The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln

by Stephen L Carter

  “The President has instructed us,” McShane began, “to go to the Hill and get more time to file our response. Never mind. We have more pressing matters to discuss. I am afraid we have a bit of a problem.” A heavy pause. “It involves Miss Canner.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  A sudden gray rain assaulted the windows. Jonathan fought the instinct to sing Abigail’s praises. Instead, he decided to tread carefully, at least until he learned what the “problem” was. “She is intelligent. She is hardworking. Given the proper training, I think she might well succeed in her ambition to become a lawyer.”

  “Ah,” said McShane, but the single syllable somehow registered displeasure.

  Jonathan plunged on. “That idea you liked, the one about the disqualification of feudal lords—that idea was Miss Canner’s. She found it in Blackstone.” He saw no way out. “And she made other suggestions as well.”

  A prickly pause.

  “I see.” McShane seemed unhappier than ever. He turned away, as if seeking answers in the storm beyond the window. The rain had grown louder, like gunfire against the panes. “She made suggestions for a memorandum about the legal strategy of the President of the United States.” He shook his head. “And how exactly did Miss Canner know what you were working on?”

  Jonathan had gone very still. “I told her.”

  “Never again.” The tone was sharp. His employer faced him once more, eyes rock-hard. “Never. She is not to be admitted to the secrets of this office. Am I being clear?”

  “Yes, of course, but she might be helpful—”

  The little man was suddenly on his feet. Agitated. Pacing. The worry lines in his face seemed to have deepened over the past week. Jonathan remembered that Rufus Dennard, the senior partner, had been dead-set against representing the President, fearing that more lucrative clients might flee to a firm less involved in the nation’s nasty politics. “Be quiet and listen. It appears that our difficulties are greater than I suspected. I told you that records of our deliberations are finding their way into the hands of the President’s political opponents. That is bad enough. But there are larger forces at play. Powerful men throughout the nation. A conspiracy, if you will, behind the conspiracy.” McShane caught something in his clerk’s posture. “I know that you have no patience with such theories, Hilliman. But I have sources of my own. One of them tells me that a list of names was lost in Virginia, and the conspirators are frantic to find it. The list, if it exists, very likely would tell us who is plotting against Mr. Lincoln. Not an assassination this time, but his removal through legal means. You don’t believe a word, I can see it in your face.”

  Jonathan had heard the conspiracy theories before. All of Washington seemed infected with the need to blame secret malevolent forces for every misfortune. But McShane had contracted a particularly virulent strain of the disease. In the shadowed office, the wild set of his eyes was actually frightening.

  “Please, sir,” said Jonathan. “Just tell me what you would like me to do.”

  The lawyer recovered himself. “Yes. Well. I have just come from Mr. Stanton. We spoke about Miss Canner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She has become, in my judgment, a liability.” Jonathan started to protest, but the lawyer was still talking. His face was flushed; here, Jonathan realized, was the true source of the man’s anger. Whatever he was about to say had him furious at their client. “Not that my judgment matters at the moment. Not where Miss Canner is concerned. Miss Canner is special. Did you know that, Hilliman?” Again he gave Jonathan no time to respond. “Stanton has General Baker looking into her background. She may be connected to the conspiracy.” The eyes took on that hunted look again. “And now of course Sumner is involved.”

  Jonathan was dumbstruck. Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts was the most brilliant man in the Senate, and probably the most respected. He had been close to Mrs. Lincoln but somehow had never warmed to the President himself. Officially, Sumner remained neutral on the impeachment, but his fellow Radicals were courting him assiduously. Lincoln, alas, had nothing in his larder that Sumner seemed to want. And because Sumner controlled two or three undecided votes along with his own, any “problem” with him, unless swiftly resolved, would likely spell the end for their client.

  “Involved how?” Jonathan finally managed, unable to hide his surprise. “What does Senator Sumner have to do with Miss Canner?”

