Lincoln

  But what, he wondered, would be the best poison to use? It would have to have little or no taste; and act quickly. Ideally, its effects should resemble a familiar illness like bilious fever or the smallpox …

  “YOU DON’T THINK it’s the smallpox?” Mary stood beside Tad’s bed while the doctor took the boy’s pulse. Tad’s face was flushed with fever; and his usual odd babble was now incomprehensible even to Mary as he drifted in and out of fever-dreams.

  “It’s too soon to say, Mrs. Lincoln. I doubt that it is. But we’ll know by tomorrow, when the symptoms start or, let us pray, don’t start.”

  “My God! Poor Taddie!”

  Lincoln appeared in the doorway. “What is wrong?”

  “The smallpox!” she cried.

  “No,” said the doctor. “There are no true signs as yet. Simply a fever.”

  Keckley appeared. “Come, Mrs. Lincoln, you must get ready for the wedding.”

  “No. I shall not go! Nor will you, Father. Not with Taddie so ill.”

  “He is not that ill, Mrs. Lincoln,” said the doctor.

  “You hear that?” Then Keckley motioned for Lincoln to remove Mary, which he did. More and more did Keckley manage Mrs. Lincoln, with the President’s connivance.

  In the bedroom, Lincoln dressed for the wedding; but Mary did not. “You can say Taddie’s ill. Or I’m ill. Or I’m still in mourning. Tell the Chases anything. I don’t care. I won’t go.”

  “As you like, Mother.” Lincoln stood in front of the pier glass and tied his white cravat.

  “You ought not to go either.” Mary watched her husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was now far too thin; but he would not eat. Tonight he had refused his favorite dish, fricassee of chicken with biscuits and gravy.

  “Mr. Chase is my Secretary of the Treasury.”

  “He is your rival for the nomination. He works against you every day. He’s as busy as a … as a …”

  “As a bluebottle fly. Wherever there’s something gone bad or rotten, he lays his eggs.”

  “He’ll be nominated, Father. He’ll be elected!”

  “May we never have a worse president,” said Lincoln, idly. He changed the subject. “I can find out nothing about Little Emilie. She’s not in Lexington. I suppose she’s still at the deep South some place.”

  Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Ben. Poor Little Sister, a widow at her age.”

  “There are many young widows now. It is the brutal fashion.”

  Mary helped Lincoln into his coat. “I have lost three brothers,” she said, more with wonder than with sorrow.

  For Chase, this was a day of both wonder and sorrow; of pride, as well. Kate seemed to radiate light from her own person. She wore a gown of white velvet and real point lace; and a veil in which had been worked orange flowers. On her head, she wore not a tiara but a crown of diamonds and pearls, the gift of Sprague. Everyone had remarked that she was now even more splendid than the French empress.

  Fifty friends were in the rear parlor, which had been decorated in red and white and blue. Later, five hundred guests would come for the wedding reception. In the rooms upstairs, Gautier and his waiters had laid out a splendid buffet. For the last time, Chase was a hundred dollars overdrawn at the bank. From now on, as Sprague had made clear, all expenses at Sixth and E would be met by him.

  In the sealed-off front parlor, an altar had been placed before the fireplace, where stood a clergyman in full vestments. Sprague and his cousin Byron stood to the left of the altar, while Chase, sporting a new silk grenadine waistcoat from France, stood next to Kate, his arm through hers. Nettie, also in white, was bridesmaid. In silence, they waited until the hands of the clock settled at thirty minutes past eight; then servants threw open the doors between the parlors.

  There was applause from the guests when they saw the brilliant tableau. Kate suddenly shuddered. Chase looked at her from the corner of his right eye, whose peripheral vision was perfect. She appeared, as always, serene. Perhaps she had felt a draft. Certainly, this was a happy moment for the two of them, since they would never now, on this earth at least, be separated.

