The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (14 page)

Until the moment Jonathan met Abigail Canner, he had never had a lengthy conversation with a woman of the colored race. But once she started talking, he very much wanted her not to stop.

III

“You don’t need to keep driving all the way up to my office,” said Abigail as she climbed up into the trap. “I can perfectly well take the horsecars home.”

“I’m your brother,” said Michael, snapping the reins. “I want you safe.” He laughed, not pleasantly. “Besides. It’s not
your
office. It’s
their
office. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

Abigail lapsed into a sullen silence. There was no point in arguing. Her brother had always known her fears and weaknesses. In consequence, he had always been able to wound her at will. She wondered whether he practiced this skill on his many women, or whether she was his only target. He never picked on Louisa, the youngest, who adored him, and had rarely dared say a cross word to Judith, the eldest, whose tongue could lash with a fervor to rival Nanny’s own. But Judith had vanished: tired of how she carried on with men, Nanny Pork had put her out of the house while Abigail was still away at Oberlin, and nobody had seen her since—

“Where are you going?” said Abigail, looking around. “This is not the way home.”

For Michael had turned the wagon to the right at Pennsylvania Avenue, rather than left toward the bridge over the canal, and was approaching the intimidating granite bulk of the Treasury Department. This route would lead past the Executive Mansion and on into the dangerous
slums of George Town, where no sane Washingtonian ventured after dark.

“I thought we might ride around for a bit,” her brother said. His tone was somber, his face a hidden shadow in the night. “I want to talk to you about Senator Wade.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been reading up on him, Abby,” said Michael. “Wade was for abolition before Lincoln was. He was for arming the slaves before Lincoln was. Wade is for giving the freedmen land and money. He is for keeping troops in all the Southern states, when Lincoln wants to remove them as quickly as possible.” An angry chuckle. “Wade says Lincoln’s views are what you would expect in a man from a slave state, born to poor white trash. I agree.” A sharp nod. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking that it might not be such a bad thing if Old Abe were removed from office. From what I can tell, Wade might be a better man for our people.”

Abigail stared in astonishment. “You cannot seriously be suggesting that you wish the impeachment to succeed!”

“I just don’t see why all the colored folks treat Old Abe like he lifted his staff and parted the waters of the Red Sea.”

“Mr. Lincoln freed our people, Michael. You cannot deny that simple fact. And he has declared that no Southern state may rejoin the Union until it ratifies the constitutional amendment barring slavery.”

“Old Abe was dragged to those positions by better men than—Whoa!” Drawing in the reins; but the horse had already stopped. Up ahead, the grand avenue was blocked by a pair of carriages, halted by a Union soldier. Michael craned his neck; turned to her with a grin. “Well, well. Moses himself, in the flesh.”

Even through the rain they could hear the loud huzzahs up ahead. Abigail stood on her seat but still could not see. Suddenly determined to catch a glimpse of the client she had not been permitted to meet, she climbed down, ignoring her brother’s shout of warning, and pressed through the throng. She reached the front just in time to see Abraham Lincoln himself, victor in the war and savior of her people, crossing Pennsylvania Avenue toward Lafayette Park, trailed by a lone Bucktail, as members of the Pennsylvania regiment who guarded the President were known. Lincoln was heading for the grim fortress known as the Old Clubhouse, home of Secretary of State Seward, his closest friend and adviser, who had not left the house in the two years since he himself
was attacked, Lincoln gravely wounded, and Vice-President Andrew Johnson murdered.

Abigail crept closer.

The President was a tall man, and his stovepipe hat made him seem taller, but he was hunched forward against the wind and rain, clutching the brim comically. His long stride made it difficult for the soldier to keep pace. Then Lincoln vanished into the Clubhouse, and the Bucktail took up station by the door. As the onlookers began to disperse, Abigail noticed, to her surprise, dozens of awestruck dark faces in the street. Washington’s colored population usually effaced itself, and the negroes tended to linger toward the back of any crowd. But Lincoln’s presence had drawn them forward, as it had drawn Abigail, and now, in the absence of soldiers to restrain them, they formed a loose ring around the Clubhouse.

“For a man who’s been shot in the head,” said Michael, who had come up silently beside her, “Old Abe doesn’t seem to care too much about bodyguards.”

“The war is over,” said Abigail.

As traffic began moving again, Michael nodded across the way, where several hard-faced white men skulked in the shadows. They had not joined in the cheering. “Not for everybody,” he said.

I

“
THE PRECEDENTS ARE
unclear,” said Jonathan. He tried and failed to wish away the slight tremor in his voice, and he knew that his pale cheeks were tinged with pink. These same indicia of nervousness had plagued him at Yale, especially when he was called upon to translate Latin or Greek at speed. Eventually, he had managed to hide the jitters from classmates and professors. But now, speaking for only the second time in the presence of the President of the United States, Jonathan Hilliman felt all the old symptoms return.

It was Tuesday afternoon, and windy, the sky low and gray and impending in a way that foretokened snow. Lincoln had assembled what he called his lawyers’ coterie to discuss tactics for the trial. Rufus Dennard had instructed Jonathan to apprise the coterie of the fruits of his research on the voting rule in the Senate.

“Two-thirds of the votes,” Jonathan continued, “are required to convict. We know that, of course. What we don’t know is what counts as two-thirds.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Stanton, quite out of turn. “There are fifty-four Senators. Two-thirds of fifty-four is thirty-six. Ergo, they need thirty-six votes. Anything less means we win.”

Jonathan colored, but made no response. He did not want to get into a tussle with Stanton.

Lincoln grinned. “I don’t reckon that Mr. Hilliman has forgotten how many Senators there are.”

