by Gore Vidal
“Mother, you amaze me.”
But Mary was ravished with excitement. “No, Father, I mean it. I was a marvelous shot as a girl. I could kill a squirrel at thirty yards—through the eye.”
“You are bloodthirsty. But things grow …” Simultaneously, the Federal artillery went off to the left and the right of them; and acrid smoke made their eyes stream. Lincoln motioned to a young Massachusetts lieutenant-colonel to escort Mary back to the carriage. Half blinded by smoke and half deafened by cannon, she was now not unwilling. Nevertheless, Mary felt cheated that Cousin John had not seen her on the parapet, firing directly at him.
Lincoln stood alone, looking out between two wooden palings. Sharpshooters on both sides went about their lethal work. General Wright moved up and down the fortifications, giving orders. The sight of the President plainly gave him no pleasure. But Lincoln had now turned to a fresh-faced lieutenant. “You came yesterday from City Point?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man, with a smile that suddenly enlarged, before Lincoln’s eyes, to a scarlet mass as the bullet that struck the center of his face caused him to pitch forward, dead, some three feet from where the President stood. With that, as if from nowhere, the tall young officer who had escorted Mrs. Lincoln back to the carriage seized the President. “Get down, you damned fool!” he exclaimed; and he shoved Lincoln below the parapet. As the President landed on the base of his spine, he observed, “Well, Colonel, since you put it like that …”
The snipers had now got their range. There was also an excellent possibility that they had recognized the only six-foot-four-inch American president in the world. They were now firing in regular volleys. The young officer squatted beside the President. “What is your name?” asked Lincoln.
“Holmes, sir. And I wish you would leave us to our work.”
“Holmes. From Massachusetts. No relation to Oliver Wendell Holmes?”
“I am his son, sir.”
“How curious! I am a great admirer of his verse.” As the sniper fire continued about them, Lincoln recited from Holmes’s poem “Lexington.”
“ ‘Green be the groves where her martyrs are dying!
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest …’
That’s the part,” said Lincoln, gray eyes suddenly misty, “where I always find it so hard to go on.”
“I never learned it, sir. But then my father quotes himself so much better than I can—and so often—that I leave the recitations to him.”
“I once thought that I had some gift for poetry. I suppose all young men do at a certain time of life. But Blackstone knocks it out of you.”
“That’s what will knock it out of me, sir, if the next bullet I get does not.”
“You have already been wounded?”
“Yes, sir. At Ball’s Bluff.”
They were then joined, not by General Wright, who had been disturbed by the arrival of a second general and a fresh brigade, but by Gideon Welles and Senator Ben Wade.
Although Lincoln remained seated, his back to the parapet, he proceeded to introduce the two men of state to Lieutenant-colonel Oliver Wendell Holmes, Junior. “We have been discussing his father’s poetry. Come join us.”
“I prefer,” said Ben Wade, sourly, “to get a look at the battle.”
“It’s not really all that interesting,” said the President, matter-of-factly.
Wade took a heroic stance between the two parapets. But when a sudden fusillade of bullets swept his way, bluff Ben Wade, with an astonishingly youthful leap, removed himself from the line of fire.
“I warned you there was not much to see.” Lincoln was grinning. Nervously, Welles straightened his wig as if it were a helmet. Colonel Holmes excused himself. Lincoln continued. “I stood for some time up there, to see what it was like, being fired on. I cannot say that it is a likable sort of experience. Yet Mrs. Lincoln when she was up there wanted to go get a gun and start firing back.”
“I’d like to do the same,” said Wade, his bluff grim self again. “It is a marvelous thing to kill rebels.”
“Well, I’m sure General Wright will lend you a rifle.” At that moment, orderlies rolled the dead young officer onto a stretcher. The face was now no longer recognizably a face. As the stretcher passed them, Welles shuddered and Wade scowled. “I was talking to that boy when he was shot,” said Lincoln. “He was standing right next to me. One second he was a splendid young man. The next … he was that.” Orderlies and stretcher were now out of sight. “We are engaged, gentlemen, in a most grievous work, and I wonder if we had known the true cost at the start whether we would ever have undertaken it.”
