“Yes, sir.”
“Men like that can swing a lot of votes in the Senate.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan, who had already grasped the point.
The President handed him a slip of paper. On it were scribbled an address and a time: Monday evening next. The handwriting was not Lincoln’s.
The mood lightened again. Lincoln asked about a couple of common acquaintances and told a few more stories, including a rather complicated one about a boy trying to let go of a pig that was dragging him in circles as he held its tail and it tried to bite him. Lincoln seemed to think that the tale described his presidency. Then, all at once, they were both on their feet and Noah Brooks was back in the room.
Jonathan was at the door when Lincoln called him back. “One more thing, Mr. Hilliman.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President’s gaze had hardened once more. “My lawyers have a great deal on their minds just now. I don’t think there’s any reason to burden them with what we talked about.”
In his innocence, and despite Noah’s presence, Jonathan needed clarification. “Mr. President, are you asking me to conceal the purpose of this trip from my employer?”
The dark eyes widened in faux innocence. “Mr. Hilliman, I am not asking you to hide a thing. I would imagine that the purpose of the trip is to visit General Felix and his lovely daughter in Philadelphia.” He shrugged. “If you should happen to continue on to New York City, well, that’s nobody’s business but your own.”
Jonathan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Lincoln’s tone was light. “You know, Mr. Hilliman, we were talking a moment ago about Commodore Vanderbilt. That reminds me of one more story. Back in the 1850s, when I was busy practicing law out in Illinois, Mr. Vanderbilt sent a couple of men down to Nicaragua to see about running a stagecoach across the country. Much to his surprise, they started a revolution instead. Mr. Vanderbilt sent them a letter: ‘Gentlemen: You have undertaken to cheat me. I won’t sue you, for the law is too slow. I’ll ruin you. Yours truly, Cornelius Vanderbilt.’ Lovely prose. I especially like the ‘Yours truly.’ Don’t you?”
The President laughed, but the chill in his eyes made Jonathan’s blood run cold.
CHAPTER 19
Luncheon
I
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Jonathan took the cars for Philadelphia, off on his mysterious presidential errand. The lawyers were on Capitol Hill, negotiating further details of the trial. So only Abigail and Rellman were in the office when the messenger arrived with an invitation for Abigail to attend the Eames salon again on Saturday night.
“You must be very important,” said Rellman, not bothering to disguise his envy. “Going everywhere, meeting everybody.”
“I haven’t met the President yet.”
“That’s right.”
“And I don’t know that there is time for … this.” Indicating the card from Fanny Eames. “We have a great deal of work to do.”
Rellman sneered. He was looking unusually fat today. It was an odd thing. Dennard was immense, yet his corpulence seemed appropriate to his decades of experience in the profession and the gravitas of his mien. But in Rellman, just a few years older than she, the extra pounds he carried lent an immature aura, like the fat on a baby, something he should have outgrown.
“Of course you will go,” he said. “It is what you do, isn’t it? The rest of us may be buried in work, but you have time to be belle of the ball, haven’t you?”
Abigail did not know what she had done to anger him so; all the same, she resolved to spend as little time alone with him as possible. “I have books to gather,” she said, and departed.
II
It was nearly midday, so she stopped at the Willard Hotel to leave the lunch order for the firm, one of her occasional duties. The waiter promised delivery within the hour. When she stepped from the kitchen back into the lobby, Dan Sickles was waiting, leaning on his cane.
“I was just going to lunch,” he said. “Join me.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
He waved toward the most famous dining room in the city. “Let us lunch together, Miss Canner. This is perfect. Exactly what’s needed.”
“I—I hardly think—I mean, it would not be appropriate—”
That mocking laugh. “We are business colleagues, Miss Canner. If you insist on becoming a lawyer, you will have to manage to overcome your discomfort in the company of gentlemen.”
Abigail bristled, as perhaps he meant her to. “I am not in the least uncomfortable around gentlemen, Mr. Sickles.”
“Just around rogues like me, right?” He grinned. “Come. We have things to discuss.” He was already limping toward the dining room, but she still hung back. “What’s the matter, Miss Canner? Don’t you eat meals, or do you just argue all day along?”
“The Willard does not serve negroes,” she said, miserably. Her mother had raised her to avoid above all things humiliation before the white race; and here she was, breaking that rule with this unmannerly acquitted murderer.
Sickles took her by the arm. “It does now,” he said, and marched the unwilling Abigail through the door.
III
Dan Sickles was a rogue, no question. A rogue, a bit of a crook, a bit of a scamp. He was a lowborn rascal, and unashamed of it. One of the city’s favorite stories involved the time that Sickles, then at the American legation in London, brought a prostitute to the palace to meet Queen Victoria, introducing her as a Philadelphia socialite. The entire royal court was fooled. Abigail Canner had been raised to avoid gossip, but she was perfectly willing to believe that this particular tale was true. According to Nanny Pork, the white folks preached a lot more morality than they acted, and nothing Abigail had seen in her twenty-one years persuaded her of anything else. There were exceptions, of course—Mr. Finney, for one—but the white race, as far as Abigail was concerned, had no business preaching anything to anybody.
