The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (35 page)

“And Mr. Lincoln?”

Sickles chuckled. “I have never known a man more perceptive. He will see a conspiracy only where one actually exists. And he will never fail to detect one if it is there.”

“Then he has known all along!”

“Presumably.” A wink. “But don’t worry. Mr. Lincoln also conspires better than any man I have ever known. If he has known about the conspiracy and done so little to smash it to bits, we should assume that he has his reasons.”

Or that he no longer had the necessary power, because the conspirators had already triumphed: but Jonathan chose not to mention this possibility.

“You said we have a good look at the conspiracy,” he said.

“Indeed.”

“We only know that it exists. We still do not know the names of a single conspirator.”

“But we do. There is only one senior Administration official whose wife is named Ellen, and whose family not long ago suffered a major loss.” He went to the desk, began to write.

“What’s that?”

“A note. You’re to take it to the White House. Give it to Noah Brooks personally. Nobody else. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Give the note to Brooks, and wait for an answer.” He sealed the paper in an envelope. “We’re going to see the President, Jonathan. Just the two of us.”

II

“The Russians want to sell us their little corner of America,” Lincoln said. He was standing beside his desk, holding a sheaf of telegrams. “They have that big empty colony up there next to Canada, and it seems they’re running out of money because of all those wars they’re fighting with the British.” He smiled as if he had put one over on the world. He was in a remarkably good mood for a man generally thought to have no more than a couple of weeks before he was turned out of office. “As it happens,” the President went on, “we’re running out of money, too, but I reckon Baron Stoeckl doesn’t know that. Russia wants seven millions, which I am told works out to about two cents an acre. That sounds like a pretty fair price, as the blind man said to the farmer. Unfortunately, we don’t happen to have that kind of money lying around. And even if we did, Congress isn’t in a particularly generous mood just now. So it looks like Alaska will have to remain Russian for a while. Maybe they’ll strike a better deal with Mr. Wade.”

The President made a note on the page, and handed it to Noah Brooks, who left the room. Jonathan stood with Sickles, waiting to be acknowledged. He had come to understand during these past weeks that this slow-burning recitation of the events of the day was Lincoln’s way of giving himself time to think. Outside an ashen sun was sinking, but this was the soonest Lincoln could clear his schedule to receive them. It occurred to Jonathan that it would be a very easy thing for a country enthralled by the coming impeachment trial to assume that the President had no other work to do. “Mr. Seward thinks we should buy the place. If we do, I have a hunch that future generations will call it ‘Lincoln’s Folly.’ At least, that’s what Mr. Stanton says.” He took off his glasses. “Now, why don’t you fellows sit down and tell me what I can do for you?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Sickles amiably, as he adjusted his wooden leg, “it’s about Mr. Stanton.”

Lincoln seemed not to hear. “I have another dispatch that tells me they’re having trouble selling shares in that new canal they’re digging in Egypt. From what I’ve seen, if the big investors don’t want a piece of it, we should start buying.”

Sickles, catching his friend’s mood, said, “I understand they’re digging the canal with slave labor.”

“The British are upset, as usual,” said the President, laying aside another paper. “They’re against slavery everywhere on the face of the earth except when they need it, like when they built their railroad in North Africa. I have been trying to remember, as a matter of fact, the last time a British soldier—or a soldier from anywhere in Europe—gave his life to
end
slavery rather than to
protect
it.”

“I can’t seem to think of one,” said Sickles, smiling.

“Neither can I,” Lincoln said, chuckling as he shook his head. “The powers of Old Europe are great hypocrites, denouncing as evil the world they made. Are you here to tell me that Stanton is conspiring against me?”

Jonathan was too surprised to speak. Sickles said calmly, “Yes, Mr. President.”

Lincoln turned away, bent his long body to peer out the window. The heavy gray clouds blanketed the grand buildings in a kind of sadness. “There is a kind of fish,” he said, “that swims with the sharks, and feeds on what they leave behind. A pilot fish, I believe it is called. And what is interesting about the pilot fish, so I am told, is that the sharks don’t eat them.” He sighed, and straightened. “I suppose politics attracts that kind of man, doesn’t it? A man who only chooses sides once he knows who the sharks are.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” said Sickles after a moment.

