1876

by Gore Vidal

  “We shall go back to the city in the five P.M. cars,” said Tilden.

  “Then we’ll check these trunks straight on through for you, Governor.”

  “Straight through to Washington City. To the White House,” I heard myself say. There was general if strained laughter, and even Tilden smiled, though he said nothing.

  Just before 5:00 P.M. of this grey, freezing day, we arrived at the depot. To my astonishment no one had come to say good-bye. Awkwardly we stood by the potbellied stove in the nearly empty station, trying to make conversation.

  I found it suddenly hard to believe that this lonely small figure was the president of a great nation and the center of a national crisis. “Tilden or Blood!” Well, beside me in the parlour car at this very moment dozes the first part of that rallying cry. When comes the second?

  There are, I suppose, explanations for the lack of a crowd. Today is New Year’s Day and everyone is home or paying calls. Certainly the cars are nearly empty but…

  We are rattling through the town of Hudson. Between red-brick houses I can see the river, frozen solid. A single iceboat with a blue sail skims swiftly over the ice, close to where boys have built a bonfire. Smoke from the chimneys of Catskill downriver gives an infernal aspect to a frozen landscape that lacks only the slow unfurling of the great cold leathern wings of Dante’s Satan to match my mood.

  I have just moved across the aisle. I sit next to Bigelow, who is now wide-awake. “What do you make of it?”

  Bigelow knew exactly what I meant. He spoke in a low voice in order not to disturb Tilden. “The Governor was never popular at Albany. They just didn’t care for him.”

  “But he is the president.”

  “I know. Strange, isn’t it? To win such a victory and watch it all leak away.”

  “Except it hasn’t.”

  “We’re in the hands of Congress now.” Bigelow looked forlorn. “And of Hewitt. I have no idea what he’ll do when the House meets tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you persuade the Governor to take charge, directly?”

  “He won’t. ‘Separation of powers,’ he says.”

  “Are the Southern Democrats in Congress apt to defect?”

  “Not yet. Not until Hayes and Grant make them an irresistible offer.”

  Across the aisle Tilden’s eyes are now open. Neutrally, he watches us. The three of us look at one another as the cars hurtle south through the icy evening. For some time now not one of us has had anything to say.

  2

  JANUARY 14, 1877. A Sunday. I am still in New York. Jamie was much put out that I did not go to Washington City but I think that now he sees the wisdom of my having stayed close to Tilden.

  I ought to note that in the midst of all this high political drama there has been some comedy. On New Year’s Day, while I was at Albany, Jamie made the rounds of those houses that still receive him.

  By the time he got to the house of his fiancée, Miss May, he was so drunk that he pissed in the front parlour fireplace. Last week a male relative of the now former fiancée accosted Jamie in front of the Union Club and horsewhipped him.

  I found Jamie still bruised, and very grim. He has said nothing to me about the matter, but then he does not have to, since New York talks of nothing else.

  Until two days ago, when the committees met in joint session, there was no news at all out of Washington City. The members of the two committees had conducted their affairs in absolute secrecy. This uncharacteristic continence has alarmed us all.

  Last night Hewitt came up from Washington, bringing with him a draft of the joint resolution which the two committees will submit to the whole Congress. Apparently Tilden and Hewitt sat up most of last night, going over the various articles of the bill.

  Just before noon Tilden and Hewitt appeared in the downstairs parlour, where a half dozen advisers (and myself) were gathered. Tilden looks uncommonly serene. I have now come to recognize that the more serene he looks the more furious he is.

  “Gentlemen, the joint committee of the Congress have decided that there is to be an electoral commission. Although members of Congress will sit on the commission, this…novelty will exist outside the Congress, as well as outside the Constitution.”

  “But this is only a proposal.” Bigelow was quick. “The Congress can still reject it.”

  “Mr. Hewitt tells me that the Democratic members of the Senate committee have already accepted the principle of such a commission…”

  “But, Governor, after consulting you, the House—which is controlled by us—can still reject what the joint committee propose.” This from one of the legal advisers.

