by Gore Vidal
“We had hoped,” said Stephens, “for the Mexican solution.”
“As a courtesy to you, I will reconsider it. But I am not apt to change my mind.”
The conference was over. Seward had ordered champagne, which was now served. “At least,” said Seward, “we shall celebrate, if not the reunion of the states, our personal re-union on the high seas!”
Lincoln and Stephens gossiped about old times, while the former associate justice of the Supreme Court, Mr. Campbell, told Seward, “I cannot think of a worse choice for chief justice than Mr. Chase.”
“You sound like Monty Blair,” said Seward, much amused.
“Oh, I’m not objecting on political grounds. Of course, I’m opposed to him there. But Chase doesn’t know the first thing about the law.”
“Oh, he’ll pick it up, the way the rest of us have done.”
“He won’t,” said Campbell, who, Confederate or not, still knew his Washington. “He’ll be too busy running for president. I know that old faker.”
“Personally—and privately—I think you are right,” said Seward. Then he added, mischievously, “Why don’t you tell the President what you think?”
“It’s too late. Besides, I don’t want to be hanged for lèse-majesté as well as treason.”
On the deck, the President said farewell to the Southerners. A cold wind blew out of the west, and the sky was dark at midday. On the rough sea below, a launch waited to take the commissioners back to their ship. “Well, Stephens,” said Lincoln, leaning down to peer into the small man’s face, much as he had done, thought Seward, when he had met Tom Thumb, “as there’s been nothing we could do for our country, is there anything I can do for you personally?”
“No.” Stephens paused; then said, “Well, I wouldn’t mind having back a nephew you’ve been holding prisoner on Johnson’s Island.”
“You shall have him.” Lincoln wrote the name in his notebook. Farewells were said. The commissioners got into their launch. Lincoln and Seward watched as the Southerners were rowed across to the Mary Martin.
“Well, Governor, it looks as if we are in this now to the end.”
Seward nodded. “I had no real hopes. They cannot give way after all that … has happened.”
The commissioners were now at the railing of their ship. The launch from the River Queen was still alongside the Mary Martin, and a Negro oarsman was handing one of the ship’s crew a crate of champagne. Seward turned to the boatswain, “May I use your horn, sir?”
The boatswain handed over the horn. Seward bellowed through it, “We’ve sent you a present!”
The commissioners smiled and waved their thanks. “Keep the champagne,” Seward boomed across the wintry sea, “but return the Negro!”
“Well, Governor, that was almost worth the trip,” said Lincoln, waving a last good-bye to his one-time friend, Alexander Stephens. As he turned to go inside, he blew on his fingers, which were now always cold. Then he said, “They are just about at an end.”
“That is my impression. How much longer, do you think?”
“A hundred days,” said Lincoln. “Naturally, I do not dare reckon the number of lives yet to be lost.”
Three days later, Lincoln proposed to the Cabinet his scheme for reimbursing the slave-owners. To a man, the Cabinet opposed him. He started to argue with them; then gave it up. Hay wondered if the Tycoon had been serious or not. There were times when he seemed to be playing a complex game that required all sorts of feints and parries. Lincoln wrote his state papers in much the same crablike way. First, he would scribble sentences onto squares of pasteboard instead of ordinary paper which did not shuffle quite so easily—and he did a lot of shuffling in the course of a major address, particularly the one that he was now writing for his second inaugural. When Lincoln had finally prepared a draft, Hay would take the cards in what he prayed was their final order to a printer, who would then put the whole maze of words and ideas into type so that Lincoln could start all over again the elaborate process of revision.
Hay had never seen the Ancient quite so concerned with a speech as he was with this one. He wanted to justify the war; he also wanted to describe, without being too specific, how he would reconstruct the Union when the war ended. “This thing had better wear pretty well,” he said to Hay, as he began to mark up the first printer’s copy. “This is going to have to be my political testament.”
