by Gore Vidal
Lincoln still stared into the fire. “I have it in mind to support Mr. Seymour for president in ’sixty-four.”
Seward put down his port glass so hard that the crystal nearly broke. “A Democrat?”
“If our party fails to win the war, the Democratic Party will win the election. Since McClellan would be as disastrous a president as he was a general, we must see to it that the Democrats come forward with a strong Union man, whom we can support, openly or secretly or whatever.”
“You have given this a lot of thought?”
“Well, since November fourth, anyway.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about it?”
Lincoln nodded. “I’ve talked, in strictest confidence, with Stanton. After all, he’s a Democrat himself. He likes McClellan even less than I do. He could use the War Department to help Seymour, while I could bide my time to the last minute; and then support Seymour.”
“You astonish me, sir.”
“Well, Governor, these are highly astonishing times. Anyway, talk this over with Weed; and no one else.” Lincoln got to his feet. “Now I must get ready to do some listening.” He patted Seward’s shoulder. “You have behaved nobly, Governor. The thing is not over yet.”
“Precisely my advice to you, sir, when you start talking about supporting Seymour for president.”
“Well, we have to look ahead, don’t we? That’s what the people hire us to do.” Lincoln paused; then smiled. “Naturally, I shall expect Mr. Seymour to see to it that New York fulfills its draft quota.”
“Quid pro quota?” Seward was amused by Lincoln’s exquisite political craftsmanship.
“Governor …” murmured the President, with a hint of reproach; and he was gone. Hay had never seen Lincoln quite so subdued as he was when the nine senators harangued him about the shortcomings of his Administration. Even Sumner was harsh in his estimate of the Administration’s conduct of foreign policy, not to mention Lincoln’s ignorance of Seward’s letters to the American minister at London. Worse, in the midst of a war, Seward had seen fit to publish a volume of his diplomatic correspondence, filled with malicious observations about the abolitionists and, most ominous of all, strewn with asterisks to show where even more alarming sentiments had been originally written and then excised.
The Ancient mildly replied that all such letters were read to him by Seward but, offhand, he could not recall the ones in which Seward made what Sumner said were disrespectful remarks about Congress. Lincoln agreed that it was tasteless of Seward to have published the correspondence. Actually, Hay was reasonably certain that Seward had indeed shown Lincoln many of his remarks; and that Lincoln had concurred in them. On the other hand, the Ancient was somewhat disingenuous when he said that Seward read him every dispatch. For quite some time, Lincoln had left all but the most important of foreign dispatches in Seward’s hands. At the beginning of the Administration, Lincoln had insisted on reading all letters to him; and all letters sent in his name. He now largely ignored the vast flow of paper in and out of his office.
After three hours, the President got to his feet; and the meeting was over. He took from Ben Wade the memorandum of the caucus. “I’ll study this very carefully, of course. And we shall be in communication with each other some time tomorrow.” On a reasonably cheerful note, the senators filed out of the room. Then Lincoln gave Hay the memorandum. “Put this in the strongbox, John.”
“You won’t be studying it very carefully, sir?”
“Oh, it is engraved on my heart!” Lincoln’s half smile was enough to convince Hay that the Tycoon was preparing a counterattack. As Hay said to Nicolay, in describing the meeting, “They made a mistake that Machiavelli always warned against. If you strike at a prince, you must kill him.”
“Even so, I wonder,” said Nicolay, more apprehensive than Hay, “how he’ll get out of this one.”
At seven-thirty the next evening, the senators, less Wade, returned to the White House at the President’s invitation. Meanwhile, the Cabinet, less Seward, had also been summoned. During the late afternoon, the senatorial memorandum was withdrawn from the strongbox; and the Tycoon had indeed studied it for some time. Hay could see his lips move as he spoke to himself not the words on the page but his responses to them.
