“We are not here, sir, to add to your burdens or your grief. We are not here to insult or offend your sense of honor. We are here only to ask you about this.” She slipped a hand into her bag and pulled out the Chanticleer letter.
Chastain stared at her defiantly, but she continued to hold out the pages, and slowly, as if against his will, his gaze traveled to her hand. His mouth moved, but no words emerged.
“Arthur McShane is dead,” she said. “We have come from Washington to find out what else you hoped to provide him, so that we can do whatever it is you wanted him to do.”
III
It was unlikely that the Reverend Dr. Hollis Chastain had ever entertained a woman of color in the parlor, but he was evidently willing to try. A black woman who reminded Abigail in looks and manner but not age of Nanny Pork served them lemonade, despite the season, her narrow eyes flashing with resentment and disapproval every time they lit upon Abigail.
“So you worked for Mr. McShane,” said Chastain, addressing himself so far entirely to Jonathan. “Tell me about his last days.”
“He was preparing for the impeachment trial. He was busy.”
“I should think so.” Chastain sipped his lemonade. He sat, very still, in an ancient rocking chair. The furniture was comfortable without quite being plush. Ornate shelves held books. Magazines were stacked on the floor. “Defending that man.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan, following his own advice never to disagree with their host, whose secrets they needed, and possessed no means to compel.
“A matter of professional obligation, I would think,” the minister continued. “Or did he perhaps agree with that man?” Unable to say Lincoln’s name.
“About what, sir?”
“Perhaps about that man’s use of armed force to conquer independent states simply trying to depart in peace the compact they had voluntarily entered. Perhaps about the hundreds of thousands of deaths and the hundreds of millions of dollars of destruction caused by that man’s policy.” Chastain never raised his voice, but the eyes grew fierce. “And then there is the matter of that man’s deciding for us, a free and independent nation, the particular matter of our social relations.”
Abigail could no longer restrain herself. “You are referring to the freeing of my people from bondage.”
Chastain turned her way at last, his gaze surprisingly gentle, even meek. “It pains me to hear you refer to the social relations formerly enjoyed by your people and mine as bondage. Zillah, whom you have met”—inclining his head toward the woman who had served them lemonade, and still lurked, disapproving, near the fireplace—“has always been a much-beloved member of this household. Much beloved,” he repeated, and, for the briefest of instants, dropped his eyes. But when he spoke again his voice was forceful and clear. “There is a cruelty, surely, in tearing families forcibly apart, which is why the better men of the South always opposed the separation, through commerce, of negro women from their children, and fought against the restoration of the African slave trade. Here on these shores, the relations between blacks and whites were warm and friendly, at times even loving; and so they would have remained for a very long while, had not that man intervened.” He pursed his lips, as if the next words carried a sour taste. “Naturally, in time, the social and economic system of the South would have become unsustainable. This has been true of every system ever developed by man. But, as I have argued in the Southern Presbyterian Review, it is one thing to let the forces of time and fate move the world, through the mysterious Providence of God. It is a different matter altogether to use force of arms in an effort to reorder the world according to the ideas of mortal and fallible men. Surely you see this point.”
“I hardly think—”
For all the kindliness in his voice, Chastain did not take warmly to interruptions, least of all from a colored woman sipping lemonade in his parlor. “Perhaps, in the fullness of time, the dark race will be ready to take its place among the great peoples of the earth. I can imagine such an event. I do not believe that you are cursed. I do not believe that you are without the spark of God. I believe that you need, for a while longer, the guidance of those to whom the Lord has entrusted knowledge and wisdom, industry and pure manners. Miss Canner, it is obvious that you are an educated woman. Surely you do not imagine that those of your race who remain in the state of brutishness and immorality that we see so widespread at the South are prepared for a life without guidance, or, indeed, a life in which they are considered fit to rule their betters.” Not waiting for a response, he turned back to Jonathan. “Consider the situation at the North. You are locked in a battle between two rising forces, labor and capital. Each one gains power from year to year. Soon they will be so powerful that they will determine the entire economy, and the entire social structure, at the North. Why would we not resist the impression of this precarious and ultimately violent system upon ourselves?” His voice rose. “You did not like our system. We did not like yours. But that man decided to inflame the North with the message that our system was the more evil of the two, in order that he might rouse a sufficient fervor to make war upon our system, for the benefit of yours.” Chastain shut his eyes briefly. “Then, when the lunatic Booth shot him, Southern men of the cloth were ordered by our occupiers—ordered!—to preach Sunday sermons eulogizing that man and praying for his recovery. I told my flock that the shooting was wrong, but it would be a hypocrisy to turn that man into a hero on account of it. He is no hero. He is a conqueror and an oppressor.”
