by Gore Vidal
“We shall hear a lot more from Mr. Vallandigham,” said Washburne.
“No doubt,” said Lincoln. “On the other hand, banishment, un-American as it is, is probably preferable to a firing squad, the usual resolution of such cases in wartime.”
Hay announced the presence of three Blairs in the family sitting room; and Lincoln and Washburne went to greet the refugees.
Washburne marvelled at Lincoln’s endless patience with the Old Gentleman. Lincoln deferred to him at all times; no doubt influenced by the fact that here was the last living friend and adviser of Andrew Jackson, ever ready to advise the great man’s successors.
“It is plain to me that General Lee means to attack the city at any moment,” said the old man. “What better time? Hooker is down at Manassas. Lee is in the valley …”
“That’s not quite the case, Mr. Blair,” said Lincoln. “If all goes well, Hooker is crossing the Potomac at Edward’s Ferry and headed for Frederick city. So the Army of the Potomac is between us and the rebels, who are now moving on to Chambersburg.”
“Chambersburg!” Mr. Blair was astonished. “That is in Pennsylvania.”
“So it is; and so it has always been.” Lincoln was impassive.
“This is a raid then, on our territory?”
Lincoln shook his head. “No, sir. This is an all-out invasion. From what we can tell, which is not as much as we would like, Lee’s goal is Harrisburg and then Philadelphia.”
“That will be the end, won’t it?” Mrs. Blair sat very straight in her chair.
“Oh, not the end. But it will mean that England and France will recognize the rebels. It means that the Copperheads will defeat us in next year’s election; and then they will make a peace with the South; and all our efforts will have been for nothing.”
“It does not seem possible,” said the Old Gentleman and, for once, he said no more.
At eight-thirty that evening, Stanton sent word to the President that he would like to see him at the War Department. As usual, Hay thought he saw assassins behind every tree; as usual, Lincoln paid no attention to anything save his own thoughts, which seldom, from what Hay could tell, dwelt on the matter of personal safety.
As Lincoln preceded Hay up the stairs of the dimly lit War Department, a young lieutenant, rushing down the stairs, crashed head-on into the President, who fell back against the railing, the wind knocked out of him. When the lieutenant saw who it was, he cried, “Oh, God! A thousand pardons!”
“One is enough,” said Lincoln. “Now if only the rest of the army could charge like that.”
Stanton was alone in his office. As Lincoln and Hay entered, Stanton gave Lincoln a telegram. The Ancient looked at it; and gave it back to him. “Why?” he asked, “has General Hooker seen fit to resign now, of all times?”
“General Halleck, I suppose. Hooker wanted to withdraw the garrison from Harper’s Ferry because he thinks Lee outnumbers him. But Halleck said he was not to leave Harper’s Ferry unguarded.”
“So in the midst of an invasion our commanding general quits on us. There are times, Mars, when I would like to shoot every single general in the Union army.”
“It is a tempting prospect; and it would probably shorten the war. What shall be done?”
Lincoln was grim. “First, we shall surprise ‘Fighting Joe.’ I accept his resignation. Second, I am appointing General George Meade to take his place.”
“Yes, sir.” Stanton left the room. The President rocked in his chair. Hay wondered just what the political reaction would be to Meade, who was a Democrat and so anathema to the Jacobins in Congress, not to mention to Hooker’s mentor Chase. On the other hand, Meade was a competent general—if such a thing existed in the Army of the Potomac; he was also a Pennsylvanian, which might inspire him to fight well in his native state.