“There is no doubt in my mind, as to the justice of our cause, and the evil of theirs,” said Wade.
“Well, if we are not in the right, I should want to die this very instant,” said the President. “Naturally, I believe we are right, Mr. Wade. But I wish I had your absolute certitude, and lack of any doubt about the evilness of the other.”
“I wish you did, too, Mr. Lincoln.”
“You are impertinent, Mr. Wade,” said Gideon Welles, whose temper was even worse than Stanton’s; and so more reined in.
“Well,” said the President, smiling, “what he says is certainly pertinent to his own passion, which is to punish all rebels.”
“You would not, Mr. Lincoln?” Wade was challenging.
“I would punish some; but not others. They are, after all, despite this great trouble, still citizens of the United States.”
“They are no longer a part of the United States. They are foreigners, whom we are conquering.”
“If they are not in the Union always, then where are they? If they are truly out of the Union, why do we fight them? I’m afraid we cannot indulge ourselves in this interesting metaphysical question because, Mr. Wade, if you admit that they are foreigners, then there is no United States, and if that is so, then I am no President and you are no member of Congress …”
A battery of artillery drowned out the rest of Lincoln’s voice. When it ceased, Wade said, ominously, “We must change your mind, Mr. President.”
Lincoln rose. “In this one instance, that is neither possible nor—I warn you—wise.”
General Wright was now at hand. The light had begun to fail. Fireflies, incongruously, glowed in the Seventh Street Road alongside the flashes of rifle fire. “Gentlemen,” said the general, “I must ask you to leave. Mrs. Lincoln has already gone back to the Mansion with Mr. Lamon. I swore to him, sir, that I would get you safely home.”
“Your oath will be respected, General. My compliments for this day’s work.”
Together, in Welles’s carriage, Lincoln and his Secretary of the Navy drove from the battlefield, accompanied by an armed guard. Ben Wade followed them, alone, on horseback.
“I reckon,” said Lincoln to Welles, “that this will be their last raid from the Valley, so if General Wright follows up, we can cut them off before they cross the Potomac. And that will be the end of Jubal Early.”
But, as usual, no one followed up. By July 14, Jubal Early and John Breckinridge were gone, and the railroads functioned once again, and the telegraph lines were reconnected, and the mail and the newspapers from around the country were arriving as usual. The Ancient expressed his disgust to Hay; as did the national press.
For the first time, Hay conceived that there was an excellent chance that the Tycoon would be defeated for reelection. Yet things could be worse, said Montgomery Blair at the next meeting of the Cabinet. Thanks to John Breckinridge, the house of the Old Gentleman at Silver Spring had only been looted but not burned, while “My house” said Monty Blair, “was both looted and burned.” Apparently, this was to even the accounts. “We burned the house of the governor of Virginia. Now they burn my house. Next we shall burn one of theirs—”
“Where does this lawlessness end?” asked Usher, whose favorite question was the rhetorical.
“The Eumenides are the key,” said the classicist Blair, mystifying Usher and
amusing Seward, who added, “and Mr. Lincoln is our Apollo.”
“No,” said the President, “Horace Greeley will be the peacemaker.” He had before him on the table half the contents of the Greeley pigeonhole. “Brother Greeley, after telling me that I don’t prosecute the war hard enough, now thinks that I am too unyielding! He has been in communication with what he says are two bona-fide rebel negotiators and that they would like to know on what terms we would make peace.” The Ancient sighed. Hay felt sorrow for anyone who had to deal seriously with Horace Greeley, a voice still of great consequence, connected with a brain that had long since ceased to function save in sudden spasms of despair.
