The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  But with another writer flattered, another attitude was adjusted. Conlon gave Peter a small bow of the head.

  Then Evangeline suggested that she should have her producer contact him.

  Conlon beamed. “If I had people—as you media people say—I’d tell them to get in touch with your people, but since I don’t”—he dipped in his pocket—“my card.”

  A cheap date, thought Peter.

  Dougherty excused himself. “I must warn the congressman that he’ll be on in ten minutes. You’re in good hands.”

  “Follow me,” said Conlon.

  Peter and Evangeline put their wineglasses on the tray and entered the gallery, a small space in a big museum, soundproofed so that people could concentrate on the documents, low-lit to protect them. And for the moment, it was almost empty. Most everyone else was out in the atrium enjoying the wine and the music and the shoptalk.

  But Peter felt a chill, because this was a true sanctum sanctorum.

  He knew there was a reason for all this. Someone wanted something from him. But until he found out exactly what, he would just enjoy this moment.

  Evangeline felt a chill, too. She’d been in the presence of a lot of amazing documents and always tried to keep calm, on the principle that one of them had to.

  But what they were seeing was truly amazing.

  Directly in front of them, exhibited in a tall glass obelisk, lit from above with low light and laser alarm, was a small leather-bound book. It had been opened to the endpaper, where was written, in pencil, the words, The following extracts were taken from speeches of mine delivered at various times and places. And I believe they contain the substance of all that I have ever said on Negro equality. A. Lincoln.

  Peter wondered, could this be the “something” in the letter? Could this be the diary that everyone was rumoring about?

  But Conlon explained that Lincoln had cut out and pasted his 1858 campaign speeches into this little book, adding annotations here and there. He gave it to one of his supporters after he lost the senatorial election to Stephen Douglas. It now resided in the Library of Congress.

  Conlon said, “Some of his speeches were off the cuff, so the newspaper versions were the only record.”

  An interactive screen allowed the viewer to turn the “pages” of the little book, see the articles reprinted from the Chicago Press & Tribune, a Republican paper, and the Chicago Times, which supported Douglas.

  “In the extreme partisanship of the time,” Conlon explained, “Lincoln knew that the Republican paper would do a better job of recording his words, and the Democratic paper would be more careful with Douglas.”

  “There was spin, even then,” said Evangeline.

  “It makes today’s vitriolic opinionating sound like chamber music.”

  The side walls were lined with documents, letters, and images showing the run-up to the Proclamation and its immediate impact. But the heart of the exhibit was displayed at the end wall, in a long case, with exit doors on either side, guards in Civil War garb at each one, and a huge blowup of the painting, First Reading of the Emancipation Proclamation, on the wall behind. Lincoln sat at the center of the painting, holding a sheet of paper, and surrounded by his cabinet on that historic day in July 1862.

  Directly beneath were the four Lincoln-signed versions of the Proclamation, gathered from the National Archives, the New York State Library, and the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum. Two sheets, four sheets, four sheets, and one: dated July 22, 1862; September 22, 1862; January 1, 1863; and June 10, 1864. As for the case itself: fifteen feet long, low light, double-chamber glass, and filled, Peter assumed, with nitrogen gas to stabilize temperature and humidity in a closed environment.

  He decided that even if the “something” referenced in the Lincoln letter turned out to be no more than a list of office supplies for the White House, his Washington trip had led to a high point in his career right here, right now.

  “This is the first time that these four drafts have been displayed in one place at one time,” said Conlon, “ever.”

  The July 22 version came from the Robert Todd Lincoln papers in the National Archives, a page and a half, written on two long sheets.

  Evangeline read the last words, just above the signature, almost to herself, “then, thenceforward, and forever free.”

  Conlon said, “Lincoln had been toying with the idea of a proclamation. After seeing how badly things were going militarily that summer, he knew that he had to do something to change the odds of the war. This is the version he read to his cabinet.”

