by Ralph Peters
“Mr. Lincoln is a good man, it seems to me.”
He sat up straight. Mustering all his Teutonic intensity.
“Mr. Lincoln is a great man. A very great man,” he said. “They will see.”
“Look you . . . I’m afraid my purpose has been frustrated in New York, Mr. Nicolay. I have done naught of value.”
He half rose from his chair. “No, Jones, no. Your reports have been read, sir. You are a valued man.”
“But I have found nothing.”
“To the relief of all. Yet . . . your last telegraph message . . . implies doubts. You yourself continue to believe in insurrection, I think? Perhaps among the Irish? As Seward fears?”
I shook my head. “No, sir, I do not. Although Abel Jones has been wrong more than once in his life. I do not think the Irish are plotting rebellion. Nor will others rise against our government. Yet, there is something afoot. But there is strange. I cannot say what that something may be.”
“You will continue to examine the matter?”
My shoulders shrugged before my voice could speak. “That’s up to you, sir. And to the President and Mr. Seward. But I fear the expense to the government of my activities. When I come to you without result.”
He did smile this time. Twas a rare expression on that man’s face.
“Oh, we will bear the expense, I think.” He chuckled. “General McClellan insists it takes a hundred thousand men to empty a slop pail. So I think one man is not too many for the peace of all New York.”
“I wish I had more to tell,” I said honestly. “But twas all in the cables and scribblings. I would not disappoint Mr. Lincoln, see.”
Nicolay glummed at the mention of the President’s name. Out in the hall, a round of laughter ended in coughs and phlegm.
“The President wanted to see you himself,” he said. Downcast and sorrowing now, as if he had recalled a heavy burden. “But he’s overcome. I can’t even get him to sleep.”
“The news from Fort Henry cheered him, I hope?”
His mouth twisted. “Oh. Yes. Fort Henry. The generals are already arguing about who should have the credit. The only thing they agree on is that none of the praise should go to any of the men in the field. To listen, you would think the war is fought in the headquarters alone.” He sighed. “Well, that fellow Grant is marching on Fort Donelson. While the others talk. Perhaps we will not squander this chance entirely.”
Now, you will think it disrespectful, but I will tell you: I never met a man I sooner would have employed as a clerk than John Nicolay, and that is high praise from one who has kept accounts. He had the soul of one who keeps good books.
The little German met my eyes again. “And . . . there’s something else. The President’s sons are ill. Perhaps you’ve heard the rumors? Well, they’re true. Willie and Tad both. The doctors say it is a bilious fever. But I fear the typhoid. It is very bad, I think. And Mrs. Lincoln is not . . . always sensible. The President spends hours by their bedsides. It is hard to make him leave them. Even for the greatest matters. That is why he does not meet you.”
“That is only sensible, sir. For his sons must come first.”
Now you will say: “This Abel Jones does not understand the importance of great matters of state. Lincoln should have sacrificed his personal concerns, for he was President.” But I will tell you: Even a war must wait for a sick son. It is a lesson I learned hard in India. And I had not even the excuse of battle.
“Seward wants to talk to you, though,” Mr. Nicolay continued. “He said to send you over to his office this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Major Jones? Before you go?”
“Sir?”
“I had a message . . . from the clerk who manages the secret service fund. He . . . complains of irregularities. In your claims and account.”
I do not think I ever leapt to my feet so fast.
“Irregularities? About money is it?”
“Now, now. It is a minor matter, I have no doubt.”
“Irregularities?”
“Well, yes. He insists your claims are too low. You are not spending half of what the other agents do. He wondered if your receipts might not be incomplete . . . if you might not wish to revise them?”
“Revise them?”
“Well, he thinks you should be spending more.”
“He . . . wants me to spend more? Of the government’s money, then? He wishes me to make false claims? Waste and steal is it? I’d sooner—”
“I’m not sure I would say it in such a way, I think. But he fears it looks improper when your field expenses are so low and the other accounts are so much higher. A Congressional auditor looking into the secret service fund might wonder why those other claims are—”
“Well, let him wonder, see,” I interrupted. For I was in a dudgeon. “I will not have waste and wanton expenditures! Oh, there is wicked, when men in service load themselves with luxuries, Mr. Nicolay. Our government is not a milk cow. So let this auditor wonder, and Abel Jones will tell him what is proper, if he comes asking.”
