Sickles was less certain.
Kate could be baiting you, he said. She trades in information. She might be giving you false numbers in the hope that you will disclose the true ones.
He said he would nose around.
Be careful around her, Sickles had said. Stay close—pay attention to every word out of her mouth—but be careful. She isn’t your friend. She’s her father’s presidential campaign manager.
Now, in the tub, Abigail let her eyes drift closed. Numbers. Elections. Arguments. For Sickles, certainly for Dennard and Speed, perhaps even for Jonathan, the votes were numbers on a blackboard. Votes. The case was just a case. Win or lose, their lives would continue as they had before. But for Abigail, the numbers measured off years of her young life. It mattered what the Senators thought of what Lincoln had done, and she resented the way that public and press alike were forgetting.
She remembered the day in 1861 when her parents had put her on the train for Ohio. She had not wanted to go. She was fifteen years old, and, certainly, understood the way that the war everyone had expected to be so short was encroaching upon the capital. The Canners wanted their children out of the way of the Confederate onslaught expected any day. Louisa had already left for Boston. Michael, still in Baltimore, was resisting the plan to send him north. As for Judith, she was working as a nurse at the colored clinic in Washington City—Freedmen’s, the negro hospital, had yet to be opened—and had already declared that she would stay until the end.
That was how she had put it, at dinner two nights before Abigail’s departure: the end.
Judith at that time had been seeing a colored man who worked as an assistant to Charles B. Purvis, the most prominent black physician in the nation; but her beau, too, had fled.
Washington City was in a panic.
After the war began with the attack on Fort Sumter, the view in the city, among highborn and low, had been that the Union troops Lincoln had called for would soon arrive, and, when they did, they would invade Virginia, capture Richmond, and end the war within a month or two.
But the days dragged on, and there were no troops. The city was unprotected from the evil empire across the Potomac River. Stories filtered into the city. The Confederates were massing for an invasion. They had put together an army of twenty thousand men. Forty. A hundred thousand men at the other end of the Long Bridge, awaiting the command to invade. Meanwhile, the untrained Union soldiers trying to march across Maryland were being savaged by secessionist mobs. Others hoped to come to the capital by water, but the rebels had successfully blockaded the heights at the mouth of the Potomac, and would fire on any ship attempting to pass.
The panic grew. The city emptied. Everyone hated Lincoln in those days: the rebels and their supporters because of his determination to hold the Union together by force, the Northerners for what they saw as his incompetence and indecisiveness. He was not, in those days, the Father Abraham he would become. He was the unlettered Westerner, the poorly educated bumbler with the funny accent and the ridiculous stories, the worst possible man to have in the Mansion at a time of crisis. The general view was summed up by an unsigned letter to a loyal Republican newspaper—widely believed but never proved to be the work of Salmon P. Chase—that Lincoln would have made an excellent farmer, a fair mayor, and a poor governor.
That was the atmosphere in the city Abigail had left.
The city to which she returned on holiday a year and eight months later was a military encampment, troops in bright-blue uniforms drilling everywhere, the federal buildings garrisoned, and Lincoln the absolute master of Washington, cheered on every side.
Abigail had no idea how many of the Senators who held Lincoln’s fate in their hands remembered the horrible certainty of defeat that had by itself all but conquered Washington City in the first year of the war; they seemed to begin their tale with Lincoln already triumphant. They criticized his decisions at a distance of six years, refusing to remember, or to imagine afresh, the helplessness of the city he was trying to defend.
Abigail climbed from the tub. Dressing for bed, she tried to understand the swirling complexities of her own passions. A part of her loved the Radicals for their purity, their brilliance, and their devotion to the progress of her people. This was the part that Constance Yardley, only this afternoon, had unwittingly stirred. Another part of her resented the Radicals for their self-satisfied cynical manipulation, and understood why some of those closest to Lincoln wanted them lined up and shot.
CHAPTER 33
Errand
I
“CHIEF JUSTICE AND Senators,” said Benjamin Butler, “at this time, on behalf of the Managers, I would like to introduce into evidence certain documents.” He nodded toward the defense table. “Counsel for the respondent has already been given a list.”
Chase commanded the secretary to read the list, and told Dennard, who was already on his feet, to hold his objections until the list had been read. It was Thursday, March 21, the fourth afternoon of trial. The list of documents included various telegrams and official copies of presidential orders. None of that bothered the defense in the slightest. They had discussed this scenario for two nights running. Documents that were public or military records, they would not resist. All could be explained away, and, in any case, even if suppressed, would find their way into the newspapers. Only one category might cause trouble.
When the secretary had completed his recital, Dennard stood.
“Your Honor, on behalf of the respondent, we object to the introduction of correspondence to and from the President.”
Butler spoke up. “Your Honor, we are introducing about fifteen letters to Mr. Lincoln from military authorities in the South, all complaining about the growing power of the former slave owners, who were reasserting themselves.”
