The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln

by Stephen L Carter

  “That is untrue!”

  “It has been two years since we have laid eyes on each other. In all of that time, did you once try to find me?”

  “Did you once write me?”

  Judith, about to respond in kind, sighed instead. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone in five minutes, and you’ll never see me again. Your life can go back to whatever it was five minutes before I arrived.” She straightened her shawl. “But first I have something to tell you. It concerns your work.”

  “I don’t understand. What does my work—”

  “For once in your life, Abby, don’t say anything. Please. Just listen.” Judith had moved quite close. She smelled of orange blossoms, and a hint of rosemary, and Abigail could not help wondering which of her sister’s men had gifted her with scented water. “What I am going to say will sound unpleasant. But you have to hear it.” She waited, but this time her younger sister did not interrupt. “The man you were working with—the white man—the lawyer—”

  “Jonathan?”

  Again her older sister was amused. “No, darling. Not your precious Jonathan. The lawyer. The one who died. McShane. I knew the woman who died with him.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Abigail, before she could catch herself. Judith’s eyes flashed. Abigail regretted her words at once, but knew that no apology would suffice. Judith was right. She was just like Nanny Pork, firing off her ammunition before checking to see whether the approaching stranger was friend or foe. “I did not mean that,” she began.

  Judith waved her to silence. “Never mind. Just listen. I knew Rebecca. She was a … a friend.”

  Catching the pain in her sister’s tone, Abigail struggled for the proper response. “I am sorry about your friend,” she said.

  “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes. “Rebecca was a decent woman, Abigail. She wasn’t like me. She was more like … like you.” A hard swallow. “She was not a prostitute.”

  “But the Provost General said—”

  “The military will say whatever General Lafayette Baker commands them to say. I am telling you the truth. Rebecca was not a prostitute. Nor did she give herself to men.”

  Abigail had joined her at the stove and began heating the smaller kettle, to make tea. “Then why was she meeting Mr. McShane outside a brothel?”

  Judith took two cups from the shelf. “I don’t know. I do know that she had met him before.”

  “Then perhaps the two of them—”

  “No, Abby. I told you. Rebecca wasn’t like that. She had regular work. She was employed as a domestic. She worked in one of the great houses. And, besides.” Hesitating. Weighing a final truth. “Besides. Rebecca was helping Mr. Lincoln. That was why she was meeting Mr. McShane.” She held up a hand. “I do not know the details. But I had the impression, from things that she said, that she was giving Mr. McShane information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Again, I am not sure. She said there was something Mr. McShane needed, and she was helping him to find it. I do not know what he was looking for, but, whatever it was, Rebecca thought it important.” The hard jaw trembled. “And whatever it was, she died for it.” Judith was on her feet. “I must go.”

  “You have not had your tea.”

  “I dare not tarry. Please do not tell Nanny I was here.”

  Abigail felt an unaccountable panic. “Let me wake her.”

  “No.”

  “You could come back home. The two of you could reconcile—”

  “Not possible.”

  “What if—”

  Judith laid a hand on her younger sister’s shoulder. “Remember when we were little? When Mother would read to us from Shakespeare?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll remember Twelfth Night: ‘My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours …’ ” She leaned over, kissed Abigail on the cheek. “It’s best that I bear my evils alone.” And then, as if in afterthought, she delved in the folds of her shawl. Abigail tensed, but her sister pulled out only an envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “Rebecca asked me to hold on to it. If anything happened to her, I was to deliver it to Mr. McShane.” Her voice trembled. “She said he would know what to do with it. She did not anticipate that they might die together, and—well—”

  Tears rolling down her long cheeks, Judith thrust the envelope into her sister’s hands. A last clumsy hug, and she was gone into the night. Abigail stood in the window, watching her sister’s trap until it vanished.

  Back in the kitchen, she opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper, which she spread on the kitchen counter. There were no words, but only a string of numbers:

  13163222232121244

  Abigail frowned and puzzled, but could connect the peculiar note with nothing in her experience. Though she was no expert, the numbers looked to her like a code. In this city of conspiracies and fears, of plots and unknown sources, the President’s lawyer had been receiving coded messages from a colored woman; and now both were dead.

  And everything everybody thought they knew about the murder was wrong.

  CHAPTER 17

  Obsession

  I

  “SO WHAT?”

  Abigail stared at Rufus Dennard, unable to believe that he had offered so cavalier a response to her sister’s information. She was standing in his office. Dennard himself was seated, his bulk overflowing the chair. The brass fittings gleamed against the polished dark wood. A partners desk was designed so that two could sit, facing each other. But nobody would take the chair opposite without being invited, and Abigail had not been invited.

  “What I am saying,” she resumed, picking her words carefully, in case her first attempt had been unclear, “is that if the woman who died with Mr. McShane was not a prostitute, what happened might after all be connected to the trial.”

  “It isn’t,” Dennard snapped.