  Peter said, “The one he wrote at Major Eckert’s desk in the telegraph office?”

  Conlon sniffed. He was good at sniffing to express professorial condescension. “Lincoln was thinking and writing in many places—the telegraph office, his summer cottage, the White House—and he made notes of all sorts. As you can see, this was the final version. There’s hardly a change or a deletion in it.”

  “He could have thrown the other notes away,” said Peter.

  “I suppose. But Eckert isn’t very reliable. He told his story many years later and claimed that Lincoln had actually told him what he was writing. I don’t think Lincoln would bother telling a mere major.”

  Peter didn’t argue. He was still trying to figure out why Conlon was giving this little tour. And there were three other versions to look at.

  Evangeline pointed to the September 22 version. It had somehow become the property of a New Yorker who had contributed it to his state library.

  She said, “How much do you think that’s worth?”

  “A crass question,” said Conlon.

  “I run with a crass crowd.” She shot a glance at Peter.

  “It’s priceless,” said Conlon. “It’s the second Declaration of Independence.”

  A good description, thought Peter, and the right price.

  He studied the handwriting, the heavy paper with the light-brown lines to guide the writer, the brown ink, and at the very top, the words written in pencil, By the President of the United States of America, a Proclamation. This was the version that would be read to the troops and distributed across America in September of 1862. It gave rebellious states a hundred days to return to the Union or forfeit control of the greatest part of their wealth, the single largest financial asset in America: the four million men and women held in bondage.

  Suddenly, the lights in the case faded to black. The documents disappeared.

  It was so startling that Evangeline almost jumped.

  Conlon explained, “Conservators recommend these documents be on exhibit for limited periods, even in low light, to prevent cumulative damage. The New York folks want their edition be visible for no more than eighty hours in a year.”

  “Why all the worry?” asked Evangeline.

  “Iron gall ink on acid paper,” said Peter, “as sensitive to light as a baby’s bottom on a sunny beach.”

  “Let’s hope that the ‘something’ referenced in the Lincoln letter hasn’t been left in the sun,” said Conlon.

  “The ‘something’ could be nothing,” said Peter.

  “That’s not why you’re here, Mr. Fallon. But let me say this, right in front of this cabinet of wonders: Whatever is out there belongs to the American people … not to Diana Wilmington and her failed museum, simply because she’s black, and not to a certain client of Suzanne Hamill and Associates who’ll pay anything to sully the Lincoln legacy.”

  Peter and Evangeline looked at each other. Conlon knew about David Bruce?

  “And not”—Conlon stepped closer to Peter—“to men like yourself.”

  “Are you speaking for everyone,” said Evangeline, “or just the historians.”

  “Historians respect history,” said Conlon. “We don’t plunder it for profit.”

  Peter had heard this before. It was the 2.1 version of “treasure hunters and cost/value.” But he had never heard it in a room that was, for the moment, the second most important national reliquary in
America. The most important was a block away, the National Archives, where they kept the Declaration of Independence and Constitution.

  “Is this why the congressman invited us?” asked Peter. “So that you could give me a speech?”

  “The congressman agrees. And he’s asked me to draft a preliminary bill that allows the federal government to seize any article that meets the standards of a national treasure.”

  “Then I’d better find this ‘something,’” said Peter, “before the law takes effect.”

  “I am planning to convene a panel—”

  “You would,” Peter said. “When in doubt, call a panel out.”

  “—to determine what in fact is a national treasure.”

  The lights came on again in the main display case.

  Evangeline said, “I think we’re looking at a few.”

  Peter turned to the January 1, 1863, version of the Proclamation. It had been handwritten by a professional “engrosser,” bore Lincoln’s signature, and was stamped with the seal of United States, which was festooned with the red, white, and blue ribbons. The ribbons had faded. So had the ink.

  “A perfect example,” said Professor Conlon, “of what I’m talking about.”