“To what purpose?” asked Chase, squinting at the papers on his desk. His glasses were very thick, because his eyesight was notoriously poor, although vanity often caused him to pretend otherwise.
“Your Honor, as we have made clear, Mr. Lincoln has done little to resist the growing threat as the aristocracy of onetime slave owners reconstitutes itself. He has vetoed or failed to implement congressional legislation intended to protect the freedmen and keep the slave holders from positions of authority. We are introducing the letters to show that the President was at all times aware of the threat.”
“Mr. Dennard?”
In the gallery, Abigail experienced a moment of satisfaction. This research had been hers. She had spent three nights and part of a weekend immersing herself in the rules governing admission of documents. She had written a memorandum for Dennard: a memorandum he had evidently memorized, for now he was quoting, almost verbatim, what she had written. He would never acknowledge her in any way, she knew—that was not who he was—but she was proud all the same.
“Your Honor,” said Dennard, “the letters to the President do not, in and of themselves, constitute proper evidence. If the Managers wish to introduce them, they must first lay a proper foundation. They must, through the testimony of live witnesses, demonstrate their provenance. They must, also through the testimony of live witnesses, demonstrate that they have not been altered. These principles are too well established to require citation. Until the Managers have laid a proper foundation, the evidence is inadmissible.”
Down below, Chase was ruling the document inadmissible, delighting Abigail in both her professional and her political selves.
Senator Hickman, a leading Radical, was already on his feet. “I ask that the Senate be polled on the admissibility of the documents.”
“The Senator will be in order,” said Chase, rapping his gavel. “All motions must be in writing.”
“The page is carrying my motion to the chair,” said Hickman.
Under the rules the body had adopted, the only appeal from a ruling of the Chief Justice was to the Senate as a whole; moreover, only a Senator, not one of the lawyers, could request a vote.
“That is a very ab
surd request,” said Abigail.
“Why?” asked Kate.
“Because he has no ground. It is perfectly clear that the letters are not admissible. They must bring the writers of the letters here to testify.”
“No military man will testify against Mr. Lincoln.”
“That is why the letters are not admissible.”
Kate showed that prim, superior smile. “Do not,” she said gently, “confuse law with politics.”
Once more, Mrs. Sprague proved herself the superior judge of matters electoral: after a delay, the Senators voted, by a slim margin, to admit the documents.
“This is unjust,” said Abigail, not for the first time. “They are not even required to give reasons!”
“The reason,” said Kate, with finality, “is that they want to see the documents.”
Her one solace was that Senator Sumner had voted against admitting the documents. This might mean that he remained undecided; but it might also mean that his legalistic side was asserting itself, for he would never waive a principle of law to satisfy an idle curiosity.
Butler was back at the evidence cart. The Chief Justice, who had spent the past few minutes scribbling notes, explained what he took to be the rule. “The Senate has voted to allow the Managers to introduce the documents in question. The matter of their provenance may be argued at a later time. It is not part of the vote.” He nodded to Butler. “On that basis, the objection is overruled. Counsel, you may proceed.”
“Your Honor,” said Sickles, rising, “if I may be heard a moment.”
Grumbling from the assembled Senators, and a few eyebrows elevated in surprise: was not Dennard arguing this point?
The Chief Justice was polishing his spectacles. “Be brief, Mr. Sickles.”
“Your Honor, do I understand that the ruling only applies to whether the documents may be read into the record? Not to their authenticity?”
“Correct, counsel.”
“So the fact of their admission is not to be construed as a judgment on whether they are accurate?”
“That is what I said, counsel. Mr. Butler, proceed.”
Kate nodded briskly; and Abigail, too, saw the point. By drawing out his objection, Sickles had emphasized—not only for the record, but for the reporters present—that some question existed as to the genuineness of the letters.
Butler began to read into the record a letter from a military governor in Georgia to the President, complaining that he lacked adequate forces to put a stop to the raids of the night riders—
“Objection,” said Sickles.
Chase’s gaze was baleful. “On what ground?”
“Lack of foundation. We have no background—”
“Provenance may be argued later, counsel. I have already told you that. You may argue it as part of your case.”
“Your Honor must realize that it is not possible for us to cross-examine a document.”
Laughter from the gallery; but Chase hated affronts to his dignity.
“The objection has been overruled, Mr. Sickles. Take your seat.” He turned as far toward the right as he could, giving the President’s lawyers an excellent view of the soft, thinning hair on the back of his head. “Proceed, Mr. Butler.”
“What is he doing?” Kate whispered. “He is deliberately antagonizing the Chief Justice,” Kate persisted, continuing her habit, when under this majestic roof, of referring to her father only by his title.
“Perhaps not deliberately,” Abigail suggested.
Kate swung toward her, surprised by the delicacy of this thrust. For an instant the sky-blue eyes blazed. Then her face softened. “I take your point,” she said, and smiled generously—yet dangerously. “Lawyers, being men, are perhaps April when they begin the trial, and December when the verdict arrives.”