THAT WAS much the view in the parlor of Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse on the morning of March 4, Inauguration Day. While Annie taught a young girl to play piano at one end of the parlor, John Surratt and David sat at the other end, discussing in low voices the latest change in plans. During the winter, Booth had assembled a more or less devoted band of men, mostly Southern, mostly young. Ned Spangler was the oldest, while the youngest, Lewis Payne, had been one of Mosby’s raiders. Payne had first met Booth at Richmond in 1861, when he had formed a deep attachment to the actor. Four years later, quite by accident, Booth saw the half-starved Payne in the streets of Baltimore. Payne had been wounded at Gettysburg; had taken the oath; had no life at all to live until Booth swept him into the conspiracy. In addition, there were two other former Confederate soldiers, both from Baltimore; one had been at school with Booth. Finally, there was George Atzerodt, a German-born boatman who specialized in smuggling from one side of the Potomac River to the other.
As David had suspected, John Surratt had taken to Booth. Certainly, they were as one in their passion for the Confederacy. During the winter, David had even grown somewhat jealous of their intimacy. Often the two would vanish upstairs together in the National Hotel while David would be sent off on an errand. But then, whenever he was beginning to feel disaffected, Wilkes would say or do something that would delight him, and remind him once again that this was the perfect older brother that he had never had, a necessary reminder as he was now living at home with all seven sisters—even the attached ones had somehow, simultaneously, come home, temporarily unattached; and Mrs. Herold never ceased to weep and cook, scold and pray.
When it was announced that the President would attend Ford’s Theater on January 18, to see Edwin Forrest in Jack Cade, a suitably revolutionary figure, Booth had gone into action. Two horses were stabled back of the theater. Atzerodt’s boat was at the river bank. The two Baltimoreans and Booth were at the President’s box while Lewis Payne and David were backstage. At a signal from Booth, a friendly actor would switch off all the gaslights in the theater. The President would then be seized, tied up and lowered to the stage, where the powerful Payne would carry him to the waiting horses. For two days, the plan was carefully rehearsed. But then, on the night of January 18, the President did not go to the theater.
There had been a good deal of grumbling among the conspirators; and Booth saw fit to stay away from Washington for most of February. But the Baltimoreans and Payne were still in the city, living at Booth’s expense, while John Surratt, when denied a leave of absence from Adams Express, took “French leave.” David continued to help out Spangler at Ford’s.
Now Booth had reappeared, more than ever fervent, as the Confederacy disintegrated beneath the grinding of Grant to the north of Richmond and the fire of Sherman to the south. “I only fear it’s not too late,” said John Surratt.
“Then it will be the last thing that we can do for our tragical country,” said David, who had taken to using Booth’s grander phrases.
“I don’t know why he’s so bent on seizing him at the theater, where it’s hard enough to get anybody down from a box to the stage and then to backstage, much less a man who’s guarded.” John was not as taken with Booth’s theatricality as David. John inclined to practical, secret measures, as befitted a night-rider.
“There’s only the one Pinkerton man,” said David, who had heard all the arguments. “And then nobody will know what’s happening when the lights are all turned off.”
“But we’ll be in the dark, too.” At the other end of the parlor, Annie was now playing “Dixie,” to
her young student’s amusement. “Our best chance was always Seventh Street Road, when he’d go to the Soldiers’ Home.”
“But there were all those soldiers all last summer with him. I thought our best chance was the other day at the hospital—”
“Where he didn’t go,” said John.
“Well, we almost got—who was it?—by mistake, in the carriage?”
“Mr. Chase. The wrong chase for us,” said John, laughing at his own simple joke. “He said something odd last night.”
“Mr. Chase?”
“No. Mr. Booth. We went over to the Capitol together, to watch Congress adjourn …”
“That’s when I had to see to Spangler and the horses.” As usual, David had not been included. He wondered why it was that Booth seemed to prefer John’s company to his own. Could education make such a difference? Yet, when it came to theater, David knew far more than John Surratt; and when it came to the actor Wilkes Booth, David knew almost more than anyone. On the other hand, John knew the Maryland roads better than he did and it had already been decided that John would guide Booth and the captive President through all the back roads to Richmond.