As they ate and talked, she began to realize that Sickles never preached; indeed, this was a part of his charm. Whatever you might have done in life, no matter how shameful, he suggested, through his posture and his expression, that he had done far worse, and managed to remain on his feet.
Or on his foot, as he liked to put it.
Dan Sickles asked her lively questions about Oberlin, about her interest in the law, about Judith. Abigail had just started to wonder whether his entire purpose was to gather information on her sister, or whether he planned to join Dennard in lecturing her about the importance of avoiding scandal, when, all at once, he glanced toward the door and rubbed his hands together.
“Excellent,” he said. “This is it. Be ready.”
“Be ready for what?” She turned, and saw the headwaiter leading a primly disapproving man in high collar and black topcoat. He put her in mind of the sort of pastor who could spot a sin before you thought of it.
He looked familiar, but she could not place him.
“Who is it?” she whispered. “What are we doing?”
“Just sit there and look skeptical.”
“I beg your pardon.”
But Sickles was up on his feet—his foot—smiling and beckoning. The stranger murmured to the headwaiter, changed direction, crossed to their table.
“Mr. Sickles,” he said.
“Congressman Blaine, may I present Miss Abigail Canner.”
“Oh,” said the newcomer. Abigail remained seated, as befitted a lady. “Yes. Well. I have heard of you.”
He did not indicate whether he liked what he had heard.
“A pleasure, Congressman,” she said.
Sickles put a confiding hand on Blaine’s shoulder. “I was hoping that we might continue our conversation.”
Alarm in those disapproving eyes. “What? Here? You cannot be serious.”
“Miss Canner has my entire trust,” said Sickles. “And the President’s, of course.”
“Not here.”
“Where, then?”
Blaine h
esitated. Abigail’s presence had unsettled him, which was doubtless what Sickles had intended. “I’ll send my man around to make an appointment,” the congressman finally said.
“I shall expect him no later than tomorrow.”
They said their farewells, and the hovering headwaiter seated Blaine over by the window. Sickles, seated once more, chuckled. “You did just fine.”
“What exactly did I do?”
“You don’t know who that was, do you?”
Her chance to show off. “James Blaine. Congressman from Maine. He voted for the impeachment.”
Sickles nodded, impressed. “He’s a friend of Mr. Lincoln’s. Or he was. He’s a very smart man. Very pious. Thinks Washington City is a cesspool. He’s a sort of lay elder in his church. Preaches against the brothels and so forth. Quite popular on Capitol Hill.” He speared a slice of rare roast beef with his fork, gestured with it. “The House will probably elect him Speaker in a couple of years.”
Abigail nodded, said nothing. She took a small bite of salmon. Once more she had that sense of being very near the inner circle, but not quite near enough to enter.
“Blaine didn’t vote against Mr. Lincoln because of some high principle,” said Sickles. “He was paid.”
“You know that for certain?”
“He’s as corrupt as they come, Miss Canner. That’s what I know. The rest I believe. I’ve been pressing him. He seems scared half to death—whether of our side or the other side, I’m not sure. I’ve implied that the President is prepared to forgive and forget if he will just give us a little information. Such as, say, who paid him. He’s been avoiding me, but he has lunch every day right at that table. I came here to intercept him. Finding you was bonus.” He was talking and chewing at once, an unattractive spectacle. “If he was scared before, he’ll be terrified now. In a day or two, he’ll send his messenger, just like he said. We’ll set up a time to meet.”
“I still don’t understand my role.”
“Neither do I, to tell you the truth. But your name seems to have a magical effect on Mr. Lincoln’s enemies. I’m not sure why.” He took a long swallow of water. “Maybe you’re what Blaine’s afraid of.”
“Now you are making fun of me.”
That rogue’s smile. “Not at all, Miss Canner. I gambled that your presence would upset Blaine, and it did. I don’t know why, and I’m not disposed to worry about it just now. So—tell me about your Aaron.”
The change of subject startled her. “He is my fiancé.”
“I know.”
“He is with the Union Army. We are to be wed when he returns,” said Abigail, studying the damask tablecloth. “We met at Oberlin.”
“When is he due back?” asked Sickles, softly.
“Soon.” She felt uneasy under the intensity of his clever eyes, and, for the briefest of moments, her hold on her story weakened.
Then it was all over. Sickles pulled a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, squawked in surprise, told her he was sorry, and lunch had been lovely, but he was late. Two waiters materialized to help him to his feet.
“I have to see the President,” Sickles explained as he handed her up into the wagon. “And then I’m going north to see General Grant.”
“On business?” she asked, mainly out of curiosity.
Sickles twirled his moustache. “Let me put it this way. Grant is staying neutral. That is what he keeps saying. But nobody is really neutral in this thing. It is time for people who matter to take sides.”
Stunned that he would share such a thing, Abigail tried her luck. “Do I take it, Mr. Sickles, that you now trust me?”
“Miss Canner,” he said, grinning, “if I did not trust you, I would never have asked you to lunch with me so that we might pleasantly discuss the affairs of the nation. I would have asked General Baker to toss you into prison.”