  Again McShane’s practical side asserted itself. “Hilliman, look. This thing is going to be close. Any fool can see that. Once upon a time, Mr. Lincoln would have swatted Sumner and his friends like pesky gnats. But he has not been the same man since Mrs. Lincoln’s tragic passing, and the Radicals have grown bold. So Mr. Lincoln has sent feelers to Sumner’s people. Offers to negotiate. But every attempt has been rebuffed. Now, all of a sudden, it turns out that Sumner wants Miss Canner to work on our client’s case.”

  “Why would he care?”

  “Because Sumner is a romantic. Maybe you remember how, just last year, he persuaded the Supreme Court to admit the first negro lawyer to its bar. Well, in Miss Canner, Sumner has found a new cause. His next blow for the colored race. And now it is we who must go along. Stanton has spoken to Sumner directly. He believes that we have no choice. We have decided not to trouble the President.” McShane grew wistful. “We may, however, be able to turn her presence to our advantage.”

  Jonathan nodded eagerly. “I told you, she’s very smart—”

  “That is not what I was referring to,” said the lawyer, tone colder still. “Pay attention, Hilliman. The heart of the Radical case against Mr. Lincoln is that he has been insufficiently supportive of the colored race. If it becomes known that Miss Canner is working for us, we present a powerful symbol to the contrary.”

  Jonathan chose his words carefully. “I take it, then, that we will be giving Miss Canner real work to do.”

  “Under no circumstances.” The rain strafed the glass in a fresh attack. McShane laughed, mirthlessly. “Oh, we shall have to lead Miss Canner to think that what she is doing is useful, and we’ll let the public get the same idea. But she is not involved in any substantive way with our work. She does not learn our secrets, or our client’s. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, but—”

  McShane cut him off. “It shall be your task to supervise Miss Canner. Tell her that she will henceforth have legal work to do. But make sure that none of it carries any significance whatsoever.”

  “Are you asking me to lie to Miss Canner?”

  “No, Hilliman. I am ordering you to lie to her.” Jonathan had never known the little man to be so gruff; or so furious. “Now, go on. I have to get ready for a meeting.”

  “I have nothing on the calendar, sir.”

  Again McShane spoke with unanticipated sharpness. “Well, my goodness, Hilliman, I did manage to find my way to an appointment or two before you came into my employ.”

  As Jonathan reached for the doorknob, McShane called his name, held up a single finger. “Hilliman. A word of warning. If you share another of the firm’s confidences with that woman, that will be the end of your career at Dennard & McShane.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Unease

  I

  “A BILL OF impeachment,” said the President, “is a remarkable thing.” He adjusted his glasses and peered down at the printed pages on his desk. “So many words to express such a simple idea. We want you gone. That is what they are saying.” He looked up. “The charges don’t really matter.”

  “They matter a great deal,” objected James Speed, the attorney general, who was expected shortly to resign his office to assist in preparation for trial. “They are petty and foolish. This is a conspiracy of your enemies. The entire country will see that, sir.”

  The President’s office was crowded: Lincoln, Speed, McShane, and Jonathan, as well as Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. This time Jonathan had sat outside for two hours before be
ing invited in to take a letter—a letter, albeit, that nobody had yet gotten around to dictating. It was Thursday morning, two days after the House vote, and the entire country thought Lincoln was doomed. So did Bessie Hale, whom Jonathan had now met not once but twice for dinner, and who fairly glowed with the untutored excitement of an innocent to whom change is always thrilling. It is time for Lincoln to go, Bessie enthused. Everybody knows he is not the man he was, she said: not since he was shot in the head two years ago! Not since his wife died last year! And McShane, just two days ago, had hinted at the same thought. But Jonathan, who had not met Lincoln during the war years, found the postwar edition enormously impressive: erudite, confident, decisive.

  “Are you with us, Hilliman?” said McShane, sotto voce.

