Lincoln

by Gore Vidal

  “General Pope, Davie,” said Mr. Henderson. “No need to involve the papists just yet. There being a few good ones, like John Surratt, God rest his valiant soul.” Both David and Mr. Henderson had attended the old man’s funeral the previous month. He had died happy in the knowledge that the Yankees under General Pope had been beaten a second time at Bull Run by Lee and Jackson, who were now invading Maryland on their way to Pennsylvania.

  “Well, we’ve helped save Richmond, you and me, by feeding Mr. Pinkerton till he’s like to burst with all sorts of nonsense. Now if General Lee can set up shop in Philadelphia, the war is over and we have won.”

  David was pleased; and displeased. He had yet to play a gallant role. He had kept his ears open. He had delivered Thompson’s medicine and, in the process, he had managed to steal copies of orders which he liked to believe were crucial to the war but, actually, he had yet to come across anything like a real secret on the order of the one that Bettie Duvall—now vanished—had ridden all one night to give General Beauregard. But, as Mr. Henderson said, you never know what might prove useful to the government at Richmond. So David gave whatever he came across to Mr. Henderson; and he was rewarded with kind words and, occasionally, money. He now lived, once again, with the widow in the Navy Yard. But he was growing mortally sick of ham. He had visited Sal Austin a number of times, ostensibly to chat with her on a Sunday afternoon but, actually, to try to discover who frequented her parlors and her beds. But Sal was discreet. Fortunately, the girls were not; and he learned that John Hay, a regular customer, was currently enamored—if that was the word—of Azadia, a beautiful, half-Indian girl, who confessed that she quite enjoyed the President’s secretary. “Like going to bed with a schoolboy—or you,” she had added, as they lay side by side on the wide bed, watching the summer light stream through half-closed shutters, listening to church bells. Sunday morning was the only time that he could properly enjoy, at a special rate, Sal’s premises.

  When David questioned Azadia—most cunningly, he thought to himself—she had been talkative. Unfortunately, Hay had not been talkative. But Hay had told her of the President’s outrage at McClellan, who had told Mr. Stanton that Pope could get out of his own scrape at Bull Run; and then let Pope’s army be destroyed. Hay had also said that there would soon be a great change in the war. When David had repeated that to Mr. Henderson, the chicken-man actually cackled. “The change is,” he said at last, “we went and won!”

  But Mr. Henderson was not cackling now. “The next few weeks will decide this thing. We have some good people inside the War Department. But we’ve got nobody near Mr. Stanton, who’s sickly as can be I hear …”

  “Asthma, opthalmia, chronic bilious fevers.” David could identify each Washington worthy’s every ailment. Only Old Abe seemed immune to everything save constipation; and a single slight attack of the fever after his son died. On the other hand, the President had started losing weight; and he was growing gray. But that, David had concluded, was more the result of a losing war than of anything vital being eaten at inside him. “I’ll do my best,” said David. “Only the Stantons never use Thompson’s. I don’t know why.”

  “Find out who their doctor is. Get Thompson to work on him. I want you in and out of the Stanton house.”

  “I’ll try.” They parted among the stewing chickens. David then walked to the Surratt house, where he knew he’d find Annie alone.

  Annie was on the parlor floor, polishing furniture. She gave a cry, as he entered. “Knock on the door, Davie!” she said. “You scared me half to death. With the streets full of wild soldiers and even wilder niggers …”

  “Then lock your door. What’s happening in Surrattsville?”

  Annie put down her cloth, and sat in her mother’s rocking chair; she resembled, somewhat, that highly voluptuous woman. “John will take over as postmaster the first of the month. That’ll keep him busy, except when he’s really busy. You know, he rides back and forth all the time to Richmond.”

  “I know.” David was bleak. “I don’t get the chance, ever, but he does.”