At a nod from Dennard, Jonathan resumed, but not before casting a nervous glance toward the imperious Secretary of War. “The legal question is whether, when the Senate sits to try an impeachment, it is still the Senate, run by all the rules of the Senate, or whether, under the Constitution, it becomes a different body, judicial in nature—that is, a court.” He checked his notes as heavy wind shook the Mansion. The windows rattled. “In the records,” said Jonathan, “you can find references both ways. Evidently, the question has never been formally resolved. All the Constitution tells us for sure is that the Chief Justice presides, and that conviction occurs only if two-thirds of the members concur.”

“Meaning that we need nineteen votes our way,” said Stanton, still not satisfied.

The President’s smile was sardonic. This time they were meeting in the more spacious Cabinet Room, but his chair was once more tottering on its hind legs. “I reckon, if they’re a court, they have to follow the rules of evidence. If they’re a legislature, they can kind of make the rules up as they go along.”

“If the Senate is really a court,” said Dennard, “then the Chief Justice might be permitted to vote.” His breathing was more labored than ever, perhaps from the hard work of dragging his bulk up and down the stairs.

Sickles adjusted his wooden leg. Another gust of wind struck the windows, and now the first tiny flakes began to fall. “Chase voting might be good for us. Or it might be bad for us.”

“Whether there are fifty-four eligible to vote or fifty-five,” Stanton objected, “we still need nineteen.”

“I don’t believe,” said Lincoln, voice placid, “that Mr. Dennard is thinking about how many votes
we
need.” The drooping left eye seemed to wink. “I believe he’s thinking about how many votes
they
need.”

“That is correct, sir,” said Dennard. “If Chase is permitted to vote, et cetera, then the Managers will need thirty-seven votes, not thirty-six.”

Stanton said nothing. Jonathan was impressed. Arthur McShane had the swifter legal mind, but Rufus Dennard’s plodding style seemed to be exactly what was needed to keep the raging Secretary of War at bay.

“Chase wants to be President,” said Speed suddenly, once more announcing as a great discovery what everybody knew. And not just everybody in the room. Everybody in Washington knew that Chase still hoped to be nominated for President—perhaps in 1868, or at the latest
in 1872. Should the Senate organize as a court, and come within a single vote of removal, the Chief Justice might be forced to decide whether the President stayed in office. One school of thought held that Chase would prefer a weakened Lincoln in the White House, and a broken Republican Party, so that he could pursue the Democratic nomination in 1868. Another contended that Chase, by vanquishing his longtime political enemy, could then present himself to either party as the most respected and powerful man in the country. What nobody thought for an instant was that Chase’s decision would have anything to do with law or evidence.

“It has always been Chase’s way,” said Lincoln, “to choose the path of policy that most strengthens himself. When he was my Treasury secretary, that was not such a bad thing, because a strong Treasury meant funds for the war.” The President was up now, circling the room. His mood grew meditative. “You know, ambition is like a chin fly. A long time ago, my brother and I were out plowing corn when I noticed a fly on the horse’s chin. I shooed it off, but my brother told me to stop. I said that I didn’t want the horse to be bitten, but my brother said being bitten by the fly was the only thing that kept that old horse moving.”

“I am skeptical,” said Dennard. He had this way of drawing everyone’s attention through his terseness: now the entire room wanted to know what precisely he was skeptical
of
. “I hardly think,” the lawyer continued, “that we particularly want Chase’s political ambitions, et cetera, et cetera, getting in the way of a fair trial.”

“That depends,” Sickles retorted, “on which way he runs to keep from being bitten.”

A moment’s general laughter, in which everyone joined but Dennard.

“I spoke with Seward last night,” said the President, back at the window, hands linked behind his back. “He thinks Chase wants to vote. He says Chase will not be able to bear the notion that events rest in the hands of others.”

As always, the name of the Secretary of State had an almost magical effect on the assembled company. Two years after the attack, Seward remained hidden from public view, in his house across Lafayette Park from the Mansion, tended by his son Frederick and a servant or two, seeing nobody except a few intimates—including Mr. Lincoln. Jonathan had never laid eyes on Seward. The latest Washington rumor had it that the Secretary was long dead, and the household maintained in the Clubhouse was a sort of conjuring trick, to preserve the public’s faith
in the Administration. Lincoln, on the other hand, consulted Seward constantly. Dead or alive, Seward retained the canniest political mind in the country.

“I think,” said Sickles, “that we should give Mr. Chase a little bit more rope.”

“And let him hang himself,” said the President.

There was more laughter, in which Jonathan uneasily joined. Only Dennard struck a sour note. “Sir,” he said, “hanging the Chief Justice politically will not necessarily get you off the hook.”

Lincoln remained amicable. “It is not myself I am trying to save,” he said, voice scarcely above a murmur. “It is a country.”

“In that case—”

The President hated to be interrupted. “The threat to this country, Mr. Dennard, comes not from the Chief Justice. The threat comes from the president pro tempore.”

“Senator Wade?” Dennard seemed not to follow. “Wade will surely disqualify himself. It would be unseemly for the man who would succeed you to cast a vote on whether to remove you.”

“Being unseemly,” drawled Sickles, “has never bothered Mr. Wade.”

Lincoln was brisk; and devastating. “Benjamin Wade is an intelligent man. He is old and sick, but his mind is still sharp. He is ambitious. Not for himself. For the triumph of his own holy views. He alone knows what is best for the colored race. Just ask him. Ask his friends.”

Jonathan looked up sharply from his notepad. Rarely had he heard this tone from the President, who was so often gentle, even in describing his enemies.

“I am not concerned with whether or not Wade votes,” Lincoln continued. “But it is intolerable that such a man should sit in this chair.”

Dennard tried to interject: “Sir, with respect, the line of succession is as clear as—”

The President cut him off. “Under no circumstances,” he said, hard-eyed, “will I allow that event to occur.”