by Gore Vidal
“That is the case. That is my case.”
Seward inhaled the cigar smoke deeply, comfortably. “Never end a speech with a question.”
Lincoln smiled. “For fear you’ll get the wrong answer?”
Seward nodded. “People are perverse. I would cut all that I have just read. It is too menacing. I’ve written a paragraph to take its place. It’s inside the case.”
Lincoln opened the case, withdrew the speech which he had had, in greatest secrecy, set up in type by a printer so that there would be exact copies for the wire-services as opposed to the usual garbled reporters’ or recorders’ shorthand notes; or confusion over his own not-always-clear calligraphy. Lincoln read to himself Seward’s flowery coda. He nodded. “I can use some of this. If you don’t mind my turning it into my own words.”
“It’s yours, sir. You’ll cut the other?”
“I can’t cut the part about the oath that I have sworn to uphold the Constitution. That is what gives me—and the Union—our legitimacy in the eyes of heaven.”
“I did not think of you as a religious man, Mr. Lincoln.”
“I am not, in any usual sense. But I believe in fate—and necessity. I believe in this Union. That is my fate, I suppose. And my necessity.”
“You are a man of sentiment,” said Seward. “I had not known that.” Seward rose. “Since there has always been a rumor that you were not a proper Christian and churchgoer—”
“Founded, I’m afraid, on my im propriety and chronic absence from church.”
“I, as an important layman of the Episcopal church, am going to take you over to St. John’s, where the minister and congregation will be able to see that you are at peace with Our Lord Jesus Christ, and they will then spread the good news.”
Lincoln laughed; and got to his feet. Then he noticed the pile of newspapers beside his chair. He frowned. “Did you see the New York Times?”
On principle, Seward said that he had not, while doing his best to anticipate Lincoln’s response. “Sir,” Seward began, “there was no doubt about the plot in Baltimore …”
“If there had been a plot, why was no attempt made on the cars that I was supposed to be in?”
“Because everyone in Baltimore knew by then that you had already gone through the city.”
“No, I’ve made an error that I’ll never live down. According to the Times I arrived in the city wearing a Scotsman’s plaid hat and a cloak. What sort of idle malice invents such a thing?”
“It is the nature of newspapers. I suppose the writer wanted to make the cartoonist’s job easier.”
“He has. I’ll be shown with that hat and cloak from one end of the country to the other. Such lies go out all the time,” said Lincoln darkly, “on the telegraph.”
“It is a hazard of our estate, sir. Will Mrs. Lincoln join us?”
“No, she’s going off with her cousins to see the sights, which is ironic, since she is the churchgoer of the family.”
“Then she need not go to St. John’s, as her soul is saved.”
So, together, Seward and Lincoln, guarded by the watchful Lamon, made their way across Lafayette Square, where David Herold stood in the crowd that had gathered—the minister had already spread the word that the President-elect would attend the morning service. David watched the tall man as he walked slowly by, lifting his hat to the people who greeted him. David thought that the old man looked surprisingly pleasant and friendly. In a way, it was a shame that he was going to be shot just before he took his oath of office, by two of the wild boys who, even now, were at target practice across the river in Alexandria, Virginia.
SEVEN
AT THE CORNER of Sixth and E streets, senator-elect and would-be president Salmon P. Chase had rented an elegant three-story brick mansion for fifteen hundred dollars a year. In addition to this high, even for Washington, rent, he was obliged to pay for servants, Kate’s wardrobe, his younger daughter Nettie’s school … Chase still owed money to Miss Haines’s expensive school in New York City, where Kate had been so superbly finished five years earlier.
Like Marius in the ruins of Carthage, Chase thought, without any precise historical analogy in mind, as he stood in front of the marble fireplace and looked up at the spot where the painting of Kate’s mother would hang, once the boxes, trunks and crates had been opened and unpacked. Everything that he had owned in Ohio had been shipped to Washington. One way or another, he thought, he would be here to the end.
The newly hired mulatto manservant appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Cooke and Mr. Cooke to see you, Senator.”