“Well, as we were about to push through the crowd in front of the door to the gallery of the House of Representatives, there was this statue of Lincoln against the wall. And Booth said, ‘Who’s that?’ The likeness is poor but I recognized it, and told Booth, who said, ‘What’s he doing here before his time?’ ”
“Well, what is he?” asked David, who thought the question sensible.
“It was the way he said it. Then, later, at Skippy’s, where we got drunk, he kept quoting from Shakespeare, about the death of tyrants …”
“Julius Caesar,” said David, knowledgeably. “Only this time, like he says, he’s going to play Brutus which his brother Edwin always gets to play like they did in New York last fall, the three brothers, with Wilkes as Mark Anthony and Junius Brutus as …”
“I think he’s going to try to kill him today, at the Capitol,” said John, abruptly.
“Kill him?” David turned to Surratt, who was playing with the hilt of the Bowie knife that he had taken to wearing in his boot. David had also tried to keep a knife in his boot but the boot was tight, and he had rubbed raw the skin of his ankle. He now kept the knife in his belt. “What’s the point? Alive, he’s worth a half-million Confederate soldiers. Dead, he ain’t worth a thing.”
“That’s what I said at Skippy’s. But he took no notice of me. He just said would I come to the Inaugural and stand by, and if need be get him across the river. I said what if I wouldn’t? He said, then you would.”
“But I don’t know the roads that well.” David told John Surratt what John knew anyway.
“Well, he thinks you do. I said I’m in this for a kidnapping but out of it for a murder.”
“Why has he changed?”
Surratt shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think—I could be wrong—that he got word from Richmond to stop. I also know there’s another plot afoot to kill old Abe …”
“Who?”
“I got a theory. But I’m not saying.” Surratt grinned, maddeningly. “Anyway I guess he now figures that if Richmond don’t want his help, he might just as well do what he wants to do on his own and in his own way before anybody else does.”
“So he’ll get his chance to go play Brutus and stick Lincoln with a knife?”
“He’s got a pistol.”
Lewis Payne entered the parlor; and seemed to fill it. Annie and her pupil tried not to stare at him; and stared at him, making discordant chords in the process. Payne’s face was like that of one of the Greek or Roman statues at the Capitol, while his smooth muscular neck was almost as big around as David’s chest. He walked like some sort of lion in a zoo, ready to leap over the fence and kill everyone in sight, except for Wilkes, whom he worshipped. Late at night at Skippy’s or wherever they might all go, Payne would sit as if he were alone, except for Wilkes, in the middle of a dangerous jungle, the gray-blue eyes watchful, while the huge muscles of his legs and arms were visible through the cloth of a brand-new dark-blue jacket with many buttons. Even when he sat quite still, the muscles would loosen and contract, just like a cat’s. He was a genuine bona-fide killer, thought David, with awe. But then Payne had been famous as a Mosby raider, under his real name Lewis Powell, which he had changed when he took the oath for fear that he might be wanted for special treatment by the army that he had so harassed in the days when Mosby was lord of the Shenandoah Valley, and Lewis Powell was known as “the terrible Lewis.”
Lewis’s voice was surprisingly soft, with a deep-South Florida accent. “Captain wants you boys to the Capitol,” he said. “We’ll take up our position at the foot of this platform they built where Old Abe will stand. Captain’s going to be up in the stand, on the Capitol steps, just back of Old Abe.”
John was sharp. “Why does he want us there?”
David wondered if John might be as jealous of Payne’s closeness to Wilkes as he himself was of John’s to Wilkes.
“Spangler got this one horse ready,” said Payne. “That’s all. Just one horse. So if Captain suddenly wants to make a run for it, why, we help him to this horse.”
“He means to shoot him?” John whispered, though there was no way that Annie and her student could hear them through the loud strains of “Maryland, My Maryland.”
“What the Captain fixes to do he fixes to do. We follow orders. Come on.”
Meekly, David and John Surratt followed orders; followed the young giant from the parlor.