“I expect General Meade to fight well on his own dunghill,” said the President, inelegantly, at next day’s Cabinet. Seward admired the way that the very same president who had so eloquently asserted to the senatorial delegation that his Cabinet was in all things consulted, now flatly told them what he had already done with no discussion of any kind. Chase started to speak; but then thought better of it. Seward was now making it his particular task to keep track of Chase’s intrigues. On the day Seward had learned that a clear majority of Republican senators lacked confidence in him, he abandoned whatever lingering ambition he might have had to be himself a candidate in 1864. Since his own political career was now over, he contented himself with being an appendage of President Lincoln. Since he enjoyed his office if not his dependency, he had decided to do everything possible to reelect Lincoln. At the moment, this would not be an easy thing to do. The President had lost the confidence of the country, while the so-called Peace Democrats were everywhere on the rise. Chase would also have huge financial resources, thanks to his prospective son-in-law and Jay Cooke. Chase also had an excellent organization in place. Almost every one of the thousands of Treasury agents in each of the states had been selected by Chase with an eye to next year’s elections.
Seward began, ever so delicately, to plot, while Stanton made the case for the conscription of more men. “We have our enrollers going from house to house. We know where the men are. We know—or will know—who is able and who is not. We know who can pay the three-hundred-dollar fee for a replacement and who cannot. I think we can now use the pretext of an all-out invasion as a means of raising a million troops.”
The President looked unhappy. Seward asked Stanton how many men the last call had brought to the colors. Stanton scowled. “We have had our problem with Governor Curtin. We want men who will serve for three years, or the duration of the war if that is less. The governor says he cannot guarantee to raise any troops on those terms. He wants, as of today, to call out fifty thousand militia for sixty days, to defend Pennsylvania. I have said no. That is not good enough.”
“But it is better than nothing at the moment,” said Seward. A sudden warm breeze stirred the papers on the Cabinet table. The wind had shifted and the smell of rotting animals and excrement and stagnant water from the canal nearly overpowered President and Cabinet. “It is a pity,” said Lincoln, after Hay had shut the windows, “that the war has interfered with that excellent plan to build the presidents a house on the outskirts of town, away from the canal and the swamps.”
“What would we do with the White House if the president is moved, let’s say, to Silver Spring?” asked Seward.
“Why, it would make a splendid State Department, something you’ve always wanted; and then you could preside over the canal, as it is filled with foreign objects.” Lincoln turned to Stanton. “We’ll compromise with Governor Curtin. Let’s aim for one hundred thousand men from Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia and Ohio for six months.”
“But, sir, if we back down in this matter …”
“I don’t see much choice. You feel out the Governor.”
Chase waited until the Cabinet was officially adjourned; as always, it had been a most unbusinesslike and informal affair. When the President had said all that he wanted to say, he simply got up and either left the room or went off in a corner with one or another of his ministers. This time Chase caught him at the door to the President’s office. “Was it entirely necessary to accept General Hooker’s resignation?”
“Well, Mr. Chase, I don’t see what else I was to do. Oh, for a moment, I debated whether or not to have him shot for desertion …”
“But surely his resignation was a means of drawing your attention to the disagreements between him and General Halleck.”
“My attention has already been drawn in that direction—several times a day, in fact. Mr. Chase, when a man’s native country is being invaded and we are all in peril, he does not play games of this sort. I know you are fond of General Hooker, and I am sure he has his good points, but I cannot easily overlook his supreme selfishness.” Lincoln smiled; but this did not in any way mitigate what Chase could plainly see was a most uncharacter
istic rage.
“I only pray that General Meade is capable of this command,” said Chase, backing away both physically and figuratively from the President.
“There are many such prayers, I suspect, at this hour.”
During the next week, the President, for all practical purposes, lived at the War Department. The telegraph office now seemed to be simply an extension of the Commander-in-Chief, like his large ears. Hay was surprised that the usually frantic Stanton had become calm and orderly. General Halleck, on the other hand, seemed more than ever like the head clerk of a bank which was about to default.
The Ancient was ancient and weary; but calm. He followed the movements of Lee and Meade on a map of Maryland-Pennsylvania. As the reports came in, blue pins for the Union forces and yellow pins for the rebels were moved this way and that on the map. Lee had begun by spreading his forces across Pennsylvania. The city of York had surrendered. Lee was now in a hurry to seize the state capital, Harrisburg; then, rearmed and provisioned from Union stores, he would move on to Philadelphia, doing battle with Meade en route. Halleck’s original orders to Meade were that he must at all times be the shield for Washington, as well as the cutting edge of the Union’s response to invasion. Beyond that, Meade was very much on his own.