The aged moderate Senator Collamer led the senatorial delegation, which Hay ushered into the President’s office. The Cabinet were next door in the Reception Room, guarded by Nicolay. Earlier in the day, Lincoln had seemed at the end of his strength; and Hay had overheard him tell a friend that he had never been so distressed by any event in his life as he had been by the senatorial ultimatum. But now Lincoln appeared serene; and sublimely courteous, as he welcomed the senators. Edward had already placed extra chairs around the office.
The Tycoon invited the senators to sit, while he remained standing in front of the fireplace, Andrew Jackson scowling over his right shoulder. Hay noticed tht the lean, dour Fessenden of Maine was counting the extra chairs; plainly, he was puzzled by their number.
“Gentlemen, you have given me a lot to think about since last night.” The Tycoon took the memorandum from the mantelpiece. “It seems to me that the heart of your argument—as opposed to your criticisms of Governor Seward and me—is the following.” Lincoln put on his glasses and read: “ ‘The theory of our government and the early and uniform construction thereof, is, that the President should be aided by a Cabinet Council, agreeing with him in political theories and general policy, and that all important public measures and appointments should be the result of their combined wisdom and deliberation. This most obvious necessary condition of things, without which no administration can succeed, we and the public believe does not now exist …’ ”
Lincoln stopped and looked over his glasses for a moment, as if about to add a remark of his own. But then he continued, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “ ‘ … and therefore such selections and changes in its members should be made as will serve to the country unity of purpose and action, in all material and essential respects, more especially in the present crisis of public affairs.’ ” Lincoln put the pages back on the mantelpiece; and removed his glasses. “Now I could, of course, put the case to you that the Constitution nowhere obliges the President to listen to his Cabinet, or even to have such a thing if he chooses not to. Naturally, the great departments of the state require officers to run them, and these officers are chosen by the president, alone, to help him execute his office. But the notion that these officers form a high council to which the president must pay heed is entirely foreign to our Constitution and our practices.”
Fessenden now cleared his throat.
“Yes, Senator Fessenden?” Lincoln was amiability itself.
“The nature of the Cabinet is not, like so much else, entirely spelled out in the Constitution, but, if I may remind you, President John Quincy Adams in dealing with his Cabinet used always to put to a vote every major proposal.”
“Well, that was Mr. Adams’s way, no doubt. But no other president has regarded the Cabinet as anything more than a group of men who serve at his pleasure. Sometimes he wants their advice; and sometimes not. When he—”
“But, sir,” Fessenden broke in, to Hay’s annoyance though not, visibly, to Lincoln’s. “We have made the case in our memorandum that these are extraordinary times. We are in the midst of a terrible war. We must have unity everywhere.”
“I quite agree, Senator. In fact, the very reason that you gentlemen are here tonight is a proof of how serious the times are. In ordinary times, if you were to come to a president with orders to him to remake his Cabinet and then to obey that Cabinet’s decisions, you would be shown the door—not to mention a copy of the Constitution. Properly speaking, you have no business at all here with me in a matter which concerns the executive only, and the legislative branch not at all.” The Tycoon maintained a kindly smile. The senators sat very straight in their chairs. “But we are in a crisis. I believe that you have come to me in good faith, wanting to help,
and I shall so respond.” Lincoln turned to Fessenden. “I know that you, personally, prefer the British parliamentary system to our own and that you would like members of the Cabinet to sit in Congress and answer your questions. This may be a better way of doing things from ours, but we cannot do it without, first, holding a new Constitutional convention, something not entirely practical at the moment.”
“But, sir,” Fessenden was resolute, “without going to such an extreme, a united Cabinet that is consulted by you is not an impossibility.”
“It is, I would have said, a reality.” Lincoln was demure. “I realize that there has been much talk to the effect that I am controlled by my ‘premier,’ Governor Seward; and that I seldom consult the Cabinet on major issues; and so on. Well, I have decided to indulge you, Senator Fessenden. You would like for our government to have a question time for the ministers, on the order of the British parliament. So I shall now oblige you. I have asked the entire Cabinet—except for Mr. Seward—to sit down here with you; and you may question them to your hearts’ content as I listen—and learn.” Lincoln pulled the bell cord. Then he turned to Fessenden. “I am sure your committee does not object to this extra-Constitutional meeting.”