Lincoln’s sleepy eyes shifted to Jonathan. “And I reckon you are the one who uncovered Stanton’s role?”

“Um, yes, sir.” Jonathan felt like the tongue-tied Yale freshman he had once been, pronounced by his professors a dunderhead. “I mean, no, sir. It was actually Miss Canner.” He hesitated. “She has a … a source.”

The President glanced at Sickles. “Do you know anything about this?”

“I just heard this morning.”

The hunter’s eyes swung back toward Jonathan, who knew what was expected of him.

“The source is her sister,” said Jonathan, seeing no reason to hide from Lincoln what he had already told Sickles.

“Does this sister of hers know Stanton?”

“No, sir. And I don’t believe that her sister is even aware that Stanton was the source.” He summarized Rebecca Deveaux’s story.

“So McShane was aware of all this and said nothing.”

This set Jonathan back. “I suppose not, sir.”

Lincoln shook his head. “I am willing to believe that Stanton has gone over to the Radicals. Ever since his son died, Stanton has been growing closer and closer to Chase. They pray together, go to church together. Close to Chase means close to the Radicals.” A silence. Jonathan knew that the President was thinking of his own lost sons; and of his wife. “But I refuse to accept that Stanton would be a part of the larger conspiracy you describe. He is not a bad man. I can’t see him allied with people who would do murder. Especially because he and McShane were friends of long standing. Stanton may have switched sides, but your murderer is still on the loose.” He perched on the edge of his desk. “The police could still be right. The murder doesn’t have to be related to this thing.”

Jonathan was about to argue, but Sickles gave him a look: the President was not finished.

“Still. Stanton.” Lincoln sighed. “I can think of no man we can less afford to lose.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sickles, while Jonathan looked at the carpet.

“The trial is three days away.” Thinking aloud now. “Three days. I wonder how long Stanton has been passing along information.” One of his long legs was swinging as he mused. “I reckon this is why the Radicals seem to know so much about our meetings. And I suppose they have full access to the files of the War Department.” The second seemed to distress him more than the first. “But that is not even the worst of it. When Seward was active, he controlled the Secret Service. During his … convalescence … the reins have sort of slipped into Stanton’s hands.”

Jonathan blanched. Sickles was quicker. “So General Lafayette Baker has been working pretty much full-time for the Radicals.”

Lincoln’s smile was rueful. “Looks like it.”

“Sir,” said Jonathan, surprising himself, “you must dismiss Mr. Stanton from your Cabinet.”

The bushy eyebrows went up. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he has betrayed you. Because he is no better than a spy.”

“Well, a spy can be useful, as long as the side he’s spying on knows that he’s a spy and the side he’s spying for doesn’t know they know.” Just like that, his good humor returned. He turned to Sickles. “Maybe it’s poetic justice, Dan. Stanton defended you when you shot Mr. Barton Key in front of the White House. He took the side everybody thought was going to lose, and he won. Now he’s taking the side everybody thinks
is going to win, so maybe he’ll lose, just to balance things out. Fate will take care of everything, so I reckon I should just leave Stanton where he is.” Smiling now. Amazing how he could switch moods so suddenly. “Actually, it reminds me of the story about the farmer who built himself a shed where he raised chickens. Trouble was, the skunks got in after the chickens. So, every night, the farmer sat outside with his shotgun. He’d see a skunk and fire off a round, and he’d see another skunk and fire off another round, but he always missed. Finally, one night, he saw a dozen skunks at once over by the shed. He fired one round after another, but when he went over to see, he’d only killed a single skunk. After that, he hung up his gun. His friends asked why he didn’t sit out at night any more, shooting at the skunks. The farmer said it took him weeks just to kill the first one, and he was too busy to waste his time trying to kill a second.” Lincoln was laughing now, and his visitors with him. “I reckon sometimes you’re better off letting the skunk get at the hens a little bit instead of firing off all your ammunition hoping to hit him.”

Jonathan’s head was spinning. He did not understand how Stanton could possibly stay in the Administration—sitting at meetings, running the military. Yet Sickles seemed to be going along.