  The minister proceed to marry Kate Chase to William Sprague the Fourth. Chase then gave his daughter to Sprague, whose cousin gave him the ring which he, eventually, got onto her finger. Once they were married, it was Chase not Sprague who kissed the bride. “God blesh you, my child,” he heard himself, with horror, lisp.

  As the room filled up with people, from the dining room the Marine Band struck up “The Kate Chase Wedding March,” written especially for the occasion.

  Seward arrived with his daughter-in-law. “We shall see,” he said, rather roguishly, “just who is here and who is not.”

  But to Seward’s disappointment, the entire Cabinet was in attendance, except for Montgomery Blair, now the sworn enemy of Chase and all his works. The President was planning to come, Hay assured the premier, as they watched Kate do the quadrille with Mercier in the dining room, where the entire Marine Band had been crowded into one small alcove.

  “It is curious,” said Seward, as he was shoved back against a wall, “how reluctant we are in these states to acknowledge that grand entertainments are now the rule not the exception.”

  “You mean, sir,” said Hay, “there are no ballrooms?”

  “I mean exactly that. We empty the bedrooms to accommodate the buffet tables, and we turn the dining room into a place to dance.”

  “And the front parlor,” said Hay, “into a chapel.”

  Seward laughed delightedly. “Exactly! What other nation’s minister of the treasury would not have his own private chapel, frescoed by Michelangelo?”

  To Seward’s surprise, Henry D. Cooke approached him as if they were the best of friends, and Henry D. himself not under a cloud no darker than a Union soldier’s tunic. Hay slipped away: he wanted no part of Mr. Cooke.

  “Mr. Seward!” Henry D. shook the premier’s unenthusiastic and so entirely limp hand. “I have wanted to talk to you for some time now about all that nonsense back in Ohio.”

  “Surely Mr. Stanton is more apt to be … useful when it comes to what you call nonsense and the world calls embezzlement.”

  Henry D. took this calmly. “There has been no trial, Mr. Seward, so we don’t know what my partner really did as opposed to what the Democratic papers say that he did.”

  “In July,” said Seward, suddenly precise, “he was arrested by General Burnside for having stolen government funds.” Lincoln had been appalled when the word reached Washington of the arrest of F. W. Hurtt, who, together with Henry D. Cooke and Isaac J. Allen, owned the Ohio State Journal, a pro-Lincoln newspaper in the state’s capital.

  Earlier in the year, Hurtt had turned the paper’s editorship over to Allen; then he had been commissioned an army captain and stationed at Cincinnati. As an army quartermaster, Hurtt then proceeded to steal everything in sight. Unknown to Henry D., Seward had read letters between the partners. From these letters, it was clear that Henry D. was not only very much aware of what was going on but he may well have diverted government funds to Hurtt. Fortunately, the scandal had not affected the October election. Hurtt was now due to go to trial in February. Chase had asked the President to intervene, which had delighted Seward. Let Chase appear as Hurtt’s sponsor, and that would be the end of Chase’s increasingly furious drive for the presidency.

  To Seward’s amazement, Henry D. now said, “We think it might be a good idea if our partner Mr. Allen were to go abroad for a while. Since the consulship at Bangkok is unfilled, my brother and I wondered if you might not send Mr. Allen there.”

  Seward had spent the better part of a lifetime in never being taken aback. But this was dizzying. “Mr. Cooke, in the midst of a scandal involving God knows how many people, you would have me … the Administration, that is … assign a post of honor”—Seward quite liked the phrase, particularly when applied to swampy Bangkok—“to one of the principals?”

  “Well, Governor, it’s not all th
at bad—just yet, anyway.” Henry D. was cool. “What we have to remember is that my brother, Jay, single-handedly, is financing this war.”

  “He himself is not doing too badly out of the war.” Seward knew that Chase often passed on to Jay Cooke news of military victories or defeats before the press reports, so that Cooke’s bank could then buy or sell bonds and gold in advance of the market. Seward had wanted Lincoln to expose this practise, but Lincoln had taken the line that there was nothing illegal in what might be no more than indiscretion. On the other hand, if Seward could prove that Chase was being paid for information, that was another matter. To date, Seward had found no instance of outright dishonesty on Chase’s part.