Jonathan glanced quickly at Abigail, whose fingers had tightened on her untouched glass of lemonade. To his relief, she said, smoothly, “Despite our differences, Dr. Chastain, you did send the letter to Mr. McShane. You labored on behalf of the Union during the war.” She gave him the opportunity to dispute this, but he did not. Instead, the pastor inclined his head, waiting. Abigail took a breath. “Sir, it is not our wish to impose upon you. But, as you know, time is now short. So, please, bear with me. You sent the letter to Mr. McShane because you hoped that he would come to you before the trial ended, and that he would use your information to the good. We were his employees. Both of us,” she added, without emphasis. “The trial is nearing its end. We used the information about Mr. Yardley to good effect. But unless you tell us what else you planned to tell him, your secrets will be useless.”
But Chastain had a pace of his own. “Miss Canner, I noted a moment ago that you are plainly an educated woman. And yet it is also plain to me, from the shade of your skin, that you have, intermixed in your line, the blood of the white race.” He waved away her objection. “No, no. I make no criticism. Naturally, I do not approve of relations between our races, but it is well known that this occurs, and, indeed, if you examine the data collected by the census, you will discover that, as you move from the Lower South to the Upper South, the percentage of negroes with white blood rises. And of course among the free negroes, it is highest of all. I believe that in Maryland, more than forty percent of the free negroes have white blood. There is a reason, therefore, that you have succeeded so well in freedom.”
“Perhaps, then,” she said, “you should reconsider whether to approve of relations between the races, if white blood suits us so well.”
Dead silence.
“You are a fascinating people,” the pastor finally said. He licked his lips, nervous for some reason. “Absolutely fascinating. That man cares nothing for you. We loved your people, and you …” He could not find the words. Again the tongue snaked across his lips. He shook his head, and, shivering, turned the rocker slightly away, as if he could bear to look on them no more. “Say what you have come to say,” he whispered, “and then go.”
“Sir,” said Jonathan, swiftly, “I apologize if we have given offense. That was never our intention.”
No response. The pastor was hunching into himself, drawing the jacket more tightly across his withered shoulders.
Jonathan tried again. “Sir, we are not here to argue over the past. Our on
ly concern is the trial, and why you sent—”
Chastain revived, although his voice was now less commanding than querulous. “You are mistaken. Both of you. I did not at any point labor on behalf of the Union. What I did, always, was for the benefit of my own beloved state of Virginia, now subject to conquest and oppression because of that man.”
Abigail again: “But, sir, in the files of the War Department—”
“In the files of your War Department, I am doubtless listed as a turncoat, a traitor to my own nation who labored, as you say, on behalf of the Union.” He took another sip of lemonade, let it slosh about in his mouth before swallowing, as if he sought to wash away the taste of his own words. “And I suspect that it is that wretched file, rather than any solicitude on the part of that man for teachers of the faith, that has left my home and my church unmolested, when so much has been taken from us.” He lifted his chin, indicating the ruined city beyond the window. “But I was never a traitor. I wanted peace between our nations, rather than this pointless destruction. It was to that end that I was persuaded to labor.”
“You were persuaded,” Abigail echoed, gently.
