somewhat overdoing what his critics enjoyed referring to as Seward’s Buncombe; but he could not help himself. “How do you get on with General McClellan?”
“We are very close,” said Stanton. “In fact, he came to me just the other day for a legal opinion on the Trent Affair.”
Seward laughed; to disguise his anger. “And here I thought he was busy, twenty-four hours a day, getting the army ready to attack Richmond. Instead, he concerns himself with the laws of nations.”
Stanton flushed. “It was simply in the line of what he takes to be his duty as general-in-chief.”
Seward let the matter drop. “You think him capable?” he asked.
Stanton nodded. “He is certainly preferable to Halleck. General Scott’s … legacy.”
“Yes.” Seward was noncommittal. Then his friend Baron Schleiden approached, and wreathed Seward with compliments for his resolution of the Trent Affair. When Seward had accepted the last of a dozen verbal garlands, he turned to Stanton; and found him gone.
“Is that … or was that,” asked Schleiden, “the next Secretary of War?”
“Now, Baron, if I didn’t know for certain, I would gladly tell you.” Seward linked his arm through Schleiden’s. “Come by my house later, and we shall play a rubber of whist, and I will give you news that will inflame the Baltic sea, and turn to ashes your native Bremen, the Venice of the north.”
“Actually, we are more the Leghorn of the north,” said the amicable Baron, bowing low to Mrs. Lincoln, as they passed.
Mary gave a courteous nod to Baron Schleiden, whom she mistrusted because of his friendship for Seward; and she gave Seward a sweet smile because of the President’s mistaken trust in him. Then, to her horror, she saw the Chevalier Wikoff enter the room. He stood in the doorway a moment; bowed at Mary, who did not respond; then he withdrew, to her relief.
“I told him not to come.” Resplendent in his uniform as brigadier-general, Dan Sickles had seen the whole mute exchange.
“Would, sir, that he had followed your advice.” Mary carefully set a smile on her lips. As they talked to each other in low voices, her eyes were not on Sickles but on the parade of notables who moved past her, bowing and curtseying. “Why does he stay on in Washington?” she asked.
“Mr. Bennett’s orders.”
“Why does he come here?”
“To ingratiate himself, I suppose. He’s asked me to be his defense attorney.”
“Defense!” Mary’s smile vanished. She turned to Sickles. “Is there to be a trial?”
Sickles shook his head. “I wish there was. You’d both be safer.”
“We … both? Sir!” Mary was torn between anger and terror.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lincoln. I only meant that since your name will be brought into all this in any case, we could control events more easily in a court of law.”
“Where, if not a law court, is he … are we, as you put it, sir, to be tried?”
“Before the Judiciary Committee of the House of Representatives.”
“My God!” Mary wrung the stems of the hothouse flowers that she held in both hands.
“Because they are all my old colleagues, the Chevalier wants me to act as his counsel.”
“But, sir, what do they have to go on? Simply rumors in the vampire press …”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lincoln. I thought you knew. Yesterday the committee obtained a copy of the telegram that our friend Wikoff sent to the Herald. There were parts of the President’s message in it, word for word. The telegram was sent four days before the message went to Congress.”
Mary wondered what the effect might be if she were to faint; and to remain unconscious until all of this had passed; or, better yet, to die. Between the Wikoff scandal and the constant turmoil regarding the money that she was spending on the White House, death would be a convenient release. “What,” asked Mary, summoning up every reserve of coolness that she possessed, “will your defense be?”
“I don’t know.” Sickles looked at her, thoughtfully. “What do you think it should be?”
“Whatever,” said Mary, “is the truth, I suppose. Does the Chevalier say who it was that gave him the message?” Mary was pleased with her own show of coolness.
“No,” said Sickles. Then he added, ominously, “Madam.”
“Will he say that it was I?”
“He must not.” Sickles stared directly into her eyes.
“I agree, sir. He must not, ever, say such a thing. Can you … see to that, General?”
“I think so, Madam. We are at war.”
“Yes.” Mary was grim. “And we must not give comfort to the enemy, or show any division in our ranks.”
The President approached them, smiling. “Come on, Mother,” he said. “The Marine Band wants to serenade us. Good to see you, General.”
“Mr. President.” Sickles clicked his heels. He was, Mary decided, loyal; and if anyone could manage a committee of this particular Congress, it would be their popular former colleague.