  “Well, he is where he is and you are where you are, which is worth a lot to us. Anyway, he was just now South, all the way to Fortress Monroe, where they were waiting for General Burnside, who was coming up from North Carolina, and the question was where was Burnside’s army going to go? If they were to stay in the vicinity, then he and McClellan would attack Richmond. But if they went on up to the Rappahannock, then that meant McClellan would be ordered back to Washington and Richmond would be safe, and Lee would be able to move up north. Well, John overheard two barge captains talking, and they said that they’d been ordered to take Burnside’s men to the Rappahannock. So John rode, fast as he could to Richmond, with the news.”

  “Now he’s back at the post office.”

  “For the time being. Mother’s busy with the farm. I’m fixing up this place so we can take in lodgers and make some money now Father’s gone.”

  During this, David moved so close to Annie that he could smell the lilac water she liked to splash over her clothes, not to mention the lemon oil that she was rubbing into the furniture. When he tried to kiss her, she laughed; struggled; kissed. Then she told him either to leave her alone or help her clean up.

  As David left the house, he wondered at the curious laws that governed men and women. Where Azadia was all his whenever he liked, to do what he wanted with, Annie would never be his without marriage, while the ham-lady—well, he was hers. On the other hand, if he were John Hay, everything would be his, including, if what the newspapers said was true, Kate Chase.

  But at that moment, no one was John Hay’s nor was he anyone’s. He was in Stanton’s office, seated on a straight chair opposite the long sofa on which lay the Tycoon, feet on one sofa arm, head on the other, with a gray felt hat pulled over the eyes as if he no longer wanted to see anything or anyone, ever again. Stanton sat behind his desk, heavy jaw set, red eyes blinking. General Halleck was at the large map of Maryland. It had been Hay’s unkind observation to Nicolay that Old Brains was just that: brains that had grown too old to be of any use to their owner, much less the country. He had taken over as general-in-chief. He had sent Pope and the Army of Virginia to rendezvous with McClellan and the Army of the Potomac so that, together, they would seize Richmond. Instead, Pope had been defeated at Bull Run; and McClellan recalled to Washington. Halleck had been hopeless in the crisis; and Lincoln had not been much better.

  For the first time, Hay had begun to wonder if the Ancient, for all his virtues, had the right temperament for a war leader. Or, put the other way around, the rebels had produced a half-dozen first-rate generals and the Union none, with the possible exception of Grant, who was currently bogged down in the West. Was it possible that the Southern military superiority was due to a more intelligent political system? Certainly, the Northern president either gave his generals too much freedom or too little, while his decision to withdraw McClellan from a position twenty-five miles east of Richmond was not only arbitrary but foolish. With Richmond no longer threatened, Lee was now free to invade the Union; and that was exactly what he was doing.

  Henry W. Halleck turned from the map and stared, lugubriously, at Lincoln. He was a paunchy man, with a gray puffy face in which were set two large, singularly glassy eyes. It was rumored that he was addicted to opium; and smoked pipes of it late into the night. The old brains, however, were contained in an impressively large place, thought Hay, eyes resting on the high domed forehead made even higher as the wiry gray hair receded, doubtless in terror of what lurked beneath that dome, those inexorable brains. “So there the armies rest for the moment. Lee on this side of Antietam Creek and McClellan on the other. Yesterday’s battle has been described by General McClellan as a complete victory. Today he should finish off Lee, and that will be the end of Lee’s invasion. Because an army that has invaded the enemy’s territory and suffers a defeat and is cut off”—the professional note, which had crept into Halleck’s voice, had m
uch the same effect on Hay as a metronome—“invariably is a prelude to an overall surrender, as you may recall when Fabius Cunctator turned back Hannibal.”

  “I recall it as if it were yesterday,” said the President, beneath his cap.

  “I am suspicious of this ‘complete’ victory,” said Stanton. “One never knows with McClellan.”

  “Well, we know that he commands those heights here at Sharpsburg.” Halleck touched the map with a long dirty forefinger. “We know that Lee fell back after yesterday’s fighting. So today will determine whether or not McClellan follows the President’s order and destroys Lee’s army, or whether Lee will withdraw safely to Virginia.”