A tight nod. Chastain had the rocker moving now, slowly, and in his worn suit looked suddenly old. “I am an imperfect man. A miserable sinner, as we all are, in need of our Lord’s forgiveness. I have transgressions in my past.” His eyes were cast, if anywhere, on the carpeting, and perhaps down to the smoldering depths of Hell below. “Naturally, one’s associates … one’s domestic staff … they are aware of more than one thinks. It is as I said, Miss Canner. Your race is not unintelligent, and … and fascinating, as I said. I suppose I did not imagine … Well, they knew. They knew what I had done, and they … they told, and she came to me and said unless I …”
Chastain ran down. He had nothing more to say.
“When you say ‘she,’ ” Jonathan began, but Abigail put a hand on his wrist.
“You were coerced. Through the agency of your … domestic staff.” She glanced around; Zillah stood beside the fireplace, heavy arms folded. She went out. “You were coerced into … into laboring for the Union.”
“No,” said the pastor, sharply. His gaze grew fiery, and he waggled an admonishing finger. “Never. I did not labor on their behalf. I did not. I was persuaded to labor for peace between our two nations, and that was all.”
They gave him a moment to settle himself. “And these labors,” said Jonathan. “What did they consist of?”
“I passed messages. That was all. I held messages, I passed them on, and I put packages in the post. Nothing else. Do you hear? Nothing else!”
“The Chanticleer messages.”
“Yes. Yes. The messages from Chanticleer. I passed them on. That is all I ever did. All!”
In the ringing silence, Abigail caught the point an instant before Jonathan did: “You are not Chanticleer.”
“I? I, Chanticleer? What? No! Is that what the files say? If they do, they are false!” He was half on his feet, voice breaking, as he shook a trembling fist. “You go back and tell them that!” Looking around wildly. “Zillah! Where is Zillah?” Raging at them once more. “I never betrayed my country! I only worked for peace!”
The black woman hurried back in, crouched beside the chair, took the sobbing figure in her arms. “You go on, now,” she snarled.
“Wait,” cried Abigail. “Please, sir. Who is Chanticleer?”
He shook his head, weeping. “I had my deposit,” Chastain whispered. “My protection. Now it’s gone. She took it. I have no protection. None.”
“What does that mean?” said Jonathan. “What deposit?”
“I told you to go on,” Zillah repeated. “Hurry up, now, before I get the law after you.”
“We only have one or two more questions—”
“You done caused enough pain to Dr. Chastain. He’s a fine gentleman. He don’t never hurt nobody. Now, go on. Get out.” She turned to Chastain, patted his shoulder. “There, there,” she cooed. “There, there.”
Startled, Abigail and Jonathan left them that way, found their own way out. In the brilliant March sunshine, the coachman was waiting, brushing his horse.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he murmured happily. “Everybody likes Dr. Chastain.”
IV
“He knew her name,” said Jonathan as they rode back toward the depot. “Chanticleer is a woman, and he knew her name.”
“Wait—” said Abigail.
“He was on verge of telling us.” He rapped a hand against the side of the carriage. “I should have threatened him. One telegram to Sickles and I could have him arrested.”
“To what end?” Abigail was thoughtful as they passed through the demolished city.
“To make him tell! He cannot hide behind that clerical nonsense.” Big Red seemed to stiffen at this epithet, and Jonathan dropped his voice. “We should go back. We are leaving empty-handed.”
“I do not think Dr. Chastain would tell us anything else,” she said, staring at the coachman’s back. “You saw them. Zillah will not let us in the house.”
“I daresay Zillah will not withstand a company of Union soldiers!”
“Which we are not about to dispatch. Calm down, Jonathan.” Whispering now, touching his hand. “Wait until we are on the train.”
Again they sat in third class. The train back to Washington City was even emptier than the train down, as if the stream of commerce ran only in one direction. Or perhaps nobody at the South could get travel documents.
“I apologize,” she said when they were settled. “Big Red was too interested in our conversation.”
“Big Red? Ah, the coachman. Well, we are alone now. So tell me, please, Abigail. Why are we not going back to that house?”
