The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (47 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Has the barn been rebuilt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when was the work begun?”

“In November.”

“So, in September, you complained to the governor that the Ku Klux had burned your barn. In November, you had the money to rebuild. Was the barn insured?”

“No, sir.”

“Then where did the money come from?” Silence.

“I don’t recollect.”

“Let me understand, Councilman. You remember that the barn was burned by the Ku Klux. You remember to the day when the governor turned down your request for help. You remember that the governor told you that Mr. Lincoln had ordered him to cooperate with the white Southerners. You remember that conversation word for word. You remember that the barn was not insured. You run a successful business and you are a member of the city council. And yet you are telling this chamber that you do not know where the money came from to rebuild your own barn, completed just two months ago?”

Abigail could take no more. Drowning in guilt and confusion, she leaped to her feet and hurried up the aisle. The ladies of Washington exchanged knowing smiles. Poor thing, she imagined them thinking, she couldn’t hold it any longer. Because of course she could not use the facilities here at the Capitol of her country. Any calls of nature would require her to walk, or run, four blocks to the nearest colored hotel, over on D Street. In truth, Abigail simply could not bear her complicity in the destruction of another human being: a person of her own color particularly.

She was in the Rotunda now, fists clenched as she marched back and forth under the wary eyes of guards who by now knew who she was and how much trouble she could cause them and liked her the less for it. She imagined the scene as it would unfold. Dennard had Yardley in a corner. He would squirm and lie and squirm some more, and the Managers would come up with one objection after another, but in the end, the truth would come out.

Poor Yardley had taken a bribe.

That was why he had been in Atlanta. He had gone to another state for safety’s sake, and there had met officials of the South Carolina Railroad, and they had paid him to vote their way. They had paid white men, too—it was those very white members of the council who had told them Yardley could be bought—but it was the black man who would be forced to confess before all the world’s press. Abigail harbored the secret
theory that the Ku Klux had burned the barn to begin with on the railroad’s orders, first to intimidate Corbin Yardley and then, if necessary, to provide the means to bribe him. But he had taken the bribe nevertheless, and had even boasted of it to friends. Chanticleer’s notes quoted his words: “I’ve been sold four or five times in my life, sir. This is the first time I ever got the money.”

Whoever Chanticleer was.

Before they left for Capitol Hill this morning, Dan Sickles had taken Abigail aside to applaud her magnificent work—meaning, her work of providing the means to destroy Corbin Yardley on the witness stand. Sensing her unease, Sickles had reminded her that the job of a lawyer was to do everything possible to defend the client. If she were to scruple at the truthful cross-examination of an untruthful witness, he said, her career would be short. Then he smiled and told her not to worry. It would be a great day for the defense, he said; and it was. But it seemed to Abigail that it was a wretched day for the race, and, at the moment, that mattered a lot more.

“Are you unwell?” said Fielding from behind. “Shall I drive you home?”

IV

She wiped away a tear. She had no idea that he had followed; or how long he had been observing her distress. “Thank you. I am quite well.”

He tilted his head toward the massive, guarded doors to the Senate Chamber. “Is it like that every day? All that shouting and silliness and so forth?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Then it is no place for a lady; or a gentleman.” A laugh, not entirely self-deprecating. “I do not think I will be putting myself through that again. Say.” Eyes aglow. “We should attend the theater again soon.”

“The trial keeps me rather busy.”

“I shall keep every night free for you,” he said, and bowed.

As Fielding crossed the Rotunda, heading for the west lawn, Abigail felt watched. Swinging around, she saw Constance Yardley, the witness’s sister, standing at the foot of the steps to the public gallery. In her eyes was the planation field hand’s undiluted hatred of the house servant who treated her no better than the whites did.

I

AFTER COURT, THE
lawyers went to the Mansion. Once more, they took Jonathan along; once more, they left Abigail to return, alone, to the office. She had hoped to join them in the corridor outside the conference room; when she reached the barrier, the guard told her where they had gone.

Annoyed, Abigail made her way out front, joining the line of those waiting for their carriages. A light snow had started to fall: almost certainly the last of the season. The rest of the afternoon had been occupied by battles over other documents the Managers wanted on the record, most of them letters telling tales similar to Yardley’s. Chase had allowed some, disallowed others, marking the division according to no evidentiary theory that Abigail understood. She assumed that the constant stream of objections from the President’s lawyers represented a holding action, that they wanted to make it to adjournment before any more testimony was admitted. That, in turn, meant that they were worried about what was coming tomorrow, and needed to consult their client.

Without Abigail, who seemed fated to remain a merely public face.

The line shuffled forward. Abigail tilted her head back, wanting the gently chilling prickle on her cheeks. As a child, she had believed that snowflakes on her face meant happiness. She shut her eyes and wished for a snickerdoodle. When she opened them again, Kate Sprague was standing beside her, a slight smile on her slim face. Now that Abigail
thought back, she realized that Kate had been with her the whole time, not only in the carriage line, but earlier: Mrs. Sprague had even witnessed her humiliation when the guard told her everyone else had gone to the White House.

“Come to dinner,” said Kate.

“It would be my pleasure to fix a date,” stuttered Abigail, very surprised.

“I meant tonight.”

Abigail had trouble taking in the words. Perhaps the snow was making her stupid. Or guilt over today’s events. She stared at the woman beside her. She had taken both the invitation and her response as rote recitations, simply the way ladies behaved. “I … tonight?”

“Father is dining with Justice Clifford. My husband has a caucus. So it will be just the two of us.”