  Peter ignored Conlon and studied the signature:

  Lincoln had spent New Year’s morning receiving the public at his traditional reception in the East Room. Then he went up to his office and took up the pen, but put it down again, explaining that he had shaken so many hands, his own felt paralyzed. And he wanted his signature to appear firm; otherwise, people would think he hesitated. But he had no hesitation. He said, “If I ever go into the history books, it will be for this act. My whole heart and soul is in it.” Then he flexed his hand a few times, took the pen, and signed. Behind every document, thought Peter, there was a story.

  But Conlon was still distracting them with talk: “We’re drawing on several sources for our standards. A national treasure should have extraordinary intrinsic and monetary value, unique and irreplaceable to the nation—”

  “Check,” said Peter out of the corner of his mouth.

  “—be the work of human hands, of great cultural value, of historical significance, and of inherent aesthetic value.”

  “Check, check, check, and check again,” said Peter; then he directed Evangeline to the fourth document. “A signed Leland-Boker printing.”

  “Another example of what I’m talking about,” said Conlon. “Lincoln signed forty-eight copies for auction at the Philadelphia Sanitary Ball in June 1864. Counting the Robert F. Kennedy copy sold recently, only twenty-four are known to exist.”

  Peter glanced at Evangeline, giving her the honors.

  She said, “Twenty-five.”

  That stopped Conlon in his pedantic tracks. “Twenty-five?”

  Evangeline rolled her eyes to Peter.

  Conlon whispered, “You own a Leland-Boker?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Signed?” said Conlon.

  “A national treasure,” said Peter.

  After a pause, Conlon said, “Well, there may come a time when we decide that such a thing belongs in a museum.”

  Peter said, “Who’s we? The government? Democrats? Republicans?”

  “A panel. When in doubt, call a panel out.” Conlon headed for the exit. The sound of distant applause signaled the end of one speech, the beginning of another.

  Peter turned to Evangeline and said, “Now do you see why I made up my own political party?”

  * * *

  They stayed a few minutes more with those magnificent documents, and as they left, the reenactor standing “guard” at the exit said, “Good evening, Mr. Fallon.”

  Peter stopped and looked at the face under the kepi.

  The man said, “We have a deal, right? Five hundred dollars, cash or check.”

  “Bryant?”

  The flea market bookseller had taken his hair out of its ponytail and put on the uniform of a Union soldier, but not the uniform that Peter would have expected, given the Lee and Stonewall T-shirt he had been wearing that afternoon.

  “I thought I might see you here,” said Douglas Bryant. “Big Boston honcho like you, he doesn’t come to D.C. just for the monuments. Hell, you’re a monument yourself.”

  “Apparently this guy knows you,” said Evangeline.

  “Just not very well,” said Peter.

  She pointed to the dark blue insignia on Bryant’s uniform. It looked like a Star of David. “Are you supposed to be Jewish?”

  “That’s the patch of the Union Eighth Corps. I’m from West Virginia, so I march as a private in the Tenth Regiment, West Virginia Infantry. And since my wife is from Fairfax, sometimes I go over to the other side and march with Longstreet’s Corps.”

  Peter said to Evangeline, “The Civil War lives.”

  “So if you have five hundred Yankee greenbacks, I can sell you the book right after this shindig is over.”

  “I have four hundred,” said Peter.

  Bryant shook his head. “No way, Mr. Boston. Five hundred or nothing. From what I just heard, you can afford a lot more than that, so your friendly weekend bookseller and Civil War reenactor will get his price.”

  Evangeline said, “What are we talking about here?”

  “A book called Fort Lafayette,” said Peter. “No dust jacket. No signature. Piss-poor nineteenth-century wood-pulp paper. But my curiosity is piqued.”

  “It’s more than piqued.” Bryant grinned, flashing those yellow teeth that added a bit of authenticity to his 1862 aspect. “You’re as hot as a teenager seein’ a pretty girl in a bathing suit. Otherwise you wouldn’t have texted me an hour after you left.”