“What sort of man is he?” Lincoln would ask from time to time, as he paced the room; and waited for news.
Stanton did not know much about him. “He’s from Philadelphia, a powerful family, a friend of the Biddies,” said Stanton, always impressed, Hay knew, by the patriciate. “He is called the Snapping Turtle. He is uncommonly bad-tempered, they say.”
“A general after your own heart, Mars.”
“Or stomach,” said Stanton. “My alleged bad temper comes from the lungs, while General Meade’s is from the stomach. He is dyspeptic.”
“The interiors of these generals!” Lincoln then proceeded to analyze the direct and indirect effect of Burnside’s chronic diarrhea on the course of the war.
By Wednesday, the first of July, the yellow pins were coming together at Cashtown and Gettysburg in Pennsylvania, while the blue pins were at Pipe Creek, Maryland, some fifteen miles from Gettysburg. At midday, on the first of July, Halleck entered Stanton’s office. From the expression on his face Hay knew that the run on the bank had begun. “Both armies have now come together at Gettysburg,” said Halleck. “The battle has begun.”
On July 2, Lee tried to break the Union left; and was repulsed. The President was more and more on edge. When senators came to see him, he would explain what was happening in the serenest of terms. But when they were gone, the pacing and fidgeting would begin again; and his fears would be expressed. At the end of the day, Madam stopped by on her way to the Soldiers’ Home.
“Does the battle still go on?” she asked, looking at the map.
“Yes, Mother. More fiercely than before. Today our losses have been pretty bad.”
“This is General Sickles’s corps, isn’t it?” Hay had noticed how quickly Madam had absorbed a degree of military lore. In April she had insisted on going with the President to see General Hooker and the army at Falmouth. She had asked a thousand questions; and remembered at least nine hundred answers. Like everyone else in Washington, Madam was something of a military strategist.
“Yes, Mother. That’s Sickles’s corps; or at least that’s where we think it was. He has been wounded.”
“Badly?”
Lincoln nodded. Stanton entered with a number of dispatches, which he gave to Lincoln, who glanced at the first; then shook his head as if by shaking it he could rid himself forever of the information just received.
“What is it, Father?”
“Casualty estimates. Thus far, ten thousand men. And mostly from Sickles’s corps.”
Mary looked at Lincoln; and wondered what it was that sustained him. She had watched, day by day, as the war whittled him away. He seldom ate or slept or, worst of all, laughed. Then she looked back at the map. “This town is significant because of all these roads, isn’t it?”
Stanton looked surprised. He came close to the map and studied it carefully with his small watery eyes. “Well, there are a lot of roads, yes.”
“But look,” said Mary, suddenly interested. This sort of detail always fascinated her: it was like working closely with a good dressmaker and a complicated pattern. “Note,” she said, “the main road here to Baltimore and the one here to Philadelphia; and this one to Harrisburg. Why, this town is at the very center of everything in Pennsylvania.”
“You know, Mother, you may be right.” Lincoln also peered at the map. “I can’t say that any of us here at the highest command post of all ever noticed anything much except a dot called Gettysburg.” Lincoln turned to Stanton. “We must get Old Brains to analyze this for us.”
Stanton’s response was a snort. “It is an accident,” he said, “if the town is of any strategic importance.”
“But someone must have known.” Mary was quite thrilled with her new dignity as warlord and tactician. “These places are not chosen at random, are they?”
Lincoln chuckled. “I have a hunch they are, Mother.” He touched the map with one long finger. “You see, General Meade was down here. And Lee was up there. And now they have gone and met between those two places—at Gettysburg.”
“Let us pray that we do not lose this all-important town,” said Mary, all-importantly, as she left. Lincoln said that he would try to join her later at the Soldiers’ Home.