Nicolay gave me his second smile of the day. This one showed teeth below his mustache.
“I see you are right, Major Jones,” he said. “You have no head for political matters.” He sighed. “Neither do I, I am afraid.”
He moved to usher me out, for he had work in plenty. But I had to ask him, “Mr. Nicolay . . . think you that there are no good politicals, then? Besides Mr. Lincoln?”
He began to reply, then caught himself, as men must in Washington. And yet, he had spoken truly when he said that he, too, lacked a head for politics. After a pause, he answered me squarely, which is not the Washington manner.
“There’s Seward,” he said. “All thought he and the President would be enemies, since Seward was to have the nomination. They knew Seward’s pride and expected jealousy. They would have enjoyed that, I think. But Seward is a bigger man than they believed. I think he has become the President’s only friend in Washington, the only one to be trusted.”
“But you, sir, are Mr. Lincoln’s friend, and can be trusted.”
A wistful look crossed his face as he laid his hand on the doorlatch. “I do not signify. I am a small man, meant for doing the little work. When God allows, I think I do it well. But Seward rises to greatness. He has kept us out of war with Britain. So far.”
As if speaking to himself, Nicolay added, “I think of him as Saul become Paul.”
“SONOFABITCH,” MR. SEWARD BARKED.
Twas a hard greeting.
“Son-of-a-goddamned-bitch,” he expanded. Chewing his cigar as if to eat it.
I knew my results had been poor, but I had been dutiful. I will admit disappointment at my reception by our Secretary of State.
“Son-of-a-goddamned-worthless-bitch,” Mr. Seward continued, as if declining Latin. The paper in his hand quivered. In a room thick with smoke. All Cuba’s tobacco might have burned there in a day.
“Sir,” I said, “I have done my best, and if—”
“What the hell? Oh, Jones. Not you. Goddamn it. Fred!”
A moment later, a handsome fellow of perhaps thirty popped his head through the door.
“Yes, father?”
“Goddamned Canadians let two blockade runners into Halifax harbor again.”
“Father, in the interests of accuracy,” he said, with a glance at me, “I must remind you that Halifax is not part of the Canadas for diplomatic purposes, although it’s administered by—”
Seward yanked the cigar from his mouth. It looked tormented. “Just get that bugger Lyons down here.”
Fred Seward blushed royally. Or should we Americans say “blushed democratically”? Anyway, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. His poise had deserted him.
“Lord Lyons is already here, Father. He’s just outside.”
Seward rammed the cigar back into his mouth then pulled it out again. “Well, let him wait, goddamn it. Can’t have him thinking he has the run of th
e place. And get that goddamned picture of the Prince of Wales back out and put it on the mantel.”
“Yes, Father. Would you like to review the latest correspondence from Ambassador Adams before you speak to the British ambassador?”
Seward grunted. I believe it passed for a yes. He was a small, bowlegged, bignosed, scrawny giant of a man. The sort who, despite his size, makes you think he could heave the world and have a hand to spare. A born scrapper, that one. Like the little pea-pod of a recruit who proves a demon in battle when the brawny waver. I do not excuse his lamentable excesses of language, of course, and would not report them were it not our duty to record the utterances of great men.
“Know Charlie Adams, Jones?”
I reviewed my acquaintances. “There was a Charles Adams in my regiment, sir. Died of too much gin in the Punjab.”
“Not the same one. Hell. If Charles Francis Adams dies of any excess, it’ll be an overdose of propriety. Damned fine ambassador to send to London, though. One of our own goddamned ‘aristocrats.’ Best kind to deal with old buggers like Palmerston. And that Russell. Buggers every one. Way they bring ’em up.” He caught himself. “Not English, are you?”
“I am American, sir. Although born and bred in Wales.”