The President, meanwhile, was at the door, calling for Noah Brooks. The secretary appeared so swiftly, he might have been listening at the door. “Get Speed down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, wait. He’s up at the Capitol. Get him down here first thing tomorrow.” He turned to his guests. “Dan, I want you and Stanton here, too. Say, eight.”

“In the morning?” Sickles groaned.

“We have work to do, Dan. We have to get ready for trial.”

“I suppose we do.”

“But we’re going to prepare some surprises for our friends on the Hill.”

Sickles smiled. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“As for Stanton …” Lincoln paused, seemed to exchange a significant look with Sickles, then laid a strong hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. The good humor had faded again, along with the Western accent that Sickles claimed the President only put on for company. “Young man, what you have heard tonight is more or less a secret of state. You were a soldier. You were decorated at Cold Harbor. You understand how important it is to keep secrets.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jonathan, stomach churning.

“If you violate this confidence, you could find yourself locked up in one of those terrible secret prisons the newspapers are always going on and on about. The secret prisons don’t exist, but you could wind up there anyway. Do you understand me, Mr. Hilliman?”

The dingy, cavernous White House, with its vast rooms and leaky walls, was all but impossible to heat. The smoldering coals in the grate offered little real warmth. Even so, the temperature in the room seemed to drop precipitously.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Jonathan.

“Good. You did well.” Noah was there, showing him out. “Dan, stay a minute,” Lincoln said.

The door closed. Jonathan settled on the bench to wait.

III

For fifteen minutes or so, Jonathan brooded. He tried to reason like Abigail, who had a way of treating the mystery like a hand and the facts like gloves, to see which ones fit.

What were the facts? Rebecca Deveaux was stealing documents from Stanton. Stanton had gone over to the other side. That meant that the Secret Service was with the Radicals. The files of the War Department were open to the Radicals. But Lincoln remained confident. Too confident. Sitting there in the drafty hallway, Jonathan tried to puzzle out what seemed so incongruous. Not the impeachment. The murder, then. Something about the murder. Maybe, as the President suggested, the murder was just what it looked like; in any case, the killer was still at large. But Inspector Varak still believed that Rebecca Deveaux had been a prostitute. Jonathan and Abigail had both tried to disabuse him of this notion, and failed. Varak was certain of his ground because—

Abruptly, Jonathan stood.

“Where are you going?” said Noah. “Facilities are the other way.”

“Please tell Mr. Sickles I had to run an errand.”

“I am sure he will be done any minute.”

“Sorry. Can’t wait.”

Jonathan hurried down the stairs. He asked the doorkeeper to hail him a cab from the rank out on the street, and told the driver to take him to the Provost General’s headquarters. They bumped along the rutted streets, headed west. The answer would be there. After all, it
was the Provost General who had assured Varak that Rebecca Deveaux was a hooker; and it was Jonathan’s classmate Whitford Pesky who had checked the files.

Jonathan had to make Whit tell who gave him the order to lie.

At the gate, just as before, Jonathan asked for Major Pesky. This time the wait was a lot longer, and the man who came out was shorter and broader than Whit. His name, he boomed, was Lieutenant Fisch. How might he be of service?

“I need to see the major,” said Jonathan.

“May I ask about what?”

“It’s a confidential matter.”

Fisch was overweight, and had to hitch up his pants constantly. He did it now, and thrust out his chest, as if to emphasize his own importance.

“Hilliman,” he said. “You’re one of the lawyers, aren’t you? Representing Mr. Lincoln?”

“I am a law clerk—”

“Well, I hope you win. The Radicals are traitors. They should all be arrested.”

Fisch was grinning. Savagely. As if he would like to hang Butler and Stevens himself. Jonathan had forgotten the almost mystical reverence in which the military held Abraham Lincoln, an emotion, surely, left over from the war itself, the love of an army for its confident and triumphant commander-in-chief. And yet Fisch was a couple of years younger than Jonathan, and had almost certainly missed the war.

Jonathan said, “Please, Lieutenant. If I could just see Major Pesky.”

The grin widened. So did the girth. “Anything you would say to him, you can say to me. I’m handling his duties for the moment. I’m a brevet captain now, as a matter of fact.”