  “Jay’s business is open to inspection,” said Henry D. “He has nothing to hide. But the point is this. We are all Republicans. We’re going to have enough trouble next year with the Democrats without a major scandal in Ohio. Drop the charges against Hurtt, and he’ll go abroad. Send Allen to Siam.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Cooke?” Seward cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I make you minister to Spain?”

  “Oh, I’d like that, Governor. But I’m otherwise engaged with … my brother.”

  “And with Mr. Chase,” Seward could not resist adding.

  “We think the world of Mr. Chase,” said Henry D., smoothly. Then the butler in the front parlor shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President!”

  Lincoln stood tall and fragile in the doorway. The President looked most elegant, thought Chase, as he hurried forward to greet the First Magistrate. But Hay, in the second parlor, thought that the Ancient was looking most unwell.

  Chase said, “Welcome, sir! Our joy is now complete. Katie …” Mrs. William Sprague and consort were duly presented to the President, who gave Kate a small package, which she opened, to reveal an ivory fan. “I brought it myself, since someone forgot to send it along with your other presents.” Lincoln smiled at Kate, who opened the fan and exclaimed, “It is very beautiful.”

  Congratulations were given and received. Wedding presents were discussed. Chase had been amazed by the extent of the presents, not to mention the value—over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth had been the estimate of a Treasury aide.

  Then Fanny Sprague, small and imperious, fell upon the President. “I would vote for you,” she said, “if women could vote. But I suppose you’ll go let the niggers vote before we do!” Chase maintained his dignity, as did the President, who observed, “You know, back in Illinois, I sort of favored giving the ladies the vote.”

  “But now you’ve changed. You do something about it!” She rounded on her son.

  “I can’t, Mother.”

  “Yes, you can. But you never do anything right. Why is there such a draft in here?”

  The style of the son had plainly been formed by the mother, thought Chase. Happily, the President was amused. “Perhaps we’ll give the vote first to the white women and then to the Negro women. Then we’ll include the Negro men …”

  Sprague abandoned new wife and old mother; and went upstairs, where he found what he wanted in the first of Gautier’s well-stocked rooms. As Sprague received a glass of the Widow from a waiter, he was joined by Hiram Barney, the collector of customs at the port of New York. Barney was a Republican attorney, who had raised thirty-five thousand dollars for Lincoln’s campaign in 1860, for which he had been rewarded with the lucrative collectorship. Although Barney was a member of the Treasury Department, he was not yet a part of the Chase-for-president movement. Nevertheless, Barney maintained the most friendly relations with Chase; he had even lent him five thousand dollars. In exchange, Chase had threatened to resign if the President should insist on Barney’s replacement. Lincoln had given way, even though he feared that the Administration would one day be embarrassed by Barney, whose conduct of his office was slipshod, while his political views were radical, and so anathema to New York’s Republicans.

  Barney was also a friend of Sprague’s; and of Harris Hoyt. “He’s escaped,” said Barney in a low voice, as he allowed a waiter to carve him a number of slices from a Virginia ham so thoroughly cured that it was more black than red. “The doctor says I am not to eat salt,” he said, chewing the ham slowly. “But I am disobedient. He is in Matamoros, Mexico.”

  Sprague looked at Barney; and said nothing. During the last spring and summer, thanks to Hoyt, a fair amount of cotton had found its way from Texas to Rhode Island. It was Barney who had helped Hoyt get his guns through New York customs. Officially, the guns were intended for the Spanish provincial government at Havana. In due course, guns and cotton mill had arrived in Texas by way of Havana and Matamoros, a port just below Confederate-held Galveston. Hoyt had immediately gone to General Magruder—late of Jamestown—and got his permit to establish a cotton mill. Magruder had then asked for a further ten thousand stand of rifles in exchange for which Hoyt would be exempted from impressment for two thousand bales of cotton, to be exported to A. & W. Sprague & Company. But since Hoyt did not have the rifles, he decided to run for it, with the cotton. Shortly before he was about to sail, Hoyt was arrested at Magruder’s order. Now, somehow, according to Barney, he had escaped; nor did Barney say how it was that he had heard the news, but, “He’ll be in New York some time this winter.”