  The President removed his cap. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “I’m well pleased so far. As you know, I never wanted to use McClellan again, but the only other general who was available refused the command.”

  “Burnside was slow to attack at Sharpsburg,” said Stanton, glancing at the pile of telegrams from the Army of the Potomac.

  “So General McClellan tells us.” Halleck’s dislike of McClellan had an abstract purity. For Halleck, thought Hay, McClellan was an incorrect theorem that ought, simply, to be erased from the blackboard. But Lincoln had been tolerant with the little man; and now he was well pleased with him. “The present danger, as I see it,” said Halleck, “is the nearness of the rebel army to Washington. Stonewall Jackson holds Harper’s Ferry. He is between our army and this city. If Lee were to join with Jackson, they could seize Washington before McClellan got here.”

  Lincoln frowned. “There is no doubt Little Mac has a permanent case of the slows. How many men has he got on the Antietam?”

  “He began with close to ninety thousand. This morning the first estimate of casualties is fifteen thousand men …”

  “My God!” Lincoln shut his eyes. “It is worse than Shiloh.”

  “It is the bloodiest engagement of this war,” said Halleck, “or of any modern war. The rebels have sustained almost as many casualties, or so we have been told.”

  “They have fewer men, fewer resources.” This had been Stanton’s line from the beginning.

  “I had no idea,” said Lincoln, “of the cost.” There was silence, as the President appeared to daydream. Hay often wondered what the Ancient’s daydreams were like. Often, for no apparent reason, he would simply drift off and be no longer present in spirit; then he would return as suddenly as he had departed, all business again. This time, the business was numbers. “I keep trying to reckon the size of the rebel army. By now, McClellan has convinced himself—if not me—that they’ve got a million men, all set to go. He has said that Lee’s army on the Antietam is twice the size of his. I don’t believe it, particularly if General Halleck is right that the bulk of their army is still south of here, which I’m not all that sure of. I still remember those logs at Manassas, painted to look like cannon. I think we have it over them, in numbers, two, maybe three to one.”

  “We get our reports from Mr. Pinkerton’s Secret Service,” said Stanton.

  “Where does he get his numbers from?” asked Lincoln.

  “Spies, observer balloons, deduction.” As Halleck proceeded to analyze Pinkerton’s reports favorably, Hay could see that Halleck had lost, yet again, the President’s attention. But the latest dispatch from the Army of the Potomac caused the Tycoon to sit up. “ ‘Lee’s army retreating into Virginia.’ ” Stanton read the original of the telegram. “ ‘Maryland is saved.’ ”

  “That is well done,” said Lincoln. Halleck and Stanton exchanged a glance, which Hay caught. In their eyes, nothing that the Young Napoleon did could be done well, even when he had gained a victory. Nevertheless, the object of the exercise had been accomplished: Lee’s invasion of the Union was at an end. The Tycoon got to his feet. “Now that we’ve got the victory we’ve been waiting for, I can issue my proclamation of emancipation.”

  FOR SOME weeks, Hay had been arranging for a number of Negro leaders to meet with the President. The idea for the meeting had long been in Lincoln’s mind. He had known few colored people. He wanted to hear their views on a number of subjects. Now he sat at the head of the table in the President’s Office, staring as curiously at the well-dressed colored men as they stared, with equal curiosity, at him. Hay took notes.

  The Tycoon began by confiding to them that he intended to issue his proclamation in the next few days. When he had explained its contents, the leader of the group, E. M. Thomas, said, “This means, sir, that slavery will still continue in the border-states of the Union?”

  “That is right.”

  “So,” said a large man, “you are really freeing the slaves in the Confederacy as a means of punishing their owners for secession.”

  “Well, that is a part of it, yes. Actually, I have not the authority to abolish slavery in the Union. I can only do it in the rebel states as a wartime measure. Once the war is over, I expect slavery to be abolished as the result of an amendment to the Constitution, which I would be happy to initiate if I am in this chair.”

  The large man chuckled. “Well, sir, a half-loaf is still nourishment for a starving man.”