  Tilden turned to Hewitt, “Isn’t it rather late in the day to consult me?”

  Hewitt looked wretched; he has been constantly but softly belching all day. Like Napoleon, he keeps his hand plunged inside his coat, rubbing his dyspeptic stomach.

  “Well, Governor, the House committee isn’t actually consulting you even now. I mean they have their constitutional and separate duty to perform. I consult you of course.”

  We then sat at a baize-covered table and the plan for an electoral commission was gone over carefully. As always, in matters of detail, the Governor is impressive. During the night he had mastered the contents. “Personally, I find this totally unconstitutional.”

  “Then oppose it!” Although a lawyer, Bigelow has not the legal temperament. “The House will support you.”

  “John, I cannot openly thrust myself into the deliberations of the legislative branch of the government.”

  “Then, secretly!” Thus Bigelow, devotee of all that is right.

  A suggestion of a smile on the arched blue-grey lips. “I don’t think that you’ve quite understood Mr. Hewitt. Since our party in the Senate favours this commission, he thinks that the House will follow suit. It is now too late to stop this…thing.”

  “But what do you advise?” Hewitt looked like a man who has failed; which he has.

  “I certainly will not advise you to agree to this bill. But I am willing to advise you about details.”

  The proposed electoral commission was then carefully examined. There is to be a tribunal of thirteen worthies. Nine members will come from the two houses of Congress. Four will be Justices of the Supreme Court. Each house of the Congress will choose five members, of whom one is to be eliminated by lot.

  Tilden regarded this last example of congressional ingenuity as typically frivolous. “I may lose the presidency,” he said in a hard voice, “but I will not raffle for it.”

  “Then how should the commission be chosen?” asked Hewitt.

  “Certainly not by chance, and not through intrigue. I would advise you to move slowly, deliberately. After all, we have a month in which to negotiate.”

  But Hewitt has a fearful nature. “There is a danger, Governor, that—well, of a collision with General Grant.”

  Tilden showed some amusement. “I can think of nothing more helpful to our cause than the President ordering Federal troops into the Capitol. But he won’t. My point is why surrender before the battle? There will be plenty of time for surrender if we lose. No, we must hold out for the best terms.”

  “But they’re meeting tonight at Washington, our Democratic committee members. They will want to know if you will personally adhere to this plan.”

  “Since you put it on a personal basis, no, I will not adhere.” Tilden suddenly bared his teeth. A good deal of rage has been accumulating behind that most reasonable and decorous façade.

  “This commission is purest mischief. But should it be adopted by the Congress, I will help in any way I can to minimize the dangers of their inept and hasty work. Meanwhile, you may say that, personally, I do not accept any part of this and that I deeply deplore”—and here he glanced meaningfully at me—“the secrecy in which the Congress has concocted what, in effect, will b
e an extralegal presidential election, contrary to all custom.”

  “I’ll telegraph our leaders that you oppose the plan.” Hewitt looked most unhappy.

  “But do tell them how much I appreciate their courtesy in consulting me, even after the fact.” The cold gaze of a tiger glared across the baize-covered table. “I can see why they would like my blessing on their unsatisfactory labours, but that I am obliged to withhold. Personally, I would suggest placing the whole matter before a court of arbitrament. But then I am just a lawyer and not a revolutionary.”

  “Governor, if you absolutely disapprove of the bill, it will not be passed.” Hewitt was abrupt, and startling.

  Bigelow and I exchanged a look. Now was Tilden’s chance. But suddenly lawyer replaced tiger at that table. “I cannot be put in the position of appearing to oppose an arbitrament by the Congress when our present dilemma does call for something of the sort.” On that legal ground, Tilden gravely undermined his own position.

  Later in the day Bigelow remonstrated with him, but Tilden was firm in his principle. He would accept, in theory, the electoral commission, but would change, if he could, the means by which its membership was chosen.