“Send them in.” Chase pushed two chairs apart. Pulled at the huge horsehair sofa that had looked small in the governor’s house in Columbus but tended to overpower “Sixth and E,” as he now thought of his new house. Kate was not yet down; she had arrived late Sunday night. She deserved her rest, he thought. She worked hard; and for him.
The Cooke brothers entered the room. Henry D. Cooke had been editor of the Ohio State Journal, a paper Chase had been much involved with. Henry’s brother Jay was known to Chase only by reputation; and the reputation was nothing more than that he was a wealthy man, who lived in Philadelphia. Jay Cooke was also said to be a sturdy pillar of the Episcopal church, which made him attractive to Chase, who had been educated in the Ohio school of his uncle, one Philander Chase, an Episcopal bishop of noted piety.
“As you see, we are still in the throes of settling in.” Chase wondered why, on a first meeting with someone as eminent as Jay Cooke, he had, so stupidly, used a sentence filled with “s” ’s. Chase’s lisp—his martyrdom—was only noticeable when he said a word with an “s” in it. Over the years, he had learned to select in advance the words that he planned to use and so was able to avoid the dreaded lisp. He now compensated for his error by suddenly and fiercely narrowing his eyes at the brothers Cooke, as though he were still governor of Ohio and they were supplicants.
Henry seemed not to notice either the lisp, to which he was used, or the eyes, to which he was also used; but then everyone knew that Chase was myopic in the extreme; he could never find a pair of glasses to suit him. Hence, the glare, as he tried to decipher through an aqueous haze faces that came in and out of focus in a most disturbing way. But Chase was now able—and pleased—to note Jay Cooke’s respectful look. “Take a chair,” said Chase, careful not to add the dangerous word “please.”
Henry was in town for the Inauguration. Jay was just passing through, and wanted to pay his respects to the senator-elect. They wanted to know about Lincoln. What sort of man was he? Chase was cautious. “I saw him last night. A delegation from the Peace Conference called on him. I would not say he was the strong—” But Chase quickly canceled, as it were, the word “strong,” having just managed to get away with the “s” in “say,” and substituted for “the strong,” “—the formidable leader that we need. But then who is?”
“Well, there’s you for one, Governor,” said Henry D., idly picking dried mud off his shoe. Chase was glad that Kate was not in the room. She was never afraid to express herself precisely in few but well-chosen words. Miss Haines had indeed finished her to a T. With others, Kate was now very like what Chase thought an English duchess might be like. But with him, she was the perfect daughter, councillor and, yes, mate in a way that the three wives had never been. Always have daughters, never have wives; he had once shocked a Columbus drawing room with this heresy. But he had meant it.
Jay Cooke offered Chase a cigar of such quality that he could not refuse it. “There is talk in the financial community that you, sir, are to be Secretary of the Treasury.”
“I have heard the same talk,” said Chase; and no more.
“I can think of no one better suited than yourself.” Jay Cooke lit a cigar. “And I am very close to Mr. Cameron—we’re neighbors, in fact. But when he said how disappointed he was that he was getting the War Department and not the Treasury, I said, count your blessings, Simon; you’re a natural organizer but the man with the pro
ven talent for finance is Mr. Chase. He agreed.”
“Did he?” Chase did not believe any of this story. But he realized that Jay Cooke wanted him to know of his friendship with Cameron, a disreputable figure, perhaps, but a great power in Pennsylvania. Chase nodded, wisely. From the dining room, there was the sound of a plate smashing to the floor. Chase winced, not only at the loss of a plate but at the reminder that he must buy an entire new dinner service. That would cost at least four hundred dollars, which he could delay paying, of course: newly arrived senators were treated with lenience by the Washington stores, but when four hundred dollars was added to the cost of a new carriage … Suddenly, he was aware that he had been asked a question, which he had not heard. “I’m sorry.” He narrowed his eyes, to show that although he was politely attentive, as always, to his guests, matters of state could never be entirely excluded from his mind.
