Lincoln (102 page)

The suspicious Lamon had reluctantly allowed a half-dozen highly partisan officers to keep the President company. Gideon Welles had also joined the long watch.

At nine o’clock the serious returns began. Although storms in the midwest interrupted and delayed the Illinois returns, by midnight it was clear that Lincoln had carried his home state. He immediately sent an orderly to the White House. “Tell Mrs. Lincoln. She’s even more anxious than I am.”

As Hay recorded the satisfactory returns from Massachusetts, Lincoln was telling Brooks, “I’m enough of a politician to know when things are pretty certain, like the Baltimore convention. But about this thing I’m far from certain.”

“You should feel pretty confident now,” said Brooks. The air of sycophancy was too much for Hay. He hoped it would be too much for the Tycoon during the second term, which seemed now to be at hand.

As New Jersey began to slip toward McClellan, the Tycoon grew philosophical. “It’s strange about these elections I’m involved in. I don’t think of myself as a particularly vindictive or partisan man but every contest I’ve ever been involved in—except the first for Congress—has been marked by the greatest sort of bitterness and rancor. Can it be me, I wonder, that provokes all this, without knowing it?”

“I should think it was the times, not you, sir,” said Brooks. “And lucky for us, you are there to mediate.”

Hay decided that, for once, the Tycoon showed alarming bad taste in his companions. Was the second term to be one of vague complacencies and intrigue? Was the simple good Ancient that Hay knew, to be corrupted by youthful flatterers? Perhaps he himself should stay on. But then he thought of the Hellcat; and realized that he could not stay at the White House four more months, much less years. In fact, he had made up his mind that after the first of the year he would move to Willard’s and then some time after the inaugural in March, he would go—as would Nicolay.

Seward arrived at midnight, in time for the supper that Major Eckert had had prepared in the War Department kitchen. The premier was in an exultant mood. He had returned on the so-called Owl Train from the North. “We shall take New York State by forty thousand votes,” he announced.

“While McClellan sweeps the city. Have some fried oysters.” Lincoln and an unknown general were helping fill up everyone’s plate with food.

Eckert himself was now manning the telegraph machine. “Here comes New York,” he said.

But Seward preferred to give his version of what was happening in that most imperial of all the states. “Governor Seymour threatened to call out the national guard, to scare away our people. So Butler promptly called out the army to scare off the national guard. He’s been arresting Democratic agents all day.” Seward poured himself champagne; and toasted Ben Butler.

Eckert reported: “McClellan has carried New York City by thirty-five thousand votes.”

“That was pretty much my estimate,” said the Tycoon, nibbling at a fried oyster.

“McClellan has also carried the state by four thousand votes,” said Eckert.

“Not possible!” Seward nearly dropped his glass. “There is fraud here.”

“That was
not
my estimate,” said Lincoln, abandoning the rest of the oyster. “But I was certain that I would lose the state.”

“Well, you have won the election,” said Brooks.

“Not quite …”

Eckert announced that Kentucky seemed secure for McClellan. Hay began to add; and subtract. He was obliged to do on paper what the Tycoon could do in his head. Each state’s electoral vote was on file in that swift, subtle but distinctly odd brain. Hay could not see how Lincoln could lose. Nevertheless, if New York’s electoral votes were to go to McClellan, the margin of victory might resemble, more and more, the Ancient’s original gloomy estimate.

Then Eckert, with a grin, announced: “Correction from New York. Lincoln not McClellan carried the state by four thousand votes, and Governor Horatio Seymour is defeated.”

There was cheering in the room, and when Seward insisted that the Tycoon drink a glass of champagne, he did so. “Remember your hopes and dreams for Seymour this very night?” Seward teased Lincoln. “Just think, it might have been President Seymour, with you as his midwest manager.”

“Fate has spared us,” said Lincoln, demurely.

Eckert announced. “Steubenville, Ohio, the hometown of Mr. Stanton, has gone Republican.”

“We are safe!” Lincoln exclaimed. Then, in wheezing imitation of Stanton, he said, “Let’s give three cheers for Steubenville!”

When the cheering ceased, Seward observed, at large, “We owe Mr. Stanton a lot tonight. He got out the soldier vote, and they are the ones who have made all the difference.”