“In the first place, Dr. Chastain never said that Chanticleer was a woman. He said that ‘she’ coerced him. But it is obvious, isn’t it, who runs that household? I do not know what he did that allowed him to be coerced, or what Zillah knows, or whether what he did”—she blushed—“involved Zillah somehow. But it strikes me that it is Zillah, not Dr. Chastain, who is, or was, in contact with Chanticleer.” The train was leaving the station. Abigail looked out upon the charred buildings. “It is my understanding,” she said, “that the slaves themselves were a crucial part of the Union spy effort during the war, both gathering information and forming networks through which messages could be passed from hand to hand, or even from mouth to mouth.”
“I had forgotten,” said Jonathan. “But you are right. We used to call the messages from the slave network the ‘black dispatches.’ ”
“Well, then, it is obvious what has happened, isn’t it? Chanticleer, whoever he or she is, has revived the old network from the war—your black dispatches—and is using it to aid Mr. Lincoln, by providing damaging information about the witnesses called by the Radicals.”
“So it is Zillah, not Chastain, who is part of the network.”
“He gives Zillah cover. Perhaps she receives packages from Chanticleer, and Dr. Chastain posts them. And Zillah … well, she takes care of him.”
Imagination briefly made them both uncomfortable.
“And the deposit?” Jonathan finally said. “What is that? What did he mean when he said he lost his protection?”
Abigail studied the wreck of a factory, then the remains of a fort. Pondering, she tapped her chin. He hid a smile. “I don’t know, Jonathan,” she said. “I’m not quite there yet. But we’re closer. I can sense it. And I am quite certain that Dr. Chastain and Zillah, between them, have told us nearly everything that we need to work out what has been going on.”
CHAPTER 39
Warning
I
THE PROSECUTION DECIDED to skip most of the widows and orphans. This, said Sickles, represented the sensible strategy. If the Managers brought to the witness box a parade of unfortunates whose husbands and fathers had been locked up by the execrable tyrant Abraham Lincoln, then Dennard, on cross-examination, would have the opportunity t
o explore exactly what those poor husbands and fathers were supposed to have done. “When they all turn out to be Southern sympathizers, Copperheads, and Knights of the Golden Circle,” he said, “the country will swing back Lincoln’s way.” This, at least, was the way Sickles put it when, on Wednesday evening, he met Jonathan and Abigail at the office. Little had met them at the Washington depot, with instructions that Sickles wanted to see them at once.
Pudgy Rellman was there, too, and looked unhappy.
Speed and Dennard were at the Mansion.
“What that means,” Sickles continued, “is that, no later than Monday, the real trial starts.”
“Real how?” asked Abigail.
“The Radicals never expected to remove him from office with the first two counts. Those are just for show. The idea was to damage his standing with the public. It’s a bit early to say how well it worked. The fact that they want to move on so swiftly suggests they think they’ve done enough damage already.”
“Or that they’re not doing enough,” Jonathan suggested.
Sickles grimaced, put both hands on his stump, tried to find a more comfortable position. “Either way, they’ll spend one more day making speeches about how Mr. Lincoln has violated the fundamental liberties of the American people, and then they’ll move on.”
“To Counts Three and Four,” said Abigail.
“Precisely. Counts Three and Four. Ignoring congressional mandates on how to reconstruct the South. That’s Count Three. Count Four, you will remember, says that Mr. Lincoln has been conspiring to make himself king of America. That’s the way some of the Radical papers are putting it, anyway.”
“The proposition is an absurdity.”
Sickles lifted an eyebrow. “All that matters, Miss Canner, is whether the Managers can persuade people that it is true.” He pointed to a sheaf of papers awaiting delivery to the copyist. “We can write as many arguments and motions as we like. The arguments don’t really matter. This is politics, not law.” He saw their faces. “Don’t worry. We might be doing politics, but a trial is a trial, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you can’t tell midway through a trial how it’s going to come out.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 39