As Mary drove alone in the back of the presidential carriage, she thought of money. She had failed to get any of the twenty thousand dollars a year that the President’s secretaries disbursed for stationery and other office items. Major French was being increasingly difficult over her latest absolutely minimal expenditures for the Mansion. Watt was her strong right arm; but he had been conscripted in the army. Without Watt as go-between, she would have no one who was able to collect money from any of her usual sources in New York City. For some time, in exchange for government favors, Mary had been able to raise sufficient money to keep her personal debts more or less under control. In June, she had spent a week at the Continental Hotel in Philadelphia, where Simon Cameron called on her. He had made it plain, without actually saying a direct word, that money could be raised in exchange for political favors. Although she had not committed herself she had been tempted.
Fortunately, Lincoln suspected nothing. He had never reproached her for the Wikoff affair. In fact, she had only learned by accident that he had actually gone to the Judiciary Committee to beg them to accept Watt’s testimony. She had been horrified; she had reproached herself; she had apologized to her husband, who had said, “Molly, there are so many really terrible things for us to fret over, let’s let this one slip away.” But she had never forgiven herself.
Idly, Mary wondered what had become of the Chevalier, who had so adroitly used her. She wondered how badly his friend Dan Sickles had been wounded. She wondered why the driver of the carriage had allowed the horses to break into such a fast trot. She looked up just in time to see the driver’s seat detach itself from the carriage, plummeting driver and seat into the road.
Mary rose in order to get out of the open carriage. But the horses were now runaways. She did not dare throw herself out. She cried out for help. But they were already in the woods that surrounded the Soldiers’ Home and there was no one in sight.
Then the carriage swung in a swift arc from out behind the berserk horses and collided, with a huge hollow sound, against the trees; and like the snuffed wick of a candle, Mary’s mind went out.
Seward was with Lincoln at the Mansion when the word came that Mrs. Lincoln had been injured and taken to an army hospital close to the Soldiers’ Home. For a moment, Seward felt that Lincoln himself might have to be taken to hospital. He slumped back, as if his heart had suddenly ceased to beat. But then he rallied. “Come on, Governor,” he said. In the outer office, Lincoln told Nicolay where he might be found. “Tell Stanton to send all
dispatches to me at the hospital.”
As the carriage, with its cavalry guard, clattered into Seventh Street Road, soldiers saluted their Commander-in-Chief; and a few civilians raised their hats. Lincoln responded with absentminded waves of his right hand alternating with touches to his hat’s brim. “Fate does nothing by halves, does it, Governor? Here we have the greatest battle of the war going on, and my wife’s lying unconscious in a hospital, and I am feeling none too well myself in this poisonous swamp of a city.”
“When we win the war, let us move the capital to the north.” Seward thought it best to strike as light a note as possible. He understood now his friend’s moods. Although Lincoln’s depressions were deep, well-timed laughter could often bring him out of one. “I propose my own town of Auburn. A salubrious climate. No fetid canals. No malaria or bilious fevers.”
“What,” said Lincoln, suddenly smiling, “about Toronto?”
“Ah, you want to make an old man happy!” Seward exclaimed, pleased to have elicited the smile. “It would be a dream come true to annex Canada! And if you promised people that you’d move our capital up there, what Canadian would complain?”
Mary lay in a hospital bed at the corner of a long room crowded with wounded men. Ropes had been put up all around her bed to which sheets had been attached, providing her with some privacy. Lincoln and Seward stepped inside the tent. Keckley was seated beside the bed. She rose when she saw the President. “She is still unconscious.”
“Molly?” Lincoln spoke directly into Mary’s ear; but she did not stir. Disconcertingly, thought Seward, Mrs. Lincoln’s eyes were wide open; and she had a polite smile on her lips. The white turbanlike bandage that covered her head made her look not unlike the White House portrait of Dolley Madison.
Lincoln turned to Keckley. “What does the doctor say?”
“It is not serious. She comes and goes. All her faculties are in order. The only fear, he says, is infection of the wound. She must have a nurse full time. I’ve sent for Mrs. Pomroy.”