Hay saw that Fessenden was too confused to speak. Fessenden looked at Collamer, who shrugged. Fessenden nodded to Lincoln. Meanwhile, Nicolay had opened the door to the Reception Room, and Chase, followed by the other ministers, entered the room. The senators were now most uneasy. The Cabinet had known since morning about the confrontation. Chase had done everything possible to avert it while the legalistic Bates had been deeply annoyed.
Once everyone was seated, Lincoln made a mild little speech. There had been talk that the Cabinet did not meet often enough; that views contrary to his and to those of Mr. Seward were stifled; that true unity was never sought. “Now it is my impression that as we meet twice a week and discuss everything, we are a true unit. The fact that we do not always agree with one another is the reason that I selected this Cabinet. I know that some of the senators are urging me to appoint a Cabinet of men who all think as the senators here do. But this does not strike me as wise. A president must hear every sort of argument. He must listen to the moderate majority as well as to the radical minority.” Lincoln gazed, rather sleepily, at Fessenden, who scowled at the floor. Lincoln resumed. “So let us—President and Cabinet—reveal openly to the senators how we work.”
Blair went on the attack. With all the biting contempt of which that turbulent clan was capable, he questioned the right of the senators even to inquire into such matters. Executive and legislative were forever separate. Certainly, if his old friend President Jackson were in the chair, the senators would be out on the street. But since a gentler man was in the chair, Blair would assure the senators that whatever gossip they might have heard—and he looked straight at Chase, whose eyes were shut as if better to attend some inner celestial hymn—every member of the Cabinet was invited to have his say. “Personally, I disagree with Governor Seward on almost every subject, but to say that he is not earnest in the prosecution of the war is a downright lie!”
There was a nervous stirring among the senators. A seraphic smile now appeared on Chase’s lips. Within that sculpted dome, thought Hay, there must now be not only a heavenly choir but at least one archangel, praising him for fighting so many of the Lord’s battles on earth.
“In any case, gentlemen,” and Blair glared at Fessenden, “there can be no plural executive in this country. There is one president and one commander-in-chief, and he is chosen by the people and if you should try to defy him in the exercise of his legitimate office, you do so at your peril.”
Although Fessenden disagreed at much length, he made no headway against, to Hay’s surprise, old Bates, a constant conservative complainer, who disapproved of almost everything that Lincoln did. But Bates was the closest thing to a Constitutional lawyer in the room; and every argument and precedent that Fessenden put forward Bates struck down, to the particular embarrassment of Sumner, who had come armed with his usual eloquence; but now chose silence. “All in all,” Bates summed up, “this committee had better not meddle in these matters.”
At last, the Tycoon was ready for the coup de grâce. He lifted, as it were, his executioner’s ax. “I think, to indulge the committee, the Cabinet should answer the principal charge that has been brought—that I do not consult them.” Sweetly, thought Hay, the Tycoon turned to Chase, whose eyes were now open, the celestial music only a memory. “Mr. Chase, as the highest-ranking member of the Cabinet, I think it might be useful for you to tell the senators just how we run our shop.”
There was no sound at all in the room. Everyone present knew that it was Chase who had most inflamed the radical Republicans with his revelations of Seward’s sinister influence on a president too weak and too evasive to allow full discussion of the great issues. Now, thought Hay, Lincoln had arranged this elaborate trap for Chase; and no matter what Chase said or did, the trap had sprung on him. If he told the senators in front of the Cabinet what he had been telling the senators in private, the members of the Cabinet would not only call him a liar but a traitor to the President and the Administration. If he denied before the Cabinet what he had told the senators in private, he would lose the support and the respect of those radical Republicans who had wanted him for president. For sheer political craft, Hay had never seen anything so neatly done. One way or the other, with a single bold confrontation, the Tycoon had disarmed his rival.