  Lincoln smiled, perfunctorily; and began, from habit, “Or as the Baptist preacher said …” He stopped himself. “Gentlemen, I want your advice, and I want your help. Congress has given me a sum of money toward the colonization of New Granada in Central America. The agricultural land is rich, there are coal mines, and it is empty. If you choose, it can be filled up with your people.”

  Lincoln paused, as if he expected some sort of delighted response; but there was none. Hay noted that the black, the beige and the yellow faces were all equally stony. The Tycoon was, if nothing else, as sensitive as a perfect barometer to the human responses of others. He now sat back in his chair and began to speak, as if thinking aloud; a sign that he had already made his case to himself. “Why, you may ask, should the people of your race be colonized? Why should they leave this country? This is, perhaps, the first question for proper consideration. Well, you and we are different races. We have between us broader differences than exist between almost any other two races. Whether it is right or wrong, I need not discuss.” Lincoln paused. One of the Negro men seemed ready to open a discussion; but then he thought better of it.

  The President continued. “This physical difference is a great disadvantage to us both, as I think. Your race suffers very greatly; many of them by living among us, while ours suffers from your presence. In a word, we suffer on each side.” Hay could see, once again, the Tycoon’s powerful logic begin to gather force; he could also see, from the faces in the room, that something other than Lincolnian logic was going to be needed. “If this is admitted, it affords a reason, at least, why we should be separated. You here are freemen, I suppose.”

  “Yes, sir,” said E. M. Thomas. Hay wondered why, at this point, the President’s logic needed to ask a question whose answer he already knew.

  “Perhaps you have long been free; perhaps all your lives. Nevertheless, your race is suffering, in my judgment, the greatest wrong inflicted on any people. But even when you cease to be slaves you are still a long way from being placed on an equality with the white race.” Lincoln turned his cloudy gaze on the large man, a minister from New York. “The aspiration of men is to enjoy equality with the best when free, but on this broad continent not a single man of your race is made the equal of a single man of ours.”

  Hay wondered what the fiery Negro leader Frederick Douglass would answer to that. So, perhaps, did the Ancient, who closed the argument. “Go where you are treated the best, and the ban is still upon you. I do not propose to discuss this, but to present it as a fact with which we have to deal. I cannot alter it if I wanted.” Hay wondered if Lincoln would want to alter it. Although Lincoln had a true hatred of slavery, as much for the brutal effect it had on the masters as on the enslaved, he was unshaken in his belief that the colored race was inferior to the white. Hay concurred; but Hay’s belief was not unshakable. He had long
suspected that, given the same advantages as a white man, a Negro was probably every bit as capable. The fact that Lincoln had always found it difficult to accept any sort of natural equality between the races stemmed, Hay thought, from his own experience as a man born with no advantage of any kind, who had then gone to the top of the world. Lincoln had no great sympathy for those who felt that external circumstances had held them back.

  Nicolay disagreed with Hay; he felt that this had been Lincoln’s view, but was no longer. The two secretaries often argued about the matter. Lincoln himself never cast the least ray of light on the subject. He wanted the Negroes freed, and he wanted them out of North America. He now proceeded to make his case to the jury, which was plainly hostile. He spoke of the evils done the white race by the institution of slavery: “See our present condition—the country engaged in war—our white men cutting one another’s throats—none knowing how far it will extend—and then consider what we know to be the truth. But for your race among us there could not be war, although many men on either side do not care for you one way or the other. Nevertheless, I repeat, without the institution of slavery, and the colored race as a basis, the war could not have an existence. It is better for us both, therefore, to be separated.” Lincoln paused; eyes shut. He seemed to be staring at that wall of marble in his mind from which he read his finished texts.

  The minister from New York said, “Mr. President, it is one thing to offer a new country a thousand miles away to men who have been slaves all their lives, and quite another thing to propose that people like us pull up stakes and leave our homes for the wilderness, no matter how rich in coal mines and farmland. After all, this is our country, too. Some of our families go back to the very beginning, so why on earth should we leave home to go and settle this wilderness Congress has given you?”