IN THE LOBBY of the National Hotel, Booth stared out the window at the rain that had been falling since dawn. Pennsylvania Avenue was slick with yellow mud in which pigs and sodden chickens rushed wildly about, as horses and people, in even greater numbers, moved onto the Capitol, hidden now by a miasmic fog that had drifted in from the river.
The lobby of the National was crowded. Umbrellas did much damage as they opened and shut; or refused to open and shut. In the upstairs halls, beds had been lined up to accommodate the out-of-towners.
Bessie Hale, finally, appeared. “I’m sorry, Mr. Booth! I’m late …”
“I care not,” he murmured, “You are here.”
“Oh, you sound just like you did when you were Romeo last winter. What was Avonia Jones really like?”
“Just another actress, too old to play Juliet.”
“I didn’t like her at all, particularly when she was on the balcony. She let you down. But I haven’t. I did have all sorts of trouble with the tickets. I finally had to go to Major French yesterday; he’s in charge of the ceremony.” Bessie was rummaging through her reticule until she found a card, which she gave Booth. “This ticket will get you into the Capitol and onto the steps of the east portico but not onto the platform where the President will be, and Father and I. You know,” Bessie’s voice lowered somewhat, “we’re going to Spain!”
“Oh?” Booth was staring thoughtfully at the card. “A long holiday?”
“No, no. Father is to be minister to Spain. We’re all so thrilled! I mean not to have to go back to New Hampshire … Will you come to see us?”
Booth, with a spacious gesture, bowed low and kissed her hand. “You have but to send me a single line, a single word—‘Come!’—and I shall be at your side wherever you are on earth!”
“That means Madrid. If you will, really, come,” said Bessie. Then they were joined by Booth’s friend, the night clerk of the National Hotel: “Always befriend the night clerk,” was Booth’s distilled actors’ wisdom. Bessie went to join her parents.
AT TEN O’CLOCK, the rain was still falling, but a north wind had risen and the river fog was gone. Bejewelled and splendidly gowned, Mary entered Hay’s office. “Where is Mr. Lincoln?”
Hay took mild pleasure in telling Madam that the Tycoon and Nicolay had gone earlier and unheralded to the Capitol, where the President still had bills to sign. “My God!” she exclaimed. “This is not possible! We have the parade to
gether along the avenue.”
“Marshal Lamon thought that the President should not expose himself to the crowd. So he will meet you inside the Capitol, when the Vice-President is sworn in.” To Hay’s surprise, Madam was reasonable; and approved Lamon’s plan. Then Hay told her that she would go to the Capitol in the company of Captain Robert Lincoln, a valued member of General Grant’s personal staff: Robert had finally won the battle with his mother but only on condition that he never be out of Grant’s sight.
Shortly before noon, the rain stopped and the small crowd at the east portico of the Capitol now became a large one. A platform of raw planks covered the steps. At the center of the platform, near the edge, there was a round table with a glass of water at its center. The President would make his speech just back of the table, while, behind him, a long row of chairs would contain the Cabinet and the justices of the Supreme Court. Higher up the steps, the Congress, the diplomats and the ladies would have a fine view of several thousand umbrellas, all crowded together in the muddy plaza, where the only bright color was provided by strips of sodden bunting attached to window ledges.
David remembered the small crowd of four years ago; and the soldiers in every window, ready to shoot. Today there were even more soldiers than then, but the crowd was no longer secesh. In fact, there were surprisingly few natives of the city on hand, as opposed to people from all over the Union, including far-off California.
David stood next to old Spangler, a bit to the left of where the President would be sworn in above their heads. Thanks to Payne, they were crowded so close to the platform that they could see nothing except the planks and the Yankee soldiers, who seemed to have no particular instructions. One of them—a monkey-faced Irish boy—kept stepping on David’s foot.
Spangler muttered, “I pray to God that Johnny’s not going to do anything crazy.”
“If he does,” said David, “it’ll be the last thing he ever does. They got ten thousand soldiers here.”