“My God, Katie! What is wrong?”
But the retching ceased as suddenly as it had begun. She dried her face with a handkerchief. “No, I am not ill, Father. But I am three months pregnant. I should have told you.”
“Oh, God!” This time Chase did not, he hoped, use the Lord’s name in vain. Rather, he was praying aloud for three immortal souls. Then, in the end, he agreed to go through with the swearing in.
Sprague seemed in control of events. He expected, he said, “Good news” from New York City. As for Chase, he was close to breakdown. He had spent his life in the service of moral principle. Now he was to pretend to the world and, worse, to himself, that he knew nothing of his son-in-law’s crimes. Fortunately, justice is blind, he thought grimly. Three lives in one scale; honor in the other.
At noon on Monday, just as they were to set out for the Capitol, where a large crowd had assembled, Mr. Forney sent word that there was still no attorney-general; but, tomorrow, definitely the installation would take place. Now all that Chase could do was read the newspapers carefully for “interesting dispatches from Providence, Rhode Island.”
By Thursday morning, the tension at Sixth and E had increased to near-hysteria. Five times a large crowd had assembled at the Capitol for the installation of the first chief justice since Taney took office in 1836; and five times the crowd was sent home. People talked of nothing else. As yet, thought Chase, they did not speak of Sprague. Each morning, after his prayers, he vowed that he would send the President his withdrawal. Each noon, after he had been with Kate, he forgot his vow. All that mattered was Kate’s happiness; and that of his grandchild. But he lived in hourly terror of the press; and of Sprague, who was showing uncharacteristic tact. He was never in Chase’s part of the house; and seldom in his own. Apparently, Sprague was bringing every sort of pressure to bear on General Dix.
On Thursday morning Hay happened to be in Stanton’s office on an errand for the President. Hay discussed the business at hand; then started to go. Stanton stopped him. “Sit down, Major. There’s something I’d like to … share with you.”
Mystified, Hay sat beside Stanton’s fortress of a desk. The thought of the secretive Mars sharing anything with anyone was unusual. Stanton opened a folder; stared at it with watery eyes. “General Dix has arrested four men who have been accused of trading in cotton, illegally, with the South. One of them is Byron Sprague.”
Hay nodded; he, too, had read the veiled newspaper accounts. “I’ve met Byron Sprague. When I was at Brown. He runs Senator Sprague’s business for him.”
Stanton stared, thoughtfully, at Hay. “This is a delicate matter, as I’ve told General Dix. The first conspirator to be arrested has made a confession implicating Senator Sprague, as well as the other three. Now a second conspirator, as of Monday, says that Senator Sprague was not, knowingly, involved. General Dix wants to know whether charges should be brought against Senator Sprague.”
Hay was now very nervous indeed. Stanton was deliberately involving him, rather than the President, in this matter. Hay pulled out his watch. “In one hour Mr. Chase becomes chief justice.”
“Yes,” said Stanton; and waited.
“Obviously, he could not be chief justice if all of this were public knowledge.”
“No,” said Stanton; and waited.
“But once he is sworn in, should his son-in-law be indicted for treason, he might, perhaps, be obliged—or feel obliged—to resign.”
“Yes,” said Stanton; and waited.
Hay was one of the few people in Washington who knew that it had been Stanton’s dream to be himself the chief justice; he had even gone so far as to have mutual friends intercede with the Tycoon. But Lincoln wanted Stanton to stay where he was; even more to the point, Grant wanted him at the War Department. Once Stanton realized that he himself had no chance, he had worked hard for the appointment of Chase; and it was hard work. If the Tycoon could be said to dislike anyone on earth, it was Salmon P. Chase. In fact, at one point, he had said, with deep feeling, “I’d rather swallow this buckthorn chair than appoint Chase.” But the Tycoon had bowed to radical pressure; and to Stanton.