  Shortly before midnight a messenger arrived from the glorious Charles Francis Adams himself. The great man proposed that Tilden and Hayes jointly call for a new election.

  Tilden was amused. “The Republicans having stolen three states from us without rehearsal, can now, thanks to their recent criminal practices, efficiently steal six. My compliments to Mr. Adams,” he said to the messenger. “I will see him later.”

  “What,” I asked, “may I say about all this for the Herald?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would give the impression that I am neutral, at present.”

  “But may I say that you do plan to fight for the office you have won?” I grow more alarmed by the minute. Tilden the lawyer is actively working against Tilden the leader, who has fired with a rage for reform a majority of our countrymen.

  “The word is not ‘fight,’ Mr. Schuyler. At least not yet. The word is ‘arbitrate.’ ”

  3

  JANUARY 25. At Willard’s Hotel, Washington City.

  On January 17, details of the electoral commission bill were published. That night I asked Governor Tilden the obvious question: What was his view of the bill, which must now be voted on by the Congress?

  “Unchanged.” The voice was weary; he has lost entirely his famous “snap.” “I stand by the Constitution, by custom, by the twenty-two previous elections for president. If neither Hayes nor I has a majority in the Electoral College, then the Constitution prescribes that the president be chosen by the House and that the vice president be chosen by the Senate. If the House should name me president, as it is inclined to do, then I would go immediately to Washington and take the oath of office, even though I were to be shot five minutes later.”

  “What of Governor Hayes?”

  A smile flickered on papery lips. “The only thing we have in common is that we each detest this commission.”

  “Then why don’t you jointly denounce it?”

  “For one thing, we cannot—either of us—control our parties in the Congress. Particularly now. Also Governor Hayes is—obligated to the Senate, whose Republican president counts the electoral votes. Anyway, the thing is done.”

  “But Congress could still reject the joint committee’s bill.”

  “Congress will accept the bill. And the loudest objections to it will come not from our party but from the Republican Stalwarts.” This was most surprising. I tried to pursue the matter, but Tilden only shook his head and smiled a cryptic smile. Despite what he says officially, I have the impression that he is not displeased with what is happening.

  As we parted, Tilden said, reflexively (will “automatedly” soon become a post-centennial neologism?), “I’ll see you later.”

  The night before I left New York I had a long talk with Jamie, and found him uncha­racte­risti­cally sombre—and sober.

  Apparently the famous event of New Year’s Day has made the greatest impression on him. I am still not quite certain as to what happened on that ill-omened day; but then no one else seems to know either. In fact, New York is now divided into quarrelling factions. The largest group maintains that Jamie urinated in the cannel-coal fireplace of Colonel May’s front parlour. The second largest group bitterly protests this version, declaring that in actual fact it was a china umbrella stand that received the transmuted razzle-dazzles. A small but dedicated sect does not merely believe but, magically, knows that Jamie pissed into a blue Delft Chinese bowl. The identifying adjectives are always repeated in exactly the same significant order, like the Hail Mary. A number of sturdy nonconformists think that a grand piano also played an important part in the sacred story.

  In any event, on January 3, a member of the former fiancée’s family named Fred May accosted Jamie outside the Union Club. Mr. May was armed with a cowhide strip. Through the windows of the Union Club a dozen horrified members like a Greek chorus observed with pity and awe the terrible agon, which ended with the two men falling into a snowdrift.

  Wanting to salvage honour, Jamie then proceeded to challenge Mr. May to a duel. On January 7 the two heroes met at something called Slaughterer’s Gap, a fashionable place for duellists, since it is possible for one would-be assassin to stand in Delaware whilst the other stands in Maryland, causing no end of juridical problems should murder be committed.

  But there was no murder that day. Mr. May saw fit to express his contempt for bold urinaters by firing into the air. Jamie was too nervous to fire at all. Honour was satisfied.