But Hay was also obliged to concede that Chase handled himself with dignity, cutting, as best he could, his losses. “I did not come here tonight expecting to be arraigned like this before a committee of the Senate.”
“This is no doing of ours,” said Fessenden, irritably. “You are not being arraigned by us. We came here tonight to meet with the President. This unusual”—Fessenden turned to Bates and positively quoted—“unConstitutional, as some would have it, meeting has come as a surprise to us. It is the President’s doing.”
“That is true,” said Lincoln. “I thought it the only way to clear the air, even if it bends the Constitution a bit, to have us all meet like this. Now, Mr. Chase”—Lincoln’s dreamy gaze was entirely contradicted by the hard set of the wide mouth—“do you feel that there has ever been any important issue, dealing with your department, say, that I have ever myself decided without your counsel? Or allowed another to decide?”
“No, sir. In respect to the Treasury, I have been supported by you at all times. Only …” Chase was beginning to rally; but Lincoln interposed.
“I am sure,” said the President, “that the committee will be relieved to know that the ablest Secretary of the Treasury since, uh, Gallatin, is not subject to arbitrary presidential whims.”
“Naturally, on other issues, I feel that sometimes we are not sufficiently consulted …”
“Such as?” asked Blair.
“That is, we are not thorough in our discussions.”
“Could you, Mr. Chase, think of one important measure that we did not all of us discuss at length?” Lincoln’s tone was so conciliatory that if Hay had not known the Tycoon better, he would have thought him lawyer for the defense rather than the prosecution.
Chase began now to stammer. “I speak, sir, of thoroughness, which in the flow of events we sometimes lack, nor is there always, as I would like, a canvass of the members, in every case, that is, I mean.”
Hay looked at Fessenden, who was staring, open-mouthed, at Chase. Hay looked at Sumner, who had placed one hand over his eyes as though to hide from his own clear and noble gaze all signs of human vanity and folly; at Collamer, who looked old and weary and unsurprised; at Trumbull, who was furious—at Chase.
Once Lincoln had given Chase the rest of the rope with which to hang himself, he dropped the subject; and Chase again closed his eyes, no doubt, thought Hay, in prayer.
“I think that you gentlemen now have a clearer idea of how the Cabinet works. It is not perhaps the monolithic un
it you would like but it is hardly a place where arbitrary decisions are made by me—or by Mr. Seward.”
“I take the point,” said Fessenden, “that a president need not consult his Cabinet at all. But I urge you, sir, that in wartime, which this is, that there be greater consultation.”
“With different councillors,” said Trumbull.
“You have, perhaps, an ideal Cabinet that you would like me to appoint?” Lincoln sat down in his chair, plainly tired from so long standing.
“We believe Mr. Seward must go,” said Wade.
“We is it?” Lincoln affected surprise at the pronoun. “Then, perhaps, we—I use the presidential we—should poll the senators present, and the Cabinet, too, as to whether or not Mr. Seward should resign. Mr. Sumner, how vote you?”
Fessenden was quick to avoid any sort of canvass. “I don’t think it proper for us to discuss the merits or demerits of a member of the Cabinet in the presence of his associates.”
“But that is what we have been doing for several hours now,” said Lincoln.
Chase gratefully seized on Fessenden’s sudden tactical demur. “I agree with Senator Fessenden, Mr. President. And I suggest that the Cabinet be allowed to withdraw so that you may with more … ease discuss its composition.” Chase rose majestically. Lincoln nodded, casually; and the members of the Cabinet departed. Hay noted with some interest that that alleged constant schemer, the Secretary of War, had said nothing at all.
Chase’s collapse under the President’s questioning had ended the present assault on the Administration. Although the senators still agreed that Seward must go, the case against him now seemed vague indeed. Lincoln ended the meeting by thanking the senators for their patriotic concern and weighty advice.
It was now one in the morning, and the Ancient was showing signs of fatigue. He was like, thought Hay, one of those bullfighters he had read of. Or, perhaps, more to the point, a bull who had outwitted both matador and picadors.