“On balance,” said Hay, thinking as rapidly as possible, “the Administration needs Mr. Chase on the bench. There is the Constitutional amendment on abolition to be considered, not to mention …” Hay stopped; and stared at Stanton; who stared right back at him.
“As I understand it,” Hay proceeded carefully, “the immediate issue is whether we decide to believe the first man’s confession or the second man’s confession.” Stanton’s nod was just perceptible. “Since there is a clear-cut choice for General Dix, I suspect that he should incline to the second confession until he has actually got to the truth of the matter, which may take some time. Meanwhile, to charge with treason a United States senator—a Republican senator—in the midst of war is not”—Hay was pleased at his own sublime piety—“in the public interest, particularly if it will also compromise the Chief Justice and the President who appointed him.”
Stanton nodded; and shut the folder. “I shall instruct General Dix to leave Senator Sprague out of all this until we know more than we know now. Will you tell the President?”
Hay matched Stanton’s own imperious tone. “Will you?”
“No. I see no need,” said Stanton. “He has enough to concern him now.”
“Then I will say nothing, and for exactly the same reason.”
WITH DIFFICULTY, Hay was able to squeeze into the small but elegant Supreme Court chamber where, in earlier times, the Senate had met. The domed chamber with its gallery was crowded not only with the local fashionables but with the entire congressional Jacobin contingent. The high court conducted its affairs on a dais in an apse opposite the audience, who sat in a semicircle between slender marble columns. Hay stationed himself next to one of the marble columns where stood Charles Sumner in a state of high excitement. “This is the greatest day in the history of the Court,” said Sumner.
“It is a great day,” said Hay, noncommittally, looking about until he found Kate, pale but majestic in a purple gown, her young sister, Nettie, on one side of her and Sprague on the other. Sprague’s pale face was somewhat flushed. Gin or brandy? Hay wondered. Or fear of an arrest during the ceremony?
An usher appeared on the dais and said in a low churchly voice, “The honorable justices of the Supreme Court of the United States.” A side door opened, and the senior justice entered, his arm through Chase’s. They were followed by the other eight justices, among them Lincoln’s enormously fat old crony Judge Davis of Springfield, who had been responsible for the disastrous commitment to make Cameron secretary of war. Yet the Tycoon had forgiven Davis, thought Hay; and raised him on high.
Each justice took a position in front of his own chair; bowed to left and right. Then Chase stepped to the center of the dais where stood the senior justice, who gave him a piece of paper, which he took with a trembling hand.
Hay stared at Chase closely, as he read, “ ‘I, Salmon P. Chase, do solemnly swear that I will, as Chief Justice of the United States, administer equal and exact justice to the poor and to the rich …’ ”
Hay looked at Sprague; at Kate; at Chase. All three were aware of their common danger. This was indeed courage, Hay decided; or a fit of collective madness. Whose will, Hay wondered, had prevailed?
“ ‘ … in accordance with the Constitution and laws of the United States, to the best of my ability.’ ” Chase gave the sheet of paper back to the senior justice; then took a deep breath and raised his eyes to Heaven and proclaimed, “So help me God!”
And Abraham Lincoln, Hay added to himself while Ben Wade, sitting close by, said, in a voice that all could hear, “ ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace … for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.’ ”
At Hay’s side, Charles Sumner said, “Amen.”
NINE
IT WAS DARK when the President, accompanied only by a servant, came aboard the steamer River Queen, a
nchored in the Hampton Roads. The ship’s master saluted the President, as Seward and Major Eckert came forward to greet him. “You made good time, sir,” said Eckert, checking his watch.
“We made an early start,” said Lincoln. “We also left in total secrecy, which means that no one on earth except probably the New York Herald knows that I am here.”
“Let’s hope that they don’t,” said Seward. “Come on inside, or whatever you’re supposed to say in a boat.”
The ship’s low-ceilinged salon was large and comfortably finished. Seward had arrived the day before; and he did the honors as host. The President requested coffee; and settled into an armchair that had been screwed to the deck. Through portholes the lights of Fortress Monroe glowed.