  Peter cut to the chase. “I have the cash. When can I get the book?”

  “Tonight. I’m scheduled to stand here for another half hour. Meet me out on the plaza afterwards. My van is parked on the Mall.”

  * * *

  Up on the podium, Congressman Max Milbury was rambling about the importance of Lincoln, liberty, freedom, equality. “There’s a reason why I have a bust of Lincoln in my office on Capitol Hill, and you see it here tonight.…”

  Peter grabbed a second glass of wine, leaned close to Evangeline, and whispered, “Blah, blah, blah.”

  She said, “If you’re planning on negotiating with that rube in the soldier’s suit, I wouldn’t drink any more wine.”

  “I’m not negotiating. I’m paying his price. And he’s not a rube.”

  The congressman was saying, “I want to thank the American Retail Sales Association for recognizing the importance of bringing all these majestic documents together in one place. You know how much I appreciate you all.”

  Then Evangeline heard a voice behind her.

  “The congressman is about to make a political statement”—it was Kathi Morganti—“in an apolitical atmosphere.”

  “Is there such a thing in Washington?” asked Evangeline.

  “In town for less than a day and already you’re cynical.” Kathi turned to Peter. “So this is the famous document sleuth?”

  Evangeline said, “At least she didn’t call you a treasure hunter.”

  “Much appreciated,” he said.

  “Why are you here?” asked Evangeline. “Your clients want to unseat Milbury.”

  “The Smithsonian’s neutral territory,” said Kathi.

  “Like the gym in West Side Story,” said Peter.

  Kathi said, “Handsome, successful, and quick with his cultural references … If I was single, I don’t think I would have left this guy in Boston.”

  Evangeline said to Peter, “For some reason, this woman thinks that she’s been invited to talk about our—”

  “Wedding that wasn’t?” said Peter.

  “Nothing out of you, either,” said Evangeline.

  Peter nodded. He knew enough not to push. He said to Kathi, “We met your client this evening. What’s his war on Milbury all about?”

  Kathi said, “Look around you. This place is l
oaded with representatives from brick-and-mortar retailers. They’re here to support the Smithsonian’s great show, because you can’t run a political event in any of these museums. But if you make an unrestricted gift, you can run a party, and you get to invite a percentage of the guest list.”

  “I take it you’re not part of the percentage?”

  “I represent one of American’s major online retailers,” said Kathi. “The gasbag at the microphone introduces a bill every session to force online retailers to pay sales taxes in every state, even if they don’t have a physical presence in them.”

  “The classic clash,” said Peter. “Big government liberal versus avatar of unfettered capitalism.”

  “I prefer to call it the public good against private greed,” said Evangeline.

  “We call it billable hours,” said Kathi. “And whatever you call it, you’re in the middle of it. My client takes it very seriously when he hires someone. Very seriously.”

  Peter looked at Evangeline. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “More like a warning,” said Kathi. “Bruce has the resources to win … here and in Upstate New York, where Milbury is fighting a Republican lawyer who’s campaigning as we speak, while Milbury sucks up to this group.” She finished her wine. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a Democratic staffer I need to schmooze.”

  “You just told me this was an apolitical night,” said Evangeline.

  “I lied.” Kathi Morganti smiled that rictus smile. “Nothing’s apolitical in this town … unless it’s dead.”

  * * *

  They never got to talk to the congressman. He was surrounded by too many admirers and contributors. They never got to talk to Dougherty again because he was herding contributors toward the congressman and spending schmooze time with Kathi Morganti. They never got to talk to Diana Wilmington, either. She had promised to be there but never showed up.

  Peter didn’t like that.

  As soon as they were outside, he called her, but got her voice mail.

  “Maybe we should go up to Georgetown and see if she’s home,” said Evangeline.

  “Buy the book first,” said Peter.