“I … um …”

“I promise, we shall not speak of the trial.” Kate, smiling, touched her arm with a gloved hand. “Well, not unless
you
bring it up.”

Abigail said what had to be said: “Mrs. Sprague—”

“Kate.”

“Kate. Please. There is no need to … to risk the opinion of others in order, uh, in order to prove … to prove to me …”

“I am inviting you for one reason, Abigail. Because I enjoy the company of intelligent, educated, fascinating people. Women in particular.” She raised a slender hand to quell further objection. “As for the opinion of others, that has never concerned me before. I see no reason to allow it to deter me now. Shall we say eight?”

II

The dining room was too large for the two of them. The heavy, dark table was too long, the curtains were too red, the chinaware was too expensive, and the food was too plain. Given more time, Abigail was sure she could invent more reasons to explain the nervous flutter in her stomach as she sat alone with the most influential hostess in Washington, making social talk.

Casual conversation had never been among Abigail’s talents—she did what she could to avoid situations in which she might be called upon to offer it—but Kate Sprague was sufficiently skillful that the conversation never flagged, and, indeed, became enjoyable. Despite her domination
of the Washington social scene, Kate was only a few years older than Abigail herself; and told wonderful stories. She had a funny tale about a young woman whom Abigail had known at Oberlin and Kate had known at Miss Haines’ School in New York; and another about one of Abigail’s most terrifying professors, who turned out to have been a down-on-his-luck friend of the Chase family in their Cincinnati days.

Then, when Abigail was at her ease, Kate murmured, “Father has asked about you.”

The black woman, raising her goblet, felt her hand freeze halfway to her mouth. She managed, with difficulty, to finish the sip.

“Has he?”

Kate laughed gently. “You needn’t make that face. There is no impropriety. Simply, when this unpleasantness is over, he believes he can help you to find a more suitable place.” Before the astonished Abigail could quite take this in, Kate had more: “If you seriously mean to be a lawyer, you should have the best tuition. Father would take you on himself. So would Senator Sumner.” She leaned forward, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I believe that the two of them see you as a prize over which they might compete. There are, after all, only half a dozen colored lawyers practicing in American courts, and no women.”

“I believe that Mrs. Bradwell out in Illinois means to sit for the bar next year,” said Abigail, secretly hoping to impress.

But Kate was never topped. “Her husband is probate judge of Cook County,” she said, stirring her soup. “He handed down the opinion holding that children born to slaves who are married to each other can inherit the property that their parents acquire once emancipated.”

“I had not imagined that anyone would doubt it.”

“I am afraid that, where the colored race is concerned, someone doubts nearly everything.” She looked up, smiled. “I beg your pardon. I fear that I am now doing it.”

“Doing what?” asked Abigail, tearing a dainty piece from the crusty roll, hoping she had the etiquette right.

“Telling you what it’s like to be you. What those women did at the Eameses’. Forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She touched the water goblet to her lips. “Mrs. Sprague—”

“Kate. I keep telling you, Abigail. To my friends, I am Kate. Only Kate.”

“Yes. Sorry. Kate.” Still unaccustomed to addressing by Christian
name one of the most prominent women in America. “May I have a turn now, and ask you a question?”

An amiable smile. “Please.”

And Abigail, in turn, tried to put as much warmth as possible into her words. “You are a friend of Miss Lucy Hale. Known as Bessie.”

The smile began to fade. “We are acquainted, as you know.”

“Do you know why she has left the country?”

“Her father is minister to Spain.”

“Yes.” Another careful sip. A servant materialized and filled her glass, then vanished again. “But her departure was rather … precipitous.”

“Was it?” Kate frowned. “I suppose it was. I understand that she canceled two dinner invitations she had already accepted. That is not done.”

Abigail sensed the uneasiness her questions were provoking. She had to act delicately. Whatever Mrs. Sprague was concealing, she would surely divulge only to a friend.

“No,” Abigail agreed. “That was quite rude of her.” She hesitated. “Was Miss Hale often rude?”

“I am not sure what you mean.”

Gambling. “It is my understanding that one of the dinners she canceled was with Mr. Grafton and his lovely wife.”

Kate laughed nervously. “Oh, but that means nothing. Her family and Mr. Grafton’s are very close. She saw them on many occasions. Missing one would make little difference.” A glance at the door, as if to ascertain how closely the servants were listening on the other side. “To be sure, Mr. Grafton lives mostly in Philadelphia. His wife rarely joins him at Washington.” She made a show of dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Mr. Grafton usually stays at Brown’s Hotel. Bessie stays at the National. The two hotels are right across the street from each other. That is rather convenient, don’t you think?”

So that was it. Kate had confirmed their theory without realizing it. It was indeed Bessie Hale who was in regular contact with David Grafton, the man at the heart of the conspiracy that she and Jonathan had come to believe in but were unable to prove. And what better way to conceal the true nature of their relationship than by pretending that they had another reason entirely to sneak about? A reason entirely consistent with the reputation Bessie had so assiduously cultivated?

“That is very interesting indeed,” Abigail said. “Do you happen to know when Miss Hale will be returning to America?”

“It is my impression that Bessie plans an extended European tour.”

“Extended?”

The two women locked eyes. The ticking of the grandfather clock was all at once the loudest sound in the world. “Indefinite,” said Kate.

They understood each other: Katherine Sprague knew. Perhaps she had known for a very long time. Whatever Bessie’s secrets, they had not been secrets from Kate. Abigail wondered, with a chill, whether there was anything of which this brilliant woman was unaware.