Abigail recognized that she was being baited and tested once more, and although she knew she was not Mrs. Sprague’s equal, she had to do her best. Fortunately, this time she recognized the quotation from Cymbeline. “And the vows of the witnesses,” she said, “are our traitors.”
Kate gave her a searching look but seemed not to find whatever she was seeking.
Abigail turned away, and, looking down, saw Sickles trying to catch her eye. She said, softly, “I must go,” then rose and, lifting her skirts and determinedly ignoring the glares of the other ladies, headed for the exit.
She hurried down the stairs and out the door. She had a task to perform; a task that made her feel dirty, but had to be done.
II
Down below, meanwhile, Representative Butler, after conferring with his colleagues, had stepped once more to the evidence cart. A clerk handed him the file he sought.
“Mr. Chief Justice and Senators,” Butler intoned, “on behalf of the Managers, I should like to introduce into evidence a letter from General C. C. Andrews, dated 1864, warning the President that numerous wealthy planters in the vicinity of Little Rock—”
Sickles was on his feet. “Mr. Chief Justice, we renew our objection.”
Chase ignored him.
“—took the loyalty oath prescribed under the Amnesty Act and nevertheless continued to treat their slaves as property—”
This time, risking Chase’s wrath, Sickles moved away from the counsel table. “Mr. Chief Justice, if I may. The rule against hearsay evidence is as solidly established as any in Anglo-American jurisprudence. If Mr. Butler wishes to introduce the advice the good general gave to the President, let him produce General Andrews, and—”
Chase’s gavel cracked like a shotgun. “Mr. Sickles, you are out of order. First, I have previously ruled on your objection. The documents in question are res gestae. They are not being introduced to show the truth of the matter therein, but to establish that the President was warned and took no action. This the prosecution is free to do.” He took off his spectacles, a sure sign of growing fury. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good.” Pointing with the gavel. “Now, go back to your place and be quiet. You’ll have your chance, Mr. Sickles.” He turned to Butler. “Sir, proceed.”
“May it please the Court,” Sickles continued.
Chase’s eyes were heavy with menace. “What is it now, counsel?”
Sickles’s tone was meek. He made no effort to meet the Chief Justice’s glare. “May it please the Court, we would respectfully raise the question posed yesterday by the senior Senator from Illinois, and inquire of Mr. Butler how the prosecution came into possession of the President’s private correspondence. If the letter is genuine, it would have been kept either within the Executive Mansion or at the War Department. To my knowledge, the letter has not been the subject of a subpoena.”
A titter ran through the gallery. The Chief Justice was nearly apoplectic. He took a moment to compose himself, and spoke one word. “Sit.”
Sickles sat.
Only to spring to his feet again three minutes later. Butler had read aloud a second letter from a military governor to the President, again alleging mistreatment of the former slaves by their former masters, and pleading for strong action.
Objection.
Overruled.
For the next hour, then hour and a half, Butler attempted to read the letters into the record, and Sickles objected. All the objections were overruled. True, through this strategy Sickles prevented the Managers from developing the rhythmic adducing of evidence so useful to making out a case. And Sickles was certainly within his rights under the rules to object separately to the introduction of each letter. Yet it was plain that the Chief Justice had grown heartily sick of him.
Very likely the Senators were, too.
Another letter.
“Your Honor, for the record, we renew our objection, on the ground of hearsay.”
“For the record,” thundered the Chief, not even glancing his way, “your objection is overruled.”
“Your Honor, we would also point out that the prosecution has not put into the record the President’s r
esponse to these letters.”
Behind the thick glasses, Chase’s eyes were haughty. “That is part of your case, counsel, not theirs. Wait your turn.”
At the counsel table, Jonathan leaned toward Sickles. “It’s a fix. Chase isn’t even pretending to be unbiased.”
Sickles covered his face. He seemed to be hiding a smile. “We’re doing just fine,” he said. “And our esteemed Chief Justice is correct. The letters are perfectly admissible.”
“Then why are you objecting?”
“Because everything is moving too fast. Dennard and I sort of worked this up. They hate me anyway, so there is no particular loss.”
“Too fast?”
Sickles nodded. “It is just three. I am trying to prevent the Managers from calling their first witness until tomorrow.” He made a note on the page in front of him. “Is Miss Canner back yet?”
Jonathan turned in surprise, eyes raking the gallery. The seat beside Kate Sprague was empty. “I didn’t realize she had left.”
“She’s running an errand for me.”
“What kind of errand?”
Sickles winked. “I was not under the impression that she was your personal employee. I thought she worked for Dennard & McShane.”
“Well, no, but—”
“I expect her back within the hour.” Sickles picked up a pen. “Now pay attention to the proceedings, Hilliman, or the Chief Justice will be after you next.”
The prosecution read more documents, Sickles made more objections, and Chase displayed less and less patience. Finally, he declared a recess.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Not a second more.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 33