  Jamie made only one reference to the duel. I, of course, made none. I noticed that he kept wriggling uncomfortably, and tugging at his shirt.

  “What’s wrong?” I finally asked.

  “May!” Jamie retorted, assuming correctly that I knew who and what he was talking about. Then Jamie unbuttoned his shirt. “Look!” And he bared for me a metal-mesh inner waistcoat. “This can stop any bullet. Pure high-quality steel. But it pinches something fierce.”

  “But is a bullet apt ever to be fired?” I asked. “At you?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s waiting for me. Skulking about in alleyways. Climbing up on fire escapes. But I’m ready for him.” Jamie withdrew a small pistol from his coat pocket. “I sleep with one eye open, you can bet.”

  “Do put that thing away.” Since I am at best nervous in the presence of all firearms, a pistol in the hand of Jamie Bennett was altogether a most alarming experience.

  Jamie put away the pistol and without a change in tone said, “He ought to be keeping that one good eye of his open, too. Your friend Tilden.”

  “I was just with him. He seems—surprisingly—pleased with the commission.”

  “Watch Davis. That’s the man.”

  “The Supreme Court Justice?”

  Jamie nodded. Then contrary to his new rule, he shut both eyes and began to recite: “The commission will be composed of fifteen members. Five will come from the Senate. Of the five from the Senate, three are for Hayes and two are for Tilden. Of the five members from the House, three are for Tilden and two are for Hayes. So House and Senate cancel each other out. Four Supreme Court Justices have been appointed to the commission. Two are for Hayes. Two are for Tilden. These four Justices are now obliged by the electoral commission law to pick a fifth Justice as an independent judge, and that will be Davis.”

  “You are assuming that Congress is going to accept this novelty.”

  “Oh, yes. No doubt of it. And the fifth Justice is going to be Davis. And he’s going to decide the election. He’s an Illinois man. A founder of the Republican party who was put on the Court by Honest Ape. But Davis sounds like a Democrat a lot of the time because he wants to be the Democratic candidate for president some day.”

  “Then he’ll
vote for Tilden.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, watch him. He’s sly.”

  Nordhoff confirmed Jamie’s estimate of Davis. “But it’s too early to tell. We haven’t got the electoral commission yet.” That was yesterday. Today, January 25, we are halfway to getting the commission.

  By a vote of 47 to 17, the Senate early this morning approved the bill. I was greatly heartened by the fact that sixteen of the seventeen senators who voted against the bill were Republicans, amongst them Blaine, who warned his party that this electoral commission will disarm them of their principal weapon: the fact that the Constitution requires the president of the Senate (currently the Republican Thomas W. Ferry) to count the electoral votes. But Conkling spoke magnificently in favour of the bill, a good sign, since he not so secretly supports Tilden. Speaking for Hayes himself, Senator Sherman bitterly opposed the commission. I take this to mean that the all-important fifth Justice is bound to support Tilden.

  In any case, the reason for the Republican dismay is apparent: twenty electoral votes are in dispute. Tilden needs to win only one of the twenty to be elected president. Certainly, there seems no way that he could lose all twenty, since most of them were his to begin with.

  At about noon this afternoon, I was in the cloakroom of the House, talking to Hewitt. He was enormously pleased with this morning’s vote in the Senate. While we were talking, the bill for the electoral commission was being introduced into the House. “And tomorrow we’ll pass it two to one!”

  We were interrupted by a page with a telegram for Hewitt. As he read it, his mouth fell open like a landed fish. “My God.”

  One of the congressmen at his side took the telegram. He, too, was appalled. “But they can’t. It’s not possible.”

  “Well, they have. And it is possible.” Thus was I privileged to be amongst the first in Washington to know that the Illinois legislature had that morning elected Justice Davis to the United States Senate, with heavy Democratic support.

  “But Davis can still serve on the commission.” Hewitt was emphatic. “He won’t be obliged to take his seat in the Senate until March.”