Lincoln nodded, suddenly somber. “It is true,” he said. “But I myself cannot see why they voted as they did—grateful as I am.”

“They are loyal to you.” Again Seward raised high his glass. “They are also loyal to the army, to the Union, to themselves and to what they have done these last four years, and to all their dead.”

“I will drink to that,” said Lincoln; and finished the glass of champagne. “Certainly, I am honored that they have voted for me. Honored and surprised, with all the dead thus far.” The voice trailed off.

“
They
would favor you, too, if they could vote,” said Seward, expansively.

“The dead?” Lincoln sounded startled. Then he shook his head. “No, Governor. The dead would not vote for me, ever, in this—or any other—world.”

T
HREE DAYS
later, Lincoln met with the entire Cabinet, except for Stanton, whose illness was beginning to cause alarm. Lincoln had carried all but three states: New Jersey, Delaware and Kentucky. He had a popular majority of a half-million votes; and so he was, just barely, a majority president.

Seward was euphoric. He could not stop talking; he wished that he could stop but the fit was upon him. “Even if we carried New York State by four thousand votes instead of the forty thousand we first thought, it is an extraordinary achievement, given the forces against us, from press to governor to Copperheads.”

Hay entered. “Sir, a report from Nicolay, in Illinois. You have carried Illinois by twenty-five thousand votes.” The Cabinet applauded. Lincoln
looked at the report a moment; then he laughed. “I see that I have lost my home county of Sangamon to McClellan. I also lost the state of my birth, Kentucky, to McClellan. It would appear that where I am best known, I am least popular.”

“Doubtless, that explains your triumph in Nevada,” said Seward.

Hay gave the President the latest news from the War Department. The Tycoon announced: “General McClellan has resigned his commission as major-general, and departs, immediately, for a holiday in Europe.”

There was, again, applause from the Cabinet. Meanwhile, Lincoln had given Hay a sealed sheet of paper. “Gentlemen, do you remember last summer when I asked you all to sign your names to the back of a sheet of paper whose inside I did not show you? Well, this is it.” Lincoln held up the paper; then he gave it to Hay. “Now, Mr. Hay, see if you can get this open without tearing it.” Hay took a paper knife and, like a surgeon, made a series of complex insertions. The Tycoon had glued the paper shut at the oddest of angles.

When the document was open, Lincoln read it aloud to the Cabinet. “ ‘This morning, August 23, 1864, as for some days past, it seems exceedingly probable that this Administration will
not
be reelected.’ ” Lincoln glanced at Seward, who was obliged to nod his agreement. “ ‘Then it will be my duty to so cooperate with the President-elect, as to save the Union between the election and the inauguration; as he will have secured his election on such ground that he cannot possibly save it after.’ ” Lincoln put down the note. “This was written about a week before McClellan was nominated. Since I was fairly sure that he would win, I had made up my mind that when he did, I’d ask him here and say, ‘Look, we’ve got nearly five months before you take office. I still have the executive power, while you have the confidence of the country. So let us together raise all the troops that we can and end this war together.”

The Cabinet looked appropriately grave, except for Seward, who said, “And the general would answer you, ‘Yes, yes’; and the next day when you saw him again and pressed your views on him, he’d say, ‘Yes, yes’; and nothing would ever have got done.”

“At least,” said the Tycoon, “I should have done my duty and my conscience would be clear.”

“We need not grieve for Little Mac,” said Fessenden, newly returned from New York City. “I am told he has been offered the presidency of the Illinois Central Railroad, at ten thousand dollars a year.”

“He will answer ‘yes’ to that quick enough,” Seward conceded.

“So,” said Lincoln, “would I. In his place, that is—where I thought I would be last August.”

Gideon Welles then spoke with some delight of the imminent departure from Washington of the now former Senator Hale, a man of corruption, who had caused the Navy Department much grief. Perhaps he should be punished further; perhaps he should be investigated by the Attorney-General. But Lincoln raised a large hand, and said, “In politics the statute of limitations must be short.”

Since Seward had never known a good politician who was not vengeful, Lincoln was either not a good politician or an anomaly. Seward inclined to the last.