  “But what if—”

  He leaned toward her, steepling his hands. “Listen to me, Miss Canner. I took you into my employ because Dr. Finney speaks well of you. He told me that you possess one of the finest brains he has ever encountered. Maybe so. We’ll find out whether the evaluation is true. So far, you’re just fine.” His eyes steamed at her, and the praise that should have made her heart sing struck her like a cudgel. “Nevertheless, there is such a thing as being too intelligent for one’s own good. Your mind is leading you into flights of imagination. This conspiracy business is just the thing McShane would have liked, because he had that devious sort of mind. I like to keep my eye on the work—nothing but the work. McShane is dead, and I’m sorry about that. He was an exemplary partner and a dear friend. But his murder is a matter for the city police. Our task is to defend Mr. Lincoln. We face the most important trial in the history of this nation. God willing, these United States shall never again see its like. That trial shall demand every bit of our energy. If we get involved in spinning the sort of wild theories that fascinated McShane, that will make our job harder rather than easier. Do I make myself clear?”

  With an effort, she restrained the urge to argue further. “Yes, Mr. Dennard. Perfectly clear.”

  “May I see the note?”

  Reluctantly, she handed over the envelope. Dennard did not even open it. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket. “If this was intended for Mr. McShane, then it is the property of the firm.”

  “I suppose that you will be sharing it with the police?”

  The pouchy eyes darkened. “That is not your judgment to make.”

  Abigail struggled for calm. “Yes, sir,” she managed. “Only Inspector Varak seems to think—”

  “Inspector Varak seems to be making a rare nuisance of himself. Bothering you, bothering Hilliman—I don’t know what could be driving the man. My understanding is that the case is closed.”

  “But possibly in error.”

  He pointed to a calendar on the wall. “Trial begins in less than two
weeks. Haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You are a clerk in this firm, Miss Canner. I am glad to have you. But try to focus on your responsibilities. You are here to help acquit the President of these outrageous charges, not to hunt for conspiracies or solve murders the police have closed. If this Varak shows up again, do not say a word. You send him straight to me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I believe you have work to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to get about it. And pull the door behind you, please.”

  Back in the main room, watched curiously by Jonathan and Rellman, Abigail stood for a moment, hand still gripping the knob. She watched Mr. Little sweeping, and watched the others ignore him. Her face burned. Rejection, exclusion, condescension—these were the price the nation daily exacted from the colored race, like a special tax on darkness. When one was shoved aside, there was nobody to complain to. In Abigail’s lifetime, there never had been, except at Oberlin, where Dr. Finney had solved the problem of white students’ not wanting negro students to sit at their tables by inviting black students to sit at the faculty tables, where everybody wanted a place. This plan was in keeping with Finney’s preference for inspiration over regulation; and, just like that, the attempted segregation had collapsed. Still, the first time the white students had refused to let her sit down had stung her, and the pain was never far from memory. That had been the first occasion in Abigail’s life when she had been tempted to utter a blasphemy.

  This was the second.

  Her sole consolation was that she had copied the numerical message into her diary; nevertheless, as she slid into her accustomed place at the table, Abigail promised herself never again to share her secret suspicions with anyone in authority. If she had to solve the mystery herself, then she would.

  For Judith’s sake.

  She wondered if Rufus Dennard was aware of how large a clue he had given her—even if she was not yet sure how to pursue it.

  The sort of wild theories that fascinated McShane, he had said.

  II

  In the afternoon, the lawyers went to the White House, but not before Dennard instructed her to deliver a package to the copyists, and afterward to go downstairs to Grafton’s office to return the books she had picked up last week. Abigail was mortified—Grafton’s office was the last place on earth she wanted to go—but she could hardly tell her employer that she wanted to avoid his former law partner because he had made Bessie Hale cry; or because he had offered Abigail herself a position.

  To her relief, only nervous Plum was present. He scooped the pile of books from her arms in a surprising show of speed and grace, and had them reshelved, in proper order, by the time she finished thanking him for the loan.

  Abigail retreated toward the door, but Mr. Plum stopped her. “I almost forgot,” he said, grinning sheepishly. He opened a drawer, drew out an envelope. “Mr. Grafton said to give this to you if you happened by.”

  She did not want to accept anything from David Grafton, but saw no polite way to decline. In the hallway, she considered tossing the envelope into a dustbin, but curiosity got the better of her. The letter was short and to the point. Grafton hoped she would reconsider her decision to reject his offer. And he wanted her to know—just in case it might affect her decision—that Dennard, like McShane, had lost three relatives in the war.

  The difference was that Dennard’s family had fought on the rebel side.

  III

  Back in the common room, a package had arrived. There was nothing unusual about that, and at first she ignored it. The package was addressed to Arthur McShane, who had been dead now nearly two weeks. Following his standing instructions from Dennard, Jonathan was slitting the package open. He had been McShane’s clerk, and in theory was best positioned to know which of the late attorney’s cases the package might pertain to, and what should be done with the contents.

  Jonathan said to the others, “Come look at this.”

  The contents were bizarre.

  First there was a handwritten letter, undated, brief and to the point. The paper was an expensive vellum, the style dramatically curlicued and decorated:

  Also, see enclosed. Burgess’s for Sept to come Chanticleer

  That was the entire text. The three clerks puzzled together over possible meanings.