Major Eckert sat very straight on a stool, while President and Premier lounged in their chairs. Eckert had been acting as messenger between the Administration and the three Southern commissioners who were now aboard a nearby steamer, the Mary Martin. “They will join us here tomorrow at any time you propose,” said Eckert.
“Well, the sooner the better. So let’s say first thing after breakfast. Now”—Lincoln turned to Seward—“I’m only here because of General Grant’s urging. Since these fellows won’t accept our pre-conditions, I can’t see that we have much to say to each other. But Grant says their intentions are good, whatever that may mean.”
“I told General Grant that he was not to join in the preliminary discussions with the commissioners,” said Eckert. “Those were my instructions from Mr. Stanton. I think the general was angry with me, even when I pointed out to him that if be were to make an error, the repercussions would be terrible, while if I blunder, no one cares.”
“I assume,” said Lincoln, with a smile, “that he is still very angry with you?”
“Yes, sir.” Eckert smiled, too. “Fortunately, when the war is over, I go back to business—beyond his reach.”
Seward ran his hand through his Lear-wild hair. “It seems,” he said, “that Jefferson Davis is willing to give these men a free hand, up to a point, but I’m not sure just what that point is.”
“They must accept the laws of the Union, and the abolition of slavery.” Lincoln was very much to his own point. “If they do this, the war is over, and I will try to recompense the slave-owners.”
“Old Mr. Blair thinks that they will agree,” said Seward. “I don’t.”
Lincoln shook his head. “The Old Gentleman is like a young man, riding back and forth through the lines to Richmond. He also dreams a lot, like a young man. What’s your impression, Governor, of the three gentlemen?”
“I don’t think they’ll give way on the subject of slavery. But reimbursement is certainly a temptation. Also, they are just about flat broke—and they’ve run out of men. I would say the end is at hand. But …”
“But they will not relax what they regard as their principles,” said Eckert. “I’ve talked to them at length.”
“He’s a curious little man, isn’t he?” Lincoln took a mug of coffee from Mr. Steward. “Alexander Stephens was a great figure in the House when I was in Congress. Great, that is, in intellect. He is about the size of a large doll …”
“He is very brilliant,” said Eckert, disapprovingly.
“I’m afraid,” said Seward, “that the Old Gentleman has been misrepresenting us to the rebels.”
“The Mexican scheme?”
Seward nodded. “Sound as it is, it is not, alas, your policy.”
Lincoln sighed. “We shall be talking at cross-purposes. Particularly, if they persist in Mr. Davis’s myth that we are two countries at war when the sole purpose of our war is to demonstrate that we are one.”
The next morning Alexander H. Stephens of Georgia, vice-president of the Confederate States of America, accompanied by John A. Campbell, a former justice of the United States Supreme Court, and R. M. T. Hunter, a former United States senator, entered the salon where Lincoln and Seward were waiting for them. Bright-eyed and red-cheeked from the cold, Stephens was wrapped in yards of rough woollen cloth, which he proceeded to unravel. When he finally stepped forth from his cocoon, and crossed to Lincoln, hand outstretched, the President said, “Was there ever such a small nubbin after so much shucking?”
Stephens laughed, as they shook hands. “I’m glad to see you are just the same, Mr. Lincoln. I had feared that you might have grown even taller with all this greatness.”
“The only greatness that I have is in the way of trouble.”
“Then we have,” said Stephens, “something to share.”
Seward did his best to keep the conversation to the point. But, as usual with Lincoln, there were stories to be told, as well as what seemed to be idle meanderings which, Seward now understood, were highly meaningful evasions and delicate avoidances.
The first jarring note had to do with the abolition of slavery. At first, Lincoln had been most sympathetic; had even put himself in Stephens’s place and speculated on what he would do if he were, like Stephens, a Georgia politician. He would, he reckoned, suggest a gradual emancipation—over five years, say—so that the two races could have time to work out a way of living together under such altered circumstances.