“I asked”—the bland Henry D. had now arranged a small neat pile of dried mud beside the chair leg—“if Mr. Lincoln had said anything about the Treasury to you yesterday.”
“Oh, he brings up the subject. But that’s all.” Chase hummed an old hymn to himself; he was aware of the habit, though not always aware when he was humming. According to Kate, he was never, even accidentally, in the right key.
“There is no one else, is there?” For a moment Jay Cooke looked as if he might have paid a call on the wrong person.
“There are the Blairs,” said Chase, without fondness. Francis Preston Blair was a rich and famous old man who had been close to Andrew Jackson; he lived in state at Silver Spring, Maryland; he also had two grown sons as ambitious as he. The young Blairs were set on capturing the second western president just as their father had captured, more or less, Jackson, the first western president. Although the Old Gentleman, as Blair was known, did not have the power that he once had when he edited the Congressional Globe, he was, nevertheless, a founder of the Republican Party and together with his son Frank, a congressman from Missouri, and his son Montgomery, a powerful lawyer in Maryland, they had got the border-states to swing their votes to Lincoln on the third ballot at the Republican convention in Chicago. Consequently, candidate Chase had no love for the family that had nominated Lincoln over him. Chase also took the high moral line that no man from a slave-holding state (which included Maryland and Missouri) should serve in a Republican cabinet. But Lincoln wanted balance; wanted, also, to please the Old Gentleman, one of the few friends that he had in Washington; or anywhere, for that matter. Although Chase tended to think of Lincoln as the gregarious story-telling westerner, surrounded by hard-drinking tobacco-chewing cronies, he had already observed, with some surprise, that Lincoln had no cronies at all. The Lamons and the Washburnes, who knew him best, treated him not only with deference but with awe. Chase had noted this at Springfield. Of course Lincoln told his funny stories ad nauseam, but they were calculated, Chase had decided, to hold people’s attention whilst keeping them at a distance. Salmon P. Chase, himself so often accused of coldness, found the President-elect, for all his folksy charm, as cold and dense as the Ohio River in February.
“I’m told it’s Montgomery Blair who’ll be appointed,” said Jay Cooke. “But not to the Treasury.”
“Attorney-General?” asked Henry.
“Maybe.” Jay Cooke was looking at Chase so speculatively that the statesman was almost on the verge of saying what he had already begun to say to his allies: “I prefer my place in the Senate to any Cabinet office,” when Kate’s entrance put an end to what, considering Jay Cooke’s wealth, might have been a tactical error.
“Gentlemen!” The three men rose, in admiration as well as in duty. Kate’s hair was dark gold—the color of comb-honey, Chase had once said, in a poetical mood, to which she had replied, “Now I feel sticky!” The eyes were glittering hazel with long fair lashes; the nose upturned; the figure perfect. In one hand she carried a chess set. Kate shook hands with each Cooke; kissed her father. “I found the chess set in my trunk. I thought it was lost. Now we can play.”
“You play chess, Miss Chase?” Jay Cooke was highly impressed—or chose to give that impression.
“Why, yes. I’ve tried to learn to crochet. But that’s really man’s work, so I gave it up. I’m happier with chess. And gambling, too.”
“A young lady after my own heart.” Yes, thought Chase, both jealously and delightedly, Jay Cooke was impressed with Kate. Chase dearly wanted her to make a great marriage; and then never leave him. How this was to be done was a challenge to even his ingenious mind.
Kate motioned at the furniture, set haphazardly about the room. “I’ve only just arrived. There’s been no time to unpack. We’re camping out.”
“Well, I hope that when you come through Philadelphia next, you’ll visit us—my wife and I,” added Jay Cooke. “We have a pleasant house outside the town. It’s called The Cedars …”
“House!” said Henry. “My brother lives like the Czar!”
“No, there’s only one Czar in Pennsylvania and that’s Simon Cameron. I’m just a two-bit baron.”