IV
That same night, up in Philadelphia, Jonathan dined with Margaret and her father. The Lion now was singing a different tune: he had decided that the Radicals were all traitors and should be hanged. He did not know why the President had not yet closed down the Congress, but he wanted it clear that the army stood ready to do its duty. There was, however, the small matter of the many loyal Union soldiers who had been unable to find work since being discharged and were now destitute. Just a few months ago, a convention of former military men had demanded payment of a bounty in gratitude for their service. Mr. Lincoln had promised to look into finding the funds, but nothing else had been heard. Surely there must be some way Jonathan could mention the problem the next time he and the President—Yes, yes, of course, and yes again.
Afterward, he stood with Margaret on the sweeping porch. The air off the Delaware River was frigid, but she had always liked the cold. Dark gray clouds scudded across inky sky.
“And what was that about?” Margaret asked, brown eyes steady and accusing, because demureness was an attitude she assumed only around the General. “You and Father. You weren’t arguing about money for veterans. There’s something else. Something the two of you know and I don’t.”
Jonathan smiled and touched a knuckle gently to her cheek. She blushed, as always, at the contact, for he was breaking one of her rules, and she was letting him do it.
“It’s nothing,” he lied.
Meg stepped away and turned her back. She stood straight and determined. She was clad in blue, her favorite color. In the skittering light of the gas lamps, she might have been wearing the uniform of a soldier.
“Father is proud of you.” Her voice was flat. A tired horse whinnied somewhere. Otherwise, the estate had the sudden quiet that sometimes comes just before a battle. A part of him waited for the cannonade. “Father says you are doing your duty, and nobody can ask for anything more.”
Jonathan was surprised. It had never occurred to him that the Lion was capable of pride in someone else, least of all his prospective son-in-law. “Your father is kind,” he finally said.
“No,” Margaret said. “He isn’t kind at all. He is one of the unkindest men I have ever known. But he is still proud of you. He believes that a special integrity is required to do one’s duty when one is facing certain defeat.”
“We don’t believe defeat is certain at all—”
“We.” She picked up on the word, played with it. She seemed very angry. “We. We? We. We.”
“Meg—”
“The word means you and another. You are telling me what you and another believe. Why don’t you ever tell me what Jonathan Hilliman the Third believes? Why do you always hide behind the opinion of others?” She glanced at him, then gave him her back once more. “Tell me, Jonathan. Tell me whether you, you yourself, believe that Abraham Lincoln deserves to remain in the Executive Mansion.”
“Of course I believe it,” he said, much too quickly. In truth, he was not sure of his motives. He was defending Lincoln because McShane had decided to take the matter on, and then Dennard had decided to continue. Had he spent his two-year apprenticeship in Washington doing corporation law, he would likely have had no strong feeling one way or the other about the trial.
And the others? Sickles and Speed were representing Lincoln with great fervor, but each was a longtime friend; their willingness to fight hard for him was entirely independent of any question of guilt or innocence. If Dennard had a cause at all, it was lost in his affection for legal abstraction. Perhaps the best word to describe his motive was fascination—but with the issues raised, not with the personalities or the politics. The only one of them who was acting out of a belief in Lincoln was Abigail.
About whom he dared not think just now.
“Of course I believe it,” he repeated, putting passion into his voice.
A mirthless laugh. “Well, I shan’t tell Father. He believes that the highest form of duty is carrying out your assigned tasks when you think your commander is a madman.”
This time Jonathan had the wit to wait. He knew that Margaret was working around to her point.
; “I don’t think I care much for Washington City,” she said. “It is a cheerless place. A place of ambition. And dreary, Jonathan. So dreary.”
She was hugging herself, rubbing her upper arms in a way that reminded him, unfortunately, of Abigail, who had struck the same pose the other night, while making a similar complaint.
“Washington has its pleasures,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Pleasures,” she echoed, and a knifelike quality in her voice made something deep inside him twist painfully. “Yes. I suppose so.”
He was suddenly out of his depth. “What’s wrong?” he said, stupidly.
Margaret would not face him. She had a strong fist at her mouth. He would have thought she was crying, had she been a crier. “I understand, Jonathan. I do.” She seemed to be resuming a conversation he did not remember. “But, please, whatever else you do—please don’t embarrass Father.” A pause. “Or me. And don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
He spread his hands, even though she could not see them. “I’m sorry, Meg. Please. Tell me what’s upset you.”
She continued showing him her back. The shoulders might have drooped a smidgen. Margaret had to say the words twice before he heard. “Bessie Hale,” she whispered, to Jonathan’s astonishment. Precisely the rumor he had most feared had evidently made its way northward.
“Meg, I assure you—”
“And then, of course”—a small pause—“the colored woman.”
Jonathan went very still. Probably Margaret felt it. “All that’s going on—”
“I have no need of the details. Men are what men are. I understand that, Jonathan. And, goodness knows, I have been my father’s daughter long enough to understand what marriage is. There is a public role a woman plays, and a … a private role a man plays. I accept that entirely.” In the half-light she half turned. The Lion’s heavy, furious glare burned in her eyes. “But, Jonathan, my goodness. You could be more discreet. If not for my sake, then for Father’s.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 19