  “I suspect that ‘Sept’ is September,” said Rellman, importantly.

  Abigail hid a smile, and put in her own contribution. “The ‘Also’ implies the existence of an earlier letter.”

  Jonathan spread his hands. “So Mr. McShane is advised that he will soon hear about Burgess’s, whatever that is, for September. That is not terribly illuminating. And I know of no case or correspondent called Chanticleer.”

  They laid the letter aside and dug into the box. A sheaf of notes appeared to be the proceedings of an investigation into a battle between two railroads in South Carolina. The handwriting was different—cramped and quick—and the paper was of a much cheaper variety, well lined. They found a couple of newspaper articles about the city-council election in Columbia, the state capital: evidently, the city had chosen the first colored councilman in its history.

  “This isn’t about the impeachment,” Rellman announced.

  “Wait,” said Abigail.

  They had reached the bottom of the package. More handwritten notes, this time a list of shareholders in one of the two railroads that were at war.

  “It’s one of Mr. McShane’s cases,” said Rellman, losing interest. “Has to be.”

  Jonathan was leafing through the pages. “I don’t believe we have any clients in South Carolina. Had.” Sliced up. He kept the thought at bay, pointed to the original note. “And, again, I don’t believe that we have a client called Chanticleer.”

  Rellman was defiant. “You can’t possibly have every client committed to memory.”

  “I believe that I would recall that name.”

  “Well, then, what’s it all about?”

  “Nothing,” said Dennard, who, despite his bulk, had managed somehow to creep up on them. “Another one of McShane’s crazy ideas.” He nodded. “Hilliman. Put everything back in the box. We’ll send it on to the widow.”

  “But if it involves a client—”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “How can we be sure?”

  The lawyer glowered at him; but answered. “See the letter? Chanticleer? Some friend of his from one of those clubs he was in, most likely. I never had time for all of that foolishness, but McShane loved every bit of it, bless him. Fancy names. Funny hats. All that Latin nonsense. It’s nothing. Pack it up and send it on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jonathan said.

  Dennard glanced around. “Where’s Rellman? Ah, good. Speed is over at the Mansion. You and I will join him. Hilliman, Miss Canner, you have your assignments.”

  IV

  “Why do you call her Nanny Pork?”

  Abigail had her nose in the volume about the trial and beheading of Charles I. She had made copious notes. Without lifting her head from the book, she said, “Because that is her name.”

  Jonathan was at the other end of the table, paging through volumes of speeches of some of the leaders of the anti-Lincoln cabal, searching for language that might be turned against them. “Surely Nanny Pork isn’t her real name.”

  “Her real name?” said Abigail, glancing up, and the mischief in those eyes told him that one of her games was afoot. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “What name would she use in signing a legal document?”

  “Nanny would sign with an ‘X.’ She is illiterate.”

  “What name appears on her birth certificate?”

  “I have never seen her birth certificate, Mr. Hilliman. I am not sure whether the laws of South Carolina provided for birth certificates for slaves.”

  “So she was a slave,” said Jonathan, relieved to have at least one fact.
r />   “She was. Until recently, as you may recall, a few of my people were.” She laid the book aside. “And she is not my grandmother. My mother said Nanny Pork is my great-aunt, and she calls us her nieces, but I suspect that the actual family relation is somewhat more distant. One branch of our family—on my mother’s side—purchased its freedom before the Revolution. Nanny Pork is from another branch.”

  Jonathan found himself fascinated by this glimpse, however small, into the life of the free negroes, an insular and even secretive society about which almost nothing was known.

  By white people, anyway.

  “How did she come to live with you?”

  Abigail placed a leather marker at her page and closed the book. “Why are you so interested in my aunt? We have a great deal of work to do.”

  “Please,” said Jonathan, spreading his hands. He could not tell whether she was teasing. Nevertheless, he felt, suddenly, an urgent need to hear the story. And Abigail put the volume aside and told him.

  “Nanny was freed eight or nine years ago. She was old even then, and she was sick, and her master had no use for her any more. Had she remained his property, he would have had to provide a roof over her head and food for her to eat, to say nothing of a burial plot, and he was not about to do all of that for a slave who couldn’t work. So, in his Christian magnanimity, he set her free instead. She was taken into a mission home outside of Charleston, and the missionaries wrote to all the living relatives she could think of, trying to find somewhere for her to go; and die. I don’t know how many of my relatives wrote back, but I imagine that they made excuses: Not enough money. Too busy to care for her. The house too small. What-have-you. But my mother was not like that. My mother would never leave a stranger out on the street: we always had people with nowhere to go living in the barn or the stable behind the house. Naturally, she could not abandon a relative to the fates. So she wrote back and even sent the train fare. Nanny Pork arrived a month later. My mother was never secretive with us. She told us that Nanny had come to the house to die. She was given a bed in my older sister, Judith’s room. I already shared with Louisa. My mother said it would probably be only a few months.”