En route to the door, Lincoln paused to whisper
something into the ear of an unprepossessing man. “Who is that?” asked Mary. But Lincoln was now distracted by the French princes, who bowed to him but not too low, as befitted their royal birth, while Mary simply inclined her head, as befitted her Republican Queenhood. Absently, the President patted a princely shoulder. As they proceeded to the door, Lincoln said, “Oh, that was Mr. Stanton, who defended Dan Sickles when he shot his wife’s gentleman friend. Hard to say which of the two is best at getting away with murder.”
Mary was relieved to hear the cleverness of Dan Sickles endorsed; and somewhat bemused at being reminded by her husband of the famous shooting in Lafayette Square. In effect, the murderer Dan Sickles must now protect the wife of the President from being charged with … What would the charge be for having given, in wartime, a state paper to a journalist?
As President and First Lady stepped out onto the gaslit portico, Mary allowed, for an instant, a long-dreaded word to surface in her mind: Treason.
THREE
SEWARD stared at Dan Sickles, who stared back at him. The small office of the Secretary of State was blue with their combined cigar-smoke. Not for the first (and certainly not for the last) time did Seward think with envy of Chase’s magnificent airy office. Plainly, the difference between the two offices symbolized the importance of the “almighty dollar,” as Washington Irving had called it, over every department of the government, including that of the first magistrate himself. Although the Secretary of State was the first Cabinet officer, the duties were negligible except when a crisis, like the Trent Affair, arose. Fortunately, with the President’s hearty concurrence, Seward had now been allowed to take over the delicate business of censoring the press as well as the even more delicate task of determining, upon the advice of the various military commanders, who ought not to be at large. Currently, by Seward’s order, the mayor of Baltimore and the mayor of Washington were both in prison, where they would remain without trial until such time as he or the President was inspired to let them go. As a lawyer and as an office-holder, sworn to uphold the Constitution and its Bill of Rights, not to mention those inviolable protections of both persons and property so firmly spelled out in Magna Charta and in the whole subsequent accretion of the common law, Seward found that he quite enjoyed tearing up, one by one, those ancient liberties in the Union’s name. Never before had anyone ever exercised such power in the United States as he did now, with Lincoln’s tacit blessing. Although, officially, the secret service was under the military, regular reports were made to Seward, in whose name letters were opened, copies of telegrams seized, arrests made.
“If only he had not sent that telegram to the Herald.” Seward knew, of course, that the “if only’s” of the world were the traditional solace of the condemned man and never of his lawyer. Even so, a major scandal involving Mrs. Lincoln would be a blow at the Administration, whose de facto chief he liked still to think he was; certainly, the world thought that he was the acting chief of the government.
Sickles made the usual lawyer’s response. “Forget the ‘if only,’ Governor. Wikoff sent the telegram. And the committee has a copy.”
“By what authority?” Seward had a sudden vision of United States marshals arriving at the Capitol and arresting the members of the committee. Then he recalled King Charles the First; and thought better of it.
Sickles ignored the question. “They have it. That’s enough. And they are in a foul mood. And they are mostly radicals. And they think Lincoln is too weak. And they think you’re too strong. And they think McClellan is too slow, not to mention too sick …”
“He sat up this morning, and had soup for lunch,” said Seward, idly; then added, “Well, the committee is not altogether wrong in its view of things.”
“So we will let them call Mrs. Lincoln?”
Seward gazed at Sickles, who had always been, in their native state of New York, loyal to the Seward-Weed organization. Now this was Washington; now this was war. “No,” said Seward, “we will not let them call Mrs. Lincoln.”
“How do we stop them?”
“We tell them that as she is not a government official, she does not come under their surveillance. To the extent that they might want information from her, she will gladly submit a written statement, that you and I will concoct.”
Sickles twirled his right moustache until it resembled a corkscrew. Seward thought, longingly, of port. “If that does not satisfy them?” asked Sickles.
Seward spread his hands. “It will have to. That is all.”
“I see,” said Sickles, without a smile. “You will send Congress home.”
“No. No. I pray that we shall never have to come to that. But the President’s inherent powers are such …”
“… as you choose to make them.” Sickles laughed, without much joy.
“The key to this,” said Seward, “is not Madam, but her chevalier. What does Wikoff intend to say?”
“No more than what he told the Speaker of the House, in private: that he is under an obligation of strict secrecy.”
“What does he say to you, Dan? This is between us.”