After the Cabinet meeting, Lincoln met with Francis P. Blair. “You will think, sir,” began the Old Gentleman, now very old indeed but still retaining his Jacksonian fire, not to mention impersonation, “that I am here on behalf of Monty, who deserves to be the next chief justice.”

“I had a suspicion that that might be in your mind,” said the President, looking at the pale, truncated obelisk to Washington. “Certainly, it is in my mind.”

“Well, as long as it is there, I will say no more. You have done enough for the Blairs to entitle you to their gratitude and that of their posterity forever.” This sentiment brought forth a degree of saliva which the old man reflexively mopped up, eyes on the portrait of his friend, Jackson. “Actually, I’m here on other business. As you know, I was once on good terms with Jefferson Davis.”

“I know,” said Lincoln.

“I want to go to Richmond.” The Old Gentleman was abrupt; Jacksonian. “I want to talk to him. I want to end this war.”

“How?”

“I want to persuade him to make peace, to return to the Union, and to join with us in driving the French-Hapsburg forces out of Mexico.”

Lincoln was noncommittal. “That is Governor Seward’s dream, too. But is it Mr. Davis’s?”

“Let me find out. I have a perfect excuse to go to Richmond. Those bastards who looted my house took all my papers, and now I want them back. Davis will understand that. He’ll let me come to Richmond. Then I shall tell him my plan.”

Lincoln nodded, as if in deep thought; then he said, “Wait until Savannah falls. Then come to me, and I’ll give you a safe passage to City Point, or wherever Grant happens to be.”

“Not until then?” The Old Gentleman looked somewhat disappointed.

“I think we must tighten the noose a bit more. Also, the slavery question should be solved by then. I have a hunch that this Congress is going to ask for an amendment to the Constitution to abolish slavery once and for
all. When that is done, Mr. Davis, for better or worse, will know just where he stands.”

David knew exactly where
he
stood with Mr. Thompson: he had been fired, as the wild boys would call it; let go; dismissed. “I have for some time, David, felt that you were not entirely present when you were present, and often when I needed your assistance, you were not present at all.” Mr. Thompson stood, sadly, in front of his long, gleaming row of Latin-inscribed ceramic jugs. The curling gold Gothic letters shone in the bright morning light. “I did my best to overlook your absences, out of friendship to your mother. I, also, I shall tell you now, detected in you, from the beginning, the makings of a first-class druggist. Anyone who can saw wood can be a doctor of medicine but to be a fine druggist is to be an artist born not made. We are the true scientists, and deep in our powders and our elixirs and in our subtle mixings of same, there is health, and there is God. I pray that you will take counsel with yourself before it is too late.” Mr. Thompson opened his wallet. “Your wages, which ceased the day before the election, which was a holiday—though our work is never done despite the day.”

“But I worked all day yesterday …” David argued another five dollars out of Mr. Thompson. In a sense, he was glad to be gone. A lifetime in the back room of a drugstore was even worse than a lifetime in the front room, getting to meet everybody, as Mr. Thompson did. In the last year he had told Mr. Thompson that he had been sick so often that he had now run out of illnesses. The year before, David had worked part-time for Walsh’s, a druggist at the Navy Yard, not far from his mother’s house. Mr. Thompson had an understanding with Mr. Walsh, and during one of David’s many “convalescences,” it was agreed that he work close to home. But that had come to an end when the two druggists compared notes one day and found that much of the time David had been working for neither. Now the curtain was falling forever, thought David, dramatically, on his career as a prescription clerk. Fortunately, there was plenty of work at the theaters; and, best of all, his friend Wilkes was back in town.

For the last time, David shut the door of Thompson’s behind him; and heard, for the last time, the small bell attached to the inner handle clatter. Then he stepped out into Fifteenth Street, a free man. The rain had ceased and the sky was clear. A brisk wind smelled of winter. The mud had turned to hard earth, while the hogs in the alleys seemed more than usually alert. In a good mood, David made his way along New York Avenue to the Surratt house in H Street.

The city was filled to bursting with shiftless ex-slaves and equally, to
David’s hardened eye, shiftless white men from the South, who had taken the oath and now had no place to go and no work to do. They sat in open places, making fires out of trash and drinking com liquor. They were not supposed to be armed but all had knives; and, at the slightest provocation, used them. There were now parts of the city where not even David dared go at night.