“It is devoutly to be hoped that that will happen. Would you like some tea, John?”
“I would indeed.”
In anticipation of McClernand’s arrival, he had made a pot of hot water, using a special grate that hung out over the fire, and then steeped the tea leaves in it. He poured a cup and said, “It’s something new, imported to England from China and then brought here. A gift from a supporter. I have unfortunately forgotten the name of it.” He handed the full cup to McClernand. “Sugar or milk?”
“No, thank you,” he said and sipped it. “Quite good.”
“I was surprised to hear that you were in Springfield,” Lincoln said. “What with the Congress still in session.”
“Not much is happening there at the moment, legislatively speaking. Mostly men talking incessantly about faithless electors. Although we did pass the Pacific Telegraph Act, and the lines should reach all the way to California by sometime next year.”
“That’s welcome news. We heard the election results from California and Oregon only two days ago, and that quickly only due to that new outfit, the Pony Express.”
“Congratulations on that!”
Lincoln decided to get to the point. “I asked you to come by today, John, because I wanted to discuss the contingent election that may take place in the House on February 13.”
“You’re assuming you will not win the electoral vote.”
Lincoln hedged and said, “I expect to win, but I am making some plans in case I do not.”
“What does that have to do with me?” McClernand said and smiled, as he knew full well what the answer would be.
“If we get to a contingent election in the House, I must have the votes of 18 states to win. I am assured of 16. I am searching for 2 more.”
“Let me guess. You want me to cast my vote for you when the Illinois House delegation votes, so that it will be 5 to 4 for you, instead of 5 to 4 against? Putting Illinois in your column.”
“Yes.”
“Why should I do that for you?” McClernand said.
“Because if you add it up, as it now stands I will get 16 states, Douglas will get the 5 states in the North that have clear Democratic majorities in their delegations and Breckinridge will most likely get 11, mostly in the South and Border states. At least 2 states will probably be tied.”
“Perhaps some of the delegates will change their votes after no one wins on the first ballot.”
“If you study the states involved and the congressmen who currently represent them, you will see that it can’t possibly happen for Douglas, and is very unlikely for Breckinridge.”
“I will have to analyze that for myself, Abe.”
“I expect you to. But keep in mind that if no one of the three of us gets a majority after several ballots, the Senate’s choice for vice president will become acting president for the next four years.”
“You fear Johnson, the former governor of Georgia?”
“Wouldn’t you? He is a slaveholder. The Southern senators will vote for him, and because he is Douglas’s running mate, a lot of Democratic senators from the North may well do so, too.”
“I can’t promise you my vote, Abe. I am bound to Senator Douglas in every way.”
“I am not asking for it on the first ballot. I am asking you to consider it on the second and third, when it will have become clear that Douglas cannot win.”
“I seem to have finished my cup of tea quite rapidly,” McClernand said. “May I trouble you for another?”
“Of course.” Lincoln took McClernand’s empty cup from him and refilled it. Lincoln had learned over the years that people, and especially politicians, used the excuse of pausing to take a sip or two of some beverage to give themselves time to think something over before speaking.
Lincoln waited for McClernand to drink his fill and said, “We were talking about whether I could count on you to vote for me after the first ballot, John.”
McClernand put his cup back down on the table and said, “Abe, why should I do that rather than vote for Breckinridge on a subsequent ballot? He says all the right things about keeping the Union together.”
“Because we are both for the Union come hell or high water, and he is for it only so long as the streambed is dry enough to walk across. And because we both abhor slavery yet are not abolitionists, whereas Breckinridge would see slavery expand into the territories and beyond.”
There was a knock at the door.
“I have no idea who that could possibly be,” Lincoln said. “But as I am the doorman this morning I will go and find out.”
67
When he opened the door, Mary Todd—as he still on occasion, and with affection, called Mrs. Lincoln despite eighteen years of marriage—was standing there.
“Why, Mary, I am surprised. You never come to the office.”
“I heard that John McClernand is here and I want to inquire after Sarah.”
“John,” he said, in a voice loud enough for McClernand to hear, “Mrs. Lincoln has come to see you.”
McClernand rose from the table, and he and Mary Lincoln greeted each other like old friends, which they were. Lincoln retreated to another part of the big room so that Mary and John might be left alone to discuss Sarah’s grave condition.
When they were done, Mary had a long face and said, “Mr. Lincoln, I have a few things to discuss with you later. While you gentlemen complete your business, I will just pick up one of your newspapers and busy myself until you are done.”
Lincoln and McClernand returned to the table and Lincoln said, “We were discussing why I am a much better choice for your second ballot vote than Breckinridge.”
“Yes, but you were also claiming you are not an abolitionist.”
“I am not, as I have said many times.”
McClernand took another sip of his tea, sighed and sat silent for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “Abe, not long ago, I would have told anyone who asked that I believed you when you said that. Now I am not so sure.”