Sickles shrugged. “He does not say. But it is pretty clear. It was Mrs. Lincoln who gave him a copy of the message.”
“Why?”
Sickles got to his feet and began to pace the small room, whose worn Brussels carpet was as full of holes as the case Sickles had taken on. “Mrs. Lincoln is deeply in debt,” he said at last.
“Do you think that Bennett pays her? Through Wikoff?”
“I don’t know.” Sickles turned toward Seward. “I don’t want to know. But …” Sickles paused to stump out his cigar in a metal tray. “Shall I send for Wikoff? Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, no, Dan. I don’t want to talk to him, ever, in this vale of tears. Anyway, he was arrested an hour ago. He’s in Old Capitol prison.”
“My God! How could you let this happen?”
“How could I not? I’m not about to stop Congress. At this point, anyway. What has Mrs. Lincoln said to you?”
“She’s shocked, and I feel somewhat responsible. After all, Henry Wikoff was—is—my friend. That’s why I’m willing to go through the embarrassment of defending him in the uniform of a general, so help me …”
“God,” concluded Seward piously. He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a folder, marked “Mrs. Lincoln.” He opened it. “I think I have a fairly clear idea of the lady’s expenditures on the White House. Major French gives me copies of all the bills, both paid and outstanding. There is one unpaid bill here, presented by a Mr. Carryl, that is for a sum larger than the entire sum Congress appropriated to renovate the mansion. There is also a rug that cost ten thousand dollars. There is another rug that cost twenty-five hundred dollars. There are something called ‘patent spring mattresses.’ There are wallpapers that cost—”
“But all this is for the White House, which belongs to the nation. None of it is for Mrs. Lincoln personally.” Sickles rehearsed, as it were, a defense.
“There is another file, for her expenditures in New York—for herself.” Seward rummaged in the drawer.
“But not paid for with Federal money.”
Seward smiled. “No. Just not paid for at all. I’m afraid that the poor woman has a compulsion to spend money. It is a madness, like gambling.”
“I wouldn’t know, Governor.” For the first time Sickles smiled; and the two men made a date for a game of poker at the Old Club House with the Barons Schleiden and Stoeckl. “Now I must go see my client at the Old Capitol. How do I get in?”
Seward scribbled a note. “All you need,” he said, airily, “is a word from me.” He gave the slip of paper to Sickles. “You know, Dan, that sooner or later your friend will have to tell the committee the truth.”
“No, Governor. He won’t even have to tell them the truth. But he will have to tell them something.”
Seward nodded, approvingly. “Good boy. I am sure that there are all sorts of people lurking about the Mansion who could ha
ve got their hands on the President’s message, and passed it on.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Sickles. He paused at the door. “How much does Mr. Lincoln know?”
Seward frowned. “Unless Madam has told him, which is unlikely, I shouldn’t think he knows anything other than the fact that Wikoff has been accused, which is all we know.” Seward paused; then added, “Isn’t it, Dan?”
“Yes, Governor. That’s all we know. Well, I must see the Chevalier. And then I must practise my gentle arts on my old colleagues in the House.”
“You do that, Dan. Meanwhile, let’s not forget that there is a spy … a second spy, loose in the Mansion. Who can it be, I wonder? One of the servants?”
“Or one of the groundsmen?”
“Capital,” said Seward, waving good-bye to Sickles, who marched from the room, head high, as if leading an army into battle.
FOR THE third day in a row the President had not joined his family at lunch, and so Mary herself brought him exactly what he had asked for, and no more—bread with honey from the comb. She avoided the crowd in the corridor by slipping through the side doors from the oval sitting room into the Reception Room, which was empty, and then into the President’s office, where she found her husband at his writing table between the windows, feet on a straight chair. Nicolay was at his side, with a stack of books.
“Molly!” The face was tired; the eyes, too. “Come on in. I’m sorry about dinner. But there’s no time to eat.”
“You’ll eat this, Father.” Mary put the plate down. Lincoln sat up more or less straight.
“Leave the books, Mr. Nicolay, and hold off the hungry hordes for the next five”—he looked at Mary—“ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Nicolay left the room. Lincoln absently smeared honey on a fragment of bread. Mary picked up a sheaf of papers. “On Military Genius,” she read. “I think General McClellan should be reading this, not you.”
“Since he’s still abed, I have to look after his shop as well as my own. Fact, I’ve been thinking about borrowing that army of his, and going for an excursion in Virginia.”