  “Damn fool,” said Sprague, finishing the champagne. “Bad enough for that ship of his to get caught in the blockade. Now he goes and ruins himself with the Texans. He can’t go back. So what do we do?”

  “Let us hope that the war will end soon.” Barney was not helpful.

  “Lucky there was nothing about any of us on that boat they caught. What was it called?”

  “America,” said Barney, mouth filled with ham.

  “Well, we made sixty percent on our investment in Hoyt.” Sprague brightened somewhat. “That ain’t too bad.”

  The buffet rooms began to fill up with guests. Hay suddenly found himself in front of the wedding cake, where stood Bessie Hale and the actor Wilkes Booth. “I saw you last night,” said Hay to Booth. “You were Romeo.”

  “He is always Romeo,” breathed Bessie.

  “Mercutio has the better part.” Booth was somewhat sour. “Romeo is a hopeless sort of character to play. But he’s what people want.” Hay had admired Booth’s agility. The actor had climbed like a squirrel to Juliet’s balcony. Later, he had leapt off a ten-foot wall and the audience had cheered him.

  “Why aren’t you playing tonight?” asked Hay, aware that the Tycoon was now at the other end of the room, holding a glass of champagne in his left hand while pumping hands with the right.

  “Tonight I’m producing. It’s a play called Money. The theme,” said Booth with a small smile, “is whether or not a girl should marry a man for his money.”

  “Why,” asked Hay with, he thought, sublime innocence, “did you put that play on tonight of all nights?”

  “Because,” said Booth, with equal innocence, “it’s the only one in my repertoire in which I don’t appear. I wanted to come here, with Miss Hale and observe …”

  “The real thing?”

  “Now, Mr. Hay!” Bessie exclaimed. “They are perfectly matched, Katie and Mr. Sprague.”

  Booth glanced toward the door where Lincoln stood. “I saw him the other night—and you, too. In the box.”

  Hay nodded. “We enjoyed you in The Marble Heart.” Actually, they had all been somewhat bored; and Mrs. Lincoln had nodded off.

  “It was a dull performance,” said Booth. Hay was always amazed at how actors knew, instinctively, if they were good or not; or, rather, if the audience was with them or not. “I’d hoped the President might have come last night. He is said to know Shakespeare well.” Hay was not about to say that, after The Marble Heart, there was no further enthusiasm at the White House to see the world’s youngest star. Also, the Tycoon did not much care for Romeo and Juliet.

  “Would you like to meet the President?” asked Hay, politely.

  Booth shook his head. “He looks much too busy and too
tired to talk to an actor. So, what do you think of the songs?”

  As an innovation, Booth had added modern sentimental songs to the various plays in his repertoire. He had been much criticized for doing this; particularly in Richard III. Hay said, truthfully, “I thought they were charming last night.”

  “You see?” Bessie turned to Booth. “I told you to take no notice of the Sunday Chronicle, which is practically a rebel paper, anyway.”

  “They called me a second-class actor,” said Booth. “Did you see the article?” He turned to Hay.

  Hay nodded. “I must read everything. But at least the press is a lot kinder to you than to my employer. Second-rate would be high praise for Mr. Lincoln from Horace Greeley.”

  “Others think,” said Booth, “that if Lincoln is reelected he will be another Bonaparte. He will make himself king.”

  Hay laughed at the absurdity. “You must have been reading the Chicago Times.”

  Booth nodded. “I was. Curious,” he said, agate stare turned toward Bessie. “The Times was the only paper that preferred my Romeo to William Wheatley’s Mercutio.”

  “A sound paper,” said Hay.

  Booth suddenly smiled. “A sound paper,” he repeated.