“Why is that, John?”
“Because you chose to represent Mrs. Foster in her trial.”
“She was a defendant—unjustly accused I might add—in need of a lawyer. Don’t you agree that we lawyers are obligated to undertake a case like that when asked, without regard to the politics of the defendant?”
“You are not just any lawyer and she was not just any client. Taking that case called into question whether your denial of holding abolitionist sentiments is sincere.”
“It is quite sincere.”
“Well, it is not only I who tend now to doubt that but, apparently, many voters in Pennsylvania and Indiana who might otherwise have voted for you.”
Lincoln laughed. “Some people have told me that I lost abolitionist voters because I did not immediately say I would pardon Mrs. Foster were I elected. And now you are telling me I lost anti-abolitionist voters, too.”
“Perhaps it was both.”
“Well, John, all I ask is that before that contingent vote is taken—and it’s still almost three months away—that you will consider voting for me after the first ballot.”
“I will think on it, certainly.”
“Thank you.”
After he had seen McClernand out, Mary, who was sitting in the far corner leafing through one of the newspapers, put it down and said, “I told you that you should not represent that woman.”
They argued about it briefly, as they had when he made the decision to do it, and then she left.
After Mary had gone, Lincoln returned to a list he had made of other congressmen he might approach, both in and out of Illinois. No sooner had he settled in than there was, to his great annoyance, still another knock on the door. When he opened it, there stood Clarence.
“Mr. Artemis. What brings you here?”
“I would like to in
terview you once again, sir.”
“I already gave you an interview—just about a week ago if I recall correctly. And promised you the next one only if I reach the White House.”
“True. But your perspective as we get ever-closer to the vote in the House could prove even more informative for our readers. And I’m leaving tomorrow for Washington, where I hope to talk to people.”
“Sorry, Mr. Artemis. I cannot give you another interview today. But it’s a cold day. Come in and have some hot tea. I’m interested to hear whom you plan to see on your trip.”
After Clarence had taken a cup of tea, Lincoln said, “May we have our usual agreement? Nothing I say today can be published or repeated to anyone?”
“Of course.”
With that agreed, Lincoln explained to Clarence the mechanics of the upcoming electoral college vote. And told him he expected to win that vote and become president. But then Lincoln explained that just in case he didn’t win that way, he had to be concerned about the contingent election in the House that might follow.
Clarence seemed unaware of the details of the Twelfth Amendment because, after the explanation, he said, in some wonderment, “And therefore, if neither you, Douglas nor Breckinridge get the vote of a majority of the states in the contingent election in the House, the vice president, who is chosen by the Senate from the top two vice presidential candidates, would become president?
“That is how it works.”
“I am amazed,” Clarence said.
“Well, the Amendment was adopted in 1804, when our politics was quite different.”
Clarence finally seemed to understand and said, “So how the state Congressional delegations vote will be the important thing.”
“Yes, and in particular how certain Democratic congressmen from certain states plan to vote, which might change the outcome in a particular state, which could change the overall outcome. Talking to certain ones of them—I will give you a list—could help you write a very interesting story.”
Lincoln wrote out the names on a piece of paper and handed it to Clarence, who looked it over and said, “Democratic congressmen from Oregon, California, Delaware and Illinois?”
“Yes.”
“Why them?”
“Those delegations are either split fifty-fifty between Democratic representatives and Republication representatives or are one-or two-congressman states. So if even one Democratic congressman in such a state votes for me, I will have the votes of a majority of the delegation’s representatives and win the state’s vote.”
“Do you expect me to report back to you?”
“Of course not. But if we should happen to see each other and you think it might help you to ask me some questions about what you’ve learned, you are certainly welcome to do so.”
Lincoln stood up. “Now, Mr. Artemis, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do.” Clarence rose, too, and they shook hands. As Clarence lingered in the doorway, he said, “You know, some of the Southern states are still threatening to secede even though you’ve not yet been elected. Is that troubling?”
“Of course. Deeply.”
Clarence hesitated, then said, “Mr. Lincoln, when exactly can I expect another interview?”
“Mr. Artemis, if I am chosen as president, I will provide you the interview immediately after the electoral college vote is final, or if it comes to it, as soon as the House contingent election is final.”
“If you can promise me that interview immediately after the vote, that must mean you plan to go to Washington yourself.”
“Indeed I am—probably in the week before the counting of the electoral votes in the Senate on February 13. But those plans are not to be printed or repeated to anyone.” He paused a moment. “Well, you can tell Mrs. Carter since she has no doubt already learned the plan from Pinkerton.”
“I am having dinner with her tonight. I have been wondering, though, why she is still here in Springfield. She is being quite secretive about it.”
“She is part of the group protecting me. From what I am not quite sure, but Pinkerton insists on it.”
“I have not noticed her doing much protecting because, well, she has been spending a lot of time with me.”