“I have decided that I shall go through the motions of dealing with these unofficial official peace commissioners. I’ve drawn up a ‘to whom it may concern’ letter, setting forth our terms for peace.” The Ancient put on his glasses, which were steamed over from the heat; then, to the buzzing of flies and the soft snores of the Attorney-General, he read, “ ‘Any proposition which embraces the restoration of the Union, the integrity of the whole Union, and the abandonment of slavery, and which could be proposed by and with an authority that can control the armies now at war against the United States, will be received and considered by the executive government of the United States, and will be met by liberal terms on other substantial and collateral points, and the bearer or bearers thereof shall have safe conduct both ways.’ ” The Ancient put down the note; and removed his glasses. As a rule, heat did not appear to affect him, but despite the momentous excitement on the Seventh Street Road, he had become, lately, more and more listless as every tide ran against him. He seemed, thought Hay, to be merely going through the motions of the presidency, as if he knew that in a few months he would be gone from office, and the great decisions would be made by another.
“The real or imaginary rebel peacemakers—you never know with Brother Greeley—are at Niagara, on the Canadian side. Governor, what do you think?”
Seward had now abandoned the Cabinet table for the lounge, where he proceeded to stretch himself out to the fullest measure of his short length. “Give Greeley his chance. It will shut him up for a while. Also, since he is bound to do something stupid, why not lead him on?”
Fessenden looked at Seward’s recumbent form with much the same disapproval that his predecessor had. Both Hay and Nico felt that there was something about the office of secretary of the treasury that made its incumbent inordinately formal and self-important. “Mr. President. Will you receive these commissioners here?”
“If they will come. But there seems a hitch. I think Brother Greeley wants to involve himself.” Lincoln gazed at the ceiling. Despite the heat and his own general lassitude, Hay could see that the Ancient was beginning to spin one of his webs. “I think he should. In fact, I want him to have all public credit for this peace mission …”
“And all the public credit for its failure when the commissioners turn out to be bogus or uninstructed or opposed forever to the abolition of slavery.” Seward could always read that part of Lincoln’s mind which was most like his own: the practical politician.
“Well,” said Lincoln, “something along those lines. Anyway, I’m sending Major Hay here to New York City to deal with Greeley.” This was the first that Hay had heard of his mission. The Ancient gave him an intentional wink from the hooded left eye. “After all, Major Hay is aiming for a career in journalism one day, and I have decided that a week or two with Horace Greeley will be an education for him—even an ‘open sesame.’ ”
Montgomery Blair was not pleased. “You make it a condition, for the first time, that the abolition of slavery is one of our absolute terms, not to be negotiated. Is this wise, sir?”
“It may not be wise, Mr. Blair. But it is consistent with my message to Congress and with my own proclamation in response to the Wade Bill. After all, I have asked for a Constitutional amendment abolishing slavery.”
“That is wise,” said Blair. “Because you are giving the rebel states an opportunity to end the war and return to the Union and then, as eleven states, deny the abolitionists the two-thirds vote that they will need to amend the Constitution in order to abolish slavery.” Blair spoke, sonorously, for history; then he spoke, nervously, to Lincoln, “But can you really have it both ways?”
“Both ways, one way, no way.” Lincoln shook his head. “I have, as a military necessity, freed the slaves in the rebel states. I cannot take that back.”
Suddenly, Stanton coughed. He had spent the entire meeting reading dispatches from the various fronts. But, apparently, he had been following this last exchange. “Sir, what will your political opponents say to this? There is a powerful peace-at-no-matter-what-the-price movement in the country, particularly at the North, particularly in New York City, where our next draft of men could bring on the worst riots yet. Now if it looks like you are willing to prolong this war until the South voluntarily abolishes slavery, the Democrats will carry every state in the North, and we will hold onto nothing but the border-states, thanks to the army.”
Hay wondered if even the border-states were secure. On August first, Kentucky would hold an election. Stanton was currently arresting all sorts of Democratic politicians as “disloyal,” including the candidate for an important judgeship. The Democrats had promptly responded by substituting another candidate; and Lincoln had then declared martial law throughout the state.