“I will be visiting New York in the next few weeks and I’d very much enjoy seeing Mrs. Cooke and the … baronial Cedars. I’ve a week of shopping to do for this house, where nothing from Ohio seems to fit. Look at that sofa!” They looked; and collectively mourned its enormity. “I’ll also have to get a proper carriage …”
“Enclosed, yes,” said Chase, adding the cost of the carriage onto everything else. Desperately, he began to breathe rather than hum “Bringing in the Sheaves.”
“Poor Father!” Kate kissed him on top of his bald head. “We’ll pay, somehow. I’ll try to find a rich man to marry while I’m in New York …”
“Or Philadelphia. We have a very nice selection,” said Jay Cooke, slightly red in the face. “Mrs. Cooke will send you lists with pedigrees.”
“Then all our problems will be solved.”
“I’d rather live in a hut,” said Chase, entirely leaving the last of the sheaves.
The brothers Cooke rose to go. Hopes were high all round. The appointment to the Treasury seemed inevitable. “When you are at the Treasury, sir, call on me at any time,” said Jay Cooke. “The government will need money from the financial community; and men to help out. I’ll gladly—”
“Give us lists?” asked Kate. “Pedigrees?”
“What else, Miss Chase?”
Chase led the brothers to the front door while Kate remained in the drawing room, rearranging furniture.
“I’ll let you out myself,” said Chase, in a low voice. Since Kate’s finishing school, he had been forbidden ever to show anyone to the door—a servant’s function, she had warned him. Chase opened the door: a cold wind filled the vestibule.
Jay Cooke shook Chase’s hand with every sign of warmth. “You know, if you’re in the market for a carriage, I’ve got one that you might like.”
“Ah, I’m afraid that what you would have and what I could afford would never coincide.”
“Take it, sir. As a gift.”
“Oh, no. No. Thank you, no.” Chase was too experienced a politician not to recognize what was being offered. Without probity, he was nothing. With probity, he was poor, true; but he was also a president-to-be. The brothers departed. Chase returned to the drawing room. Kate was propping a portrait of her mother against a console.
“What a pity that she is not here, to see you grown and to see me …”
But Kate would not let him indulge in any regret, no matter how stylized. “She would only have come between us, Father. You know that.”
Chase was not prepared for Kate’s sharpness, much less candor. “Oh, Kate! She was not like that at all.”
“She was a woman,” said Kate flatly. “And I do not like or trust the sex.”
“There are exceptions, always.” Chase kissed Kate’s hand; was rewarded with a smile.
“I suppose I’m not fair,” she said, making up for her assault. “I don’t really remember her. I do remember how sh
e’d sit with knitting needles in her hand; but would never knit.”
“Her health was bad.” How often, thought Chase, had he been obliged to say that phrase. For twenty years he had lived with ill health and death. He had attended the funerals of three of his wives and four of his children. Now all he wanted was Kate; and all that she wanted was to be with her father as they made their way to the great tree’s top. “The Cookes think that I’ll be appointed. But I don’t.”
“Oh, he has to appoint you!” Kate put down her mother’s portrait with a bang. “Everyone else—all the other rivals—are in. Why not you?”
“The Senate is not the worst of places—”
“But the Treasury is the center. You will have hundreds of appointments to make, more than any other Cabinet minister. There are Treasury men in every city, town and village and every last one of them will be for Chase for President in 1864.”
“You do look ahead!” Chase was startled that Kate knew so much about the powers of patronage that went with the Treasury. Of course, he himself could think of nothing else. It would be his privilege to build a national organization for himself while administering with perfect honesty the country’s finances.
“I’ve also looked ahead to my job, when you’re at the Treasury …”
“If …”
“When! Since Mrs. Seward’s an invalid, the wife or hostess of the next in line after the Secretary of State, which is you, will be First Lady of the Cabinet, and that’s me!”
“Suppose Mr. Seward unearths an aged sister, and brings her to town?”
“Mr. Seward is like a contented bachelor, living in that old Club House of his. He wants cigars, brandy and cronies.”
“You’ve been in the town one day, and you know more than I.”