  Jonathan blinked. “Yes. Of course, sir.” He glanced at his notes in the dim, skittering daylight. The weather outside was filthy. The weather in Washington was always filthy: filthy rain in the summer; filthy snow in the winter. “You just said that if the House should indeed vote out a bill of impeachment, the lawyers will seek as much time as possible to file a response in the Senate.”

  “Try to pay attention,” McShane hissed, tapping the paper.

  Jonathan colored. His only function was to listen and take notes and keep his own counsel. He commanded himself to look where his employer was pointing. The list of charges against the President was only tentative. The House of Representatives had adopted a bizarre process through which it first voted to impeach, then appointed a committee (known as the Managers) to draft the actual charges, and last of all would vote on whether to endorse the charges and send the case on to the Senate. The paper on Lincoln’s desk was the result of the deliberations of the Managers. If, as expected, the full House endorsed the document next week, then the Managers would become the prosecutors in the Senate trial.

  Lincoln ignored Speed’s foray. “No President in history has been so treated. They tried to do it to poor Tyler, but …”

  He trailed off.

  “Sir,” Stanton began. “I think that if we—”

  Lincoln spoke right over his Secretary of War. “It makes no difference,” he said, morosely, “whether we are the victims of a conspiracy or not. The impeachment will go forward in any case.” He seemed no longer to be looking at anything in the room. His heavy gaze was directed, if anywhere, into a misty future he alone could discern, even if it appeared to those present that he was studying the map of Virginia pinned to the wall. “The Radicals never thought I was the man to fight the war, and now they do not think I am the man to make the peace. I long only to re-create the Union, whereas our congressional friends …” Again he trailed off; shook his head. His Kentucky accent was especially pronounced today. “It is well that Mrs. Lincoln has been spared this indignity.”

  “She died a noble death, sir,” said Stanton, who could lie better than any man in Washington City. “Providence be thanked.”

  The President nodded. He was on his feet, and so were the other men. He had kept them standing for over an hour, and his Secretary of War, better known for his temper than for his endurance, was growing wobbly.

  “Providence has a mighty peculiar way of distributing her blessings,” said Lincoln. “Sometimes I’m not all that sure she knows which side she’s on.”

  “But we know,” Stanton insisted. He coughed into a large handkerchief. His eyes watered. “She is on our side, sir. She has always been on the side of righteousness.”

  Another silence. Jonathan was wondering what precisely Stanton considered noble about Mrs. Lincoln’s passing. She had not died of the assassin’s bullet, or even of the Potomac fever. A year ago, while in Illinois on an extended visit, the First Lady had fallen into Lake Springfield and drowned. People said she had entered a long period of mental decline after the attempt on her husband’s life at Ford’s Theatre, but there were always people.

  The President finally spoke. “The victors always think they’re righteous, but then they always seem to start a mighty unrighteous squabbling over the spoils.” He continued gazing at the map. The war was nearly two years over, but the President’s office on the second floor of the Executive Mansion was crowded with evidence of his constant worry that the conflict might at any moment erupt again. On a side table, Northern newspapers screamed rumors of Confederate troops continuing to do battle in the Smoky Mountains. Pigeonholes in the President’s desk held dispatches from military governors, warning of dire conspiracies being hatched beneath their feet.

  “If I might make a suggestion,” McShane began. Stanton, as if by way of comment, coughed harder, and had no time to grab a handkerchief. His bushy beard was a mess.

  Mr. Lincoln turned away from the map and waved McShane silent. His gaze passed slowly around the room, then returned to rest on Jonathan. And although, when the President spoke, he was addressing the entire group, Jonathan could not resist the feeling that the words were directed particularly to his own ears.