The Ancient was now mopping his face with a handkerchief. Hay felt sorry for him; pity and awe, too. This was the stuff of tragedy. The overreacher soon to be felled by his own hubris—if not by the gods by vox populi. “I have evolved,” repeated Lincoln, “as we all have during this big trouble. I have never been an abolitionist. But now all our party, like it or not, must be abolitionist.”
“Would you really give the freed Negroes the vote?” asked Blair, disingenuously.
“Well, Monty, you know that I, like you, favor colonization …”
“But there are now freed Negro slaves in Louisiana.” Blair was inexorable. “Would you let them vote?”
“The very intelligent ones, I suppose.” Lincoln was growing more and more evasive. He will not, Seward decided, from the comfort of the lounge, be reelected. He himself would be genuinely happy to go home to Auburn. But what would become of this strange ambitious man? Seward could hardly imagine the Commander-in-Chief of the greatest military force earth had ever seen arguing cases before a Supreme Court that he himself had chosen. “The very intelligent Negroes,” Lincoln said, again. “And the ones who have fought in our army. What news,” he addressed Stanton, turning off the subject, “from General Sherman?”
“He is laying siege to Atlanta. It will be a long siege, he says.”
“And General Grant wants more men in Virginia,” said Lincoln, almost to himself. “It is just like three years ago. Except I was not so tired then.”
“Mr. Jefferson Davis is a lot tireder,” said Montgomery Blair and, for once, Hay approved of Blair’s last word.
SIX
ON THE second of August, 1864, Seward, dressed now for the tropics in baggy wrinkled cotton pantaloons and a light shirt two sizes too large for him, sat with the President in Stanton’s musty office and listened to the reports from Pennsylvania. On July 30, Jubal Early’s army had reappeared at Chambersburg, where he held the town for a ransom of two hundred thousand gold dollars. When this money was not paid him, he burned Chambersburg to the ground. That same day, Lincoln, unaware of what was happening, went down to Fortress Monroe to meet Grant. That same entirely disastrous day, an elaborate tunnel that Grant had constructed beneath the Petersburg fortifications had blown up, doing little damage to the rebels but causing 3500 Union losses. Grant had admitted to Lincoln that the entire scheme had been harebrained. It was Seward’s surmise that neither man was at his best that ill-omened day. Now between the turbulence over the draft—Lincoln had just called for half a million more men—and the success of the rebel raiders within sight of the Capitol’s ne
w dome, the Union’s fortunes, not to mention fortune as precisely defined by the currency, were at rock bottom.
From the beginning Seward had thought it a mistake for Lincoln to concentrate the entire command of the armies in Grant, who would not now leave the siege of Petersburg just west of Richmond. Although Grant was a splendid general in the field, he could not be expected to understand the confusion of overlapping commands and stern military incompetence at the capital, where Old Brains thought old thoughts while Stanton acted as a sort of frantic conductor on a runaway set of railroad cars. No general could deal with such resourceful raiders as Early’s so far to the north of Grant and the bulk of his army.
When Washington was beleaguered, Grant had refused pointblank to come to the city on the ground that Lee would interpret this as a slackening of Grant’s siege, the object of Lee’s strategy. Since Halleck had been deprived of authority and Lincoln had sworn not to interfere with Grant’s decisions, Early had escaped from General Wright, who had never been ordered to do anything beyond driving him from Washington.
“I think,” said Lincoln at last, “that we had better send for General Grant. He must take a look at our situation and decide what’s to be done. We can’t keep on asking him all the time to loan us men. We must have a proper army here.”
“We also need a proper general to command that army,” said Stanton. “Grant still wants to send us Meade.”
Lincoln frowned. “On the ground that Meade is now so unpopular with the Army of the Potomac that he might as well come up here and offend everyone else?”
“My spies tell me,” said Seward, chin resting on the high window-sill back of Stanton’s desk, “that General Grant has been drunk since July 27, at about noon.”
Lincoln and Stanton both, for once, stared at Seward as if he had gone entirely too far.
“I have not heard that,” said the President, finally. “I can also personally testify that on July 31, he was sober, if somewhat low in spirits. I make, for once, no joke.”