“Don’t have their proclivities, then. Good for you. Now tell me about this Fenian rebellion of ours. Cigar?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir. There is no rebellion, sir.”
“Sure of that?”
“I see no indication of such doings.”
“You goddamned sure, though?”
“There is only so much certainty to be had in such matters, sir. But I see no insurrection against our Union.”
He stood there before me, hardly taller than I was myself, with his neckcloth awry and ashes on his lapels. But his eyes, ladies and gentlemen! Fine writers tell of “piercing eyes.” Well, Seward’s went through you like roundshot. Looking back, I think he was too intelligent—certainly too well read, for he loved books—for the rough world of local politics through which he had risen. He had learned early to disguise his brains and learning, and now the rough disguise had become as comfortable as an old waistcoat.
“Well,” he said, “my sources back home in Auburn still insist there’s an Irish uprising in the works up there. Of course, the same thickheaded sonsabitches told me I’d be President.” He gobbled smoke from his cigar. Augmenting the fog in his office, he continued, “All right, then, Jones. Tell me what is going on.”
“I do not know, sir.”
“But your dispatches, man. According to them, you think something’s going on. Even if it’s not an insurrection. Well, what is it, man?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I will try to find out.”
He began to pace. “Hell and damnation. Anybody giving you trouble up there? Getting in your way?”
“No, sir.”
“They do, you let me know, goddamn it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what do you think, though? Man to man. One banty bird to another.”
“Sir . . . I believe there is trouble coming . . . and it may well be Irish trouble. But I do not see insurrection. They are too few for a rising.” The smoke was thick enough to hide in. “They know their weakness, see. And to what end would they do such a thing? There is no sense in it. The best of them are gone to the army, anyway.”
He snorted. “First thing you learn in politics, Jones, is not to expect sense out of people. Just assume every last fellow’s born crazy, but doesn’t want anybody else to know. That’s how this society works. Hell, all societies. Nothing but lunatics on their best behavior. Call it ‘civilization.’ Each last man and woman convinced they’re the only one who’s crazy and afraid to let it show. But give ’em an excuse and they’ll be dancing naked as jaybirds in front of the county courthouse. And singing to beat the band.”
That did not accord with my vision of mankind.
“Damn it, Jones. Keep on the matter. Would you? Something’s wrong up there. We both agree on that. And this nation can’t afford any more trouble now, internal or external. This Mason and Slidell business isn’t quite as solidly behind us as the newspapers think. Damned British aristocrats want this country to fail. It’s an example they don’t like. An embarrassment. Afraid their own goddamned working classes are going to rise up and kick ’em in the pants. And their moneybags want Southern cotton for their mills. London bankers hate the damn blockade. Crown sent eight thousand more troops to Canada. Which doesn’t strike yours truly, Billy Seward, as a friendly action. Goddamned ‘Royal Artillery’ and the like.” He looked me up and down. “You served in Her Majesty’s forces as I recall?”
“In John Company’s ranks, sir. An East India regiment. But the Mutiny changed—”
“They any good? Can the Brits fight?”
“The men can fight, sir. And will fight. For the sheer delight of it. For they are not all good Christians. And the officers, begging your pardon, are too stupid to know when they have been beaten. It is a devil’s combination, see, and they win even when they should lose.”
He grunted. “Damnation. President’s right, you know. He sees it. Don’t underestimate that man. Did it myself. And how, I underestimated him. But he damned well knows his business. Fool the hell out of you, Lincoln. ‘One war at a time,’ he says. And he’s right. Can’t afford a war with Britain now.” He dropped the ragged bits of his cigar into a brass bowl.
Twas good to hear him speak so. For I am loyal to our America, and no question there. But I do not long to fight another Welshman, nor any who had served beside me once. No, Abel Jones did not want a war with Britain and her armies and fleets.
“Anyway, Jones. Get to the bottom of things up there. Do whatever you have to. Money help?”
“I am adequately supplied, sir.”