  “The Congress has a constitutional duty,” said Lincoln, “but I have a constitutional duty of my own. They want me out of this office, and, believe me, I would willingly yield it if I could. But the work of binding up the Union is not yet completed, and, until it is, I cannot yield.” Lincoln’s right eyelid began to droop, making him look sleepy, but Jonathan sensed a growing alertness. “They have their duty,” the President repeated, “but I have mine, too. I have taken an oath registered in Heaven to see that the laws are faithfully executed. I will rebuild the Union. I will not allow the Congress to break apart what has been so carefully knit back together. And it is your job”—the eyes began to roam again—“to make them accept it. We must not let this thing come down to a contest of wills. But I will do my constitutional duty.” A slow smile. “So, now that they’ve voted out this impeachment bill, you fellows go up to Capitol Hill and make sure they’re not in all that big a hurry to hold the trial.”

  McShane said, “They will probably give us no more than a week to prepare.”

  The President’s nod was amused. “Make them see reason. That’s your job.”

  “If they refuse—”

  “They will not refuse,” said Stanton, voice thick with unexpected fury. “They dare not refuse.”

  Arthur McShane was a small man, but he stood up to the towering President and his vicious Secretary of War. Jonathan had worked for the lawyer for nearly a year, and had never been prouder of him. “With respect,” said McShane, “the Congress is likely to do pretty much as it pleases. The members believe that the President ignores their wishes and their decrees. In a sense, that is what this trouble is about.”

  Stanton turned toward the President. “Sir, these are difficult times. You have, as you said, a constitutional responsibility. And I think, given the power you wield under the Constitution, that the Senators would have to accept as fait accompli whatever you decided.”

  The President’s expression never changed, but those eyelids drooped a little lower. Satisfaction? Anger? Jonathan had no way to guess. Yet he sensed a great sorrow in the man, together with a degree of disappointment in his available advisers of the moment: the sycophantish Speed, the volcanic Stanton. Absent from these counsels was the man on whose advice the President had most relied over the years. Secretary of State William Seward had been attacked on the same night that Lincoln was shot and Vice-President Johnson murdered. Seward had survived, but with injuries so debilitating that in the two years since he had not set foot outside his house, across the avenue from the Mansion. Lincoln still visited his old friend regularly, but those occasional conversations could not substitute for daily meetings in this office. Many a Washington hand insisted that, had Seward been healthy, his peculiar ability to pour balm on troubled political waters might have avoided the impeachment fight altogether.

  When, at last, Lincoln spoke, he seemed to be addressing no one at all.

  “The cost of a war,” said the President, “is impossible to estimate in advance. Later, when a great conflict ends, y
es, we look back and engage in our learned arguments on whether the end was worth the great sacrifice. But that comes later. When we are deciding whether to begin, our judgment rests on the principles we believe to be at stake. Somehow, to somebody, they always seem to be worth fighting for. And maybe sometimes they are. But wars continue long after one side surrenders. Every conflict plagues the peace that follows it.” Mr. Lincoln’s gaze had fixed once more upon the map.

  It occurred to Jonathan that the President had not made up his mind; that he was struggling, as he had during the war, between the need to follow the strictures of the Constitution and the need to prevail. That Lincoln wrestled, where most men followed the expedient path, increased Jonathan’s admiration for him.

  “The god of war,” said Lincoln, sadly, “is never satisfied.”

  II

  Neither, as it happened, was Abigail Canner, left alone in the office while the others went over to the Mansion to meet the President. Holding the fort, McShane called it, borrowing from General Sherman, under whom he had served. Here she was, an honors graduate of Oberlin Collegiate Institute, and for two weeks she had been assigned to sweep and dust and, on a good day, collect the unruly files McShane left hither and thither, tying their green ribbons into neat bows, and slipping them into the proper drawers and pigeonholes.

  “You’re not just holding the fort,” Michael had teased her. “You’re cleaning it.”

  Yet Abigail did it all without complaint. She had learned the rules of hard work from Nanny Pork, who yelled at you if you failed to do your chores; if you did them, she yelled at you for failing to do them right. If Abigail spent her days dusting and filing; if she was frustrated daily by her exclusion from important meetings, she nevertheless was here, in this momentous time, near enough to the center of things that she fancied she could feel the throbbing excitement of the nation’s leaders as, day by day, the possibilities for Lincoln’s survival waxed and waned.