“But, perhaps, my fellow Georgians would say that they would prefer to keep their slaves.” Stephens warmed his tiny hands on a mug of coffee.
“That is not possible,” said Lincoln.
“But if I understand you correctly, you freed our slaves as a military necessity, and not because you favored abolition in principle.”
Lincoln nodded. “That is true.”
“So if we make peace, there is no longer a military necessity, and then we shall be as we were, won’t we?”
Seward intervened. “The Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, if ratified, will change all that.”
“What,” asked Campbell, “is the Thirteenth Amendment? There were only twelve when I was on the Court.”
“Congress passed the amendment to abolish slavery in all the United States on January 31, three days ago,” said Seward. “Naturally, two thirds of the states must ratify it. Should you be within the Union by then, you will be able to vote ‘no.’ If not …”
“This changes everything,” said Stephens. He put down the mug. “Mr. Blair gave us to believe that there was a—a continental alternative.”
Lincoln shook his head. “That is Mr. Blair’s solution. It is not mine. It is possible that one day we may be obliged to go to war with the French in Mexico but before that happens we must make the Union whole again.”
“The price of wholeness,” said Stephens, wanly, “must be paid, it seems, by us.”
“No, that is not quite true. I believe that I can raise four hundred million dollars to recompense the slave-owners. I have considerable unofficial support for this, from persons whose names would astonish you.”
“If this were to happen,” said Hunter, “if the slaves were all paid for and set free, how would they live? They have always been accustomed to an overseer. They are used to working only under compulsion. Now you take away this direction, and no work at all would be done. Nothing would be cultivated, and both blacks and whites would starve.”
“Well, you know better than I what it is like to live in a slave society. But the point you make kind of reminds me of this farmer back in Illinois …”
Seward prayed that the story would be relevant. They were now at the heart of the negotiations; and he had become somewhat hopeful.
Lincoln was now describing a mythical Mr. Case who had got himself a large herd of hogs, and then wondered how he was going to feed them. Finally he was inspired to plant an immense field of potatoes, so that when the hogs were sufficiently grown he would be able to turn the whole herd into the field, thus saving himself the double labor of feeding the hogs and digging up the potatoes. But then a neighbor came along and reminded him that the frost comes early in Illinois, while butchering time isn’t till winter, so the ground would be frozen a foot deep for quite a time. S
o how were his hogs going to get to their potatoes? This took Mr. Case by surprise. But, finally, he stammered, ‘Well, it may be hard on their snouts but I reckon they will just have to root, hog, or die’!” Lincoln laughed loudly; and quite alone.
Seward thought the story peculiarly tasteless and even harsh. He started to change the subject when Lincoln, aware that he had misfired, said, “What I mean to say is that even if things prove to be as hard as you think they will be, I have a notion that you will be surprised at how well both whites and blacks survive.”
They talked for four hours; and to no end. At one point, Lincoln took the line that although anyone and everyone who chose to take the oath to the Union was welcome to, there were certain individuals who might merit punishment for having incited others to rebellion.
Hunter addressed this. “Mr. President,” he began. It was the first time, Seward noted, that the Southerners had referred to Lincoln by his title. Since Lincoln never referred to Stephens as Vice-President, much less to Davis as President, the commissioners had been careful to return the compliment of omission. “If we understand you correctly, you think that we of the Confederacy have committed treason, that we are traitors to your government, that we have forfeited our rights, and are proper subjects for the hangman. Is not that, really, what you are saying?”
“Yes,” said Lincoln, without any emphasis. “That is what I have been saying from the beginning of this great trouble.”
Stephens stared at the deck. No one spoke for a long time. Seward tried to think of something to say that would ameliorate the impasse; but could not.
Finally, Hunter observed, with an attempt at lightness, “So while you are the President, we are safe from hanging—just as long as we behave ourselves.”
“If there were … or if there had been … some easy way out of all this,” said Lincoln, slowly, “I would long since have taken it.”