“Pinkerton has given her some time off from her job. She requested it as I understand it.” Lincoln grinned. “Specifically, I believe, so she could spend more time with you.”
“Oh, I see. I...well, I...”
“Why, Mr. Artemis,” Lincoln said, laughing. “You are at a loss for words. Very unusual for you. Please sit back down.” Lincoln pointed to the two chairs in front of the fireplace. After Clarence had taken one, Lincoln picked up a small log and tossed it on the fire, where it kicked up a flurry of sparks.
Lincoln took the other chair, stretched out his legs and said, “Mr. Artemis, if I may be so bold, I think you may be in need of advice. Of the sort a father might provide to a son, and I am, I believe, old enough to be your father.”
“About?”
“Mrs. Carter.”
“Ah, yes. She has been on my mind, certainly.”
“A woman of such beauty and intelligence would make a fine wife to you, don’t you think?”
“Yes. But, you know, she is a detective. What in God’s name would it be like for a man to be married to a detective?”
“Interesting, I would think,” Lincoln said.
“What about children?”
“Pinkerton has children, despite being a detective.”
“That is different!”
“Is it? I would wager that two intelligent, worldly people like you and Mrs. Carter would be able to find your way through that problem.”
“I will need to consider it carefully.”
“You should. Children, I might add, are quite a joy to have in your life, even though a burden at times. Which reminds me...”
Lincoln got up, walked over to a high cabinet, opened a door and pulled out a wool cap. “Here is your hat, Mr. Artemis. I’m sorry it took so long to return it. Tad had hidden it well. And this time he assures me it is the correct one.”
Clarence took the cap and laughed. “It is the correct one, but perhaps a bit the worse for wear.”
Lincoln furrowed his brow. “Oh? It didn’t originally have a small hole in the top?”
“Not so small a hole,” Clarence said, putting his hand through the hole and wagging his fingers.
“I’d be happy to buy you a new hat, Mr. Artemis.”
“There is no need, Mr. Lincoln. I will treasure this as a souvenir of your campaign for president.”
“Well, you will at least need a new one for a wedding.”
“I don’t know if there is going to be a wedding. Even were I to ask her, I’m not sure she would accept. She is rather independent-minded.” He got up from the chair. “Thank you for the return of the cap, Mr. Lincoln.” He placed it on his head, then tipped the brim. “And the advice.”
68
Washington, DC
The Speaker’s Room
February 12, 1861
The train trip to Washington had proved uneventful. It had not snowed, no engine had broken down and no stretch of track had been found cracked by the cold. Thus, the trains had run on time and the trip from Springfield took Lincoln just a little over two days and nights.
Pinkerton had insisted on arranging protection on the trip, although Lincoln had doubted anyone would make an attempt on his life until after he was sworn in. Assuming he ever was.
He had finally consented to Pinkerton putting several incognito guards in his carriage, including Annabelle Carter, who sat uncomfortably behind him throughout the entire trip. And uncomfortably was the proper word because he had refused to travel first-class, preferring to sit with ordinary people in the less expensive cars, whose seats were worn and in places threadbare.
At some point during the trip, he had learned that Senator Douglas was traveling on the same train, although Douglas and his entourage were said to be in a special first-class car far to the rear of the train, well away from the smoke spewing out of the steam engine. Lincoln and Douglas had not set eyes on each other during the entire campaign, and Lincoln had at first thought of going back to greet the senator. Hay, who was traveling with him, had talked him out of it, arguing that it would seem like the loser calling on the victor.
After a night at the Willard Hotel to rest up, Lincoln had gone up to Capitol Hill to meet with Pennington in the Speaker’s Room. Pennington had greeted him cordially and shown him the schedule of meetings he had arranged for the day. Lincoln had spent most the day in those meetings, as various luminaries, including most of the members of the Republican National Committee, the Republican Caucus chair in the Senate, and various senior congressmen and Committee chairs paraded in and out, all with their own procedural suggestions and electoral vote headcounts.
Finally, they were all gone, and Lincoln and Pennington were alone, sitting on the couches, facing one another.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you a libation, Mr. Lincoln?” Pennington said.
“Thank you, but no. I don’t partake. Although at times like this I wish I did. But I do want to ask you, Mr. Speaker, after all we’ve heard today, how do you think the electoral college vote count will go?”
Pennington got up and walked over to the bust of Washington. “My predecessor told me, when he handed over the Speaker’s gavel, that if you rub the head of Washington, he will speak and tell you what you want to know. Shall I try it?”
Lincoln laughed uproariously. “Why not? Do you think you need some kind of incantation while you do it?”
“I’ll try the first few words of the Preamble to the Constitution,” Pennington said. He began rubbing the top of Washington’s head while chanting, “We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union,” and then repeated it twice more.
The Day Lincoln Lost Page 34