He grunted. “Well, don’t be stingy with bribes. Especially with the Irish. And hire all the turncoats you want. Take some of these new green dollars. Federal-backed paper money. That’ll make ’em think. You just box ’em in. Don’t want any trouble up in New York, with Canada full of redcoats and bayonets just across the river and ‘Merry Old England’ spoiling for a fight. Can’t have any appearance that New York’s disloyal to the Union, either. John Bull needs to understand that we mean to hold together. Insurrection or whatever, you keep your thumb on it.”
He briefly sorted through the chaos of his desk. Or perhaps it was only a private order others could not decipher, for he found what he was seeking soon enough.
He held out a sealed envelope.
“Here, Jones. Special orders. In an emergency, you’re authorized to call up the militia on Federal authority. And to assume command of any U.S. troops or volunteers in the area. Rank immaterial.” Those stabbing eyes cut through me yet again. “Don’t hesitate. Least sign of trouble, crush the bastards. We need peace up there, and I’ll pay in blood to get it.”
“Sir . . . I . . .”
“Be hard, Jones. Don’t look into their faces. Don’t think of them as men. Just stop them. As if they were mad dogs. Make an example at the least sign of trouble. The Union’s more important than any thousand of us.”
I was just thinking that, were he not our Secretary of State, he would have made a splendid sergeant, when he turned back to the great business of his office.
“Goddamn it to hell. Now I’ve got to see that pompous bugger Lyons. ‘Her majesty wishes to inform . . .’ More excuses than an old whore caught filching. Succoring damned blockade runners and privateers . . .”
The door to the office opened. I feared it was Lord Lyons barging in, for Britannia is proud and impatient.
Twas Mr. Lincoln.
Stooping under the lintel, he was. All the great tallness of him.
Tears covered his face.
Now I am small and undistinguished, and I do not think Mr. Lincoln saw me at all that day. His ravaged eyes looked only at my host.
“Seward,” he said, “my boy’s gone.”
IN THOSE DAYS, our Department of State was allotted a building hardly the size of a middling gentleman’s country house. We were a nation that looked inward and not out, Westward and not East, though that would change. I left those cluttered offices and copy clerks for the lamplit world outside.
Rain spotted my coat.
I expressed no condolences to Mr. Lincoln, for we must know when we are not to speak. But it was not for lack of sympathy. Mr. Lincoln, see, looked a sad one on the sunniest of days, and think of the weight on him. Then this. I would say he was a very Job, but Job was no president faced with civil war. No, old Job faced the lesser trial. I slipped away, quiet like.
Twas clear that I must go back to New York in the morning, which left me with a list of things to do. I had meant to visit my friend Evans the Telegraph, and he would be wounded by my neglect, but time for such indulgence there was none. I would see Fine Jim, though, for but a moment. There was smallpox in the city, as well as the typhoid, and I feared to find him missing from his corner.
There he stood. An apprentice rooster, ragged and shivering by his pile of papers. When he saw me, Fine Jim fair lit like a rocket, running to meet me halfway across the street.
“Captain Jones!” he cried, smile wonderful. Then he corrected himself, “Major Jones! Why, yer going fit as a racehorse! Ya all back then? Ya back to stay, sir? Ain’t that leg looking good as new? Ain’t it good as new?”
“Better,” I told him.
“And yer back to stay?”
I shook my head and crushed the joy of his evening. And little enough joy the newsboy had. I recalled the misfortune he had suffered because of the overcoat I tried to provide him. He paid a high price for nothing, as the poor so often do. But let that bide.
“I only come by for my paper, see. A little visit it is. But I would know that you are well.”
His smile returned. Oh, he was resilient. As children of privilege never will be.
“I’m tops, Major Jones. Just tops. Want yer paper, do ya?”
I looked at him. At the small, dirt-streaked face that found such joy in the moment. Twas a face born to sweat for great men who would never know his name, and to fight their wars and die for their speeches and pride. He stood shivering and wet through beside his stack of gazettes. A wrap of oiled canvas protected the merchandise, but not him. Perhaps Mick Tyrone and Mrs. Schutzengel are right about the injustice of the world and the need for changes in society, although I do not approve of uproar and attacks upon authority.