Lincoln (20 page)

“Good to see you, Old Edward.” The resonant bass voice was as firm as ever but the face was colorless. And the hand that its owner gave Lincoln to shake was cold and weak. “Well, Mr. President,” he said, “here you are.”

“Here
we
are, Judge,” said Lincoln, leading Douglas to a chair beneath Washington’s portrait. “Just the two of us, like old times.”

“All in all, Mr. Lincoln, I’m sort of glad that it’s me calling on you and not the other way around.”

Lincoln smiled a weary smile. “You know, Judge, I have a peculiar hunch that you might mean exactly what you say.”

“What can I do?” Douglas sat very straight in his chair, and looked taller than he was.

“I want you to listen to something. Then we’ll talk.” Lincoln removed a document from his pocket. “It’s a proclamation. I’ll read you the salient points. I start by condemning those elements in the states of South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi and Louisiana for obstructing the execution of the law …”

Ever the sharp lawyer, Douglas picked up on the word “execution.” “You are deliberately invoking your oath, to execute the laws. Am I right?”

“Yes, Judge. That oath is my bulwark and my shield and my … sword.” Lincoln pronounced the “w” in sword; and smiled. “Remember how that was the way we always pronounced the word as boys? Because we’d only
seen
the word in books …” Lincoln looked down at the text. “Therefore, I, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States …”

Douglas blinked his eyes rapidly, as if he had just awakened from a dream, to find that his rival was in his place; and that he was now nowhere. “… in virtue of the power in me vested by the Constitution and the laws …”

“The oath,” murmured Douglas, nodding. He was beginning now to understand what Lincoln was doing; he also understood the perils implicit in such a high royal progress to an end that no one on this earth could anticipate or even imagine.

“… have thought fit to call forth, and hereby do call forth, the militia of the several States of the Union to the aggregate number of seventy-five thousand, in order to repress said combinations and to cause the laws to be duly executed.” Lincoln looked up. “Well?”

“
Executed
again.” Douglas nodded; and in the round sick face he managed a smile. “But it’s like Hotspur, isn’t it? You may summon all you like. But will they come?”

“They have no choice when I call upon them to preserve, protect and defend the Union.” Lincoln spelled it out, as if he were carving his own epitaph in marble.

“Yes, they will come.” Douglas nodded. “But it won’t be easy. I think seventy-five thousand is too few. Ask for two hundred thousand men.”

“I must demonstrate the need first.” Lincoln glanced at the paper. “I go on to say that these troops will be needed to repossess our forts and so on, peacefully, of course.” Lincoln sighed. “And then I address the so-called governments of the rebellion and I say, ‘I hereby command the persons composing the combinations aforesaid to disperse and retire peaceably to their respective abodes within twenty days from this date,’ which is as of tomorrow April 15, 1861. I then call Congress into session on the Fourth of July. Well?”

“Well, you’ve given yourself until July 4 to play the dictator, and I suggest that you do
all
that you think must be done to crush the rebellion
before
Congress comes back.”

“I had not thought of it in quite those terms, Judge.” Lincoln smiled; and began to tug his hair into wild and characteristic disarray. “It’s true that I don’t want Congress here until I know who’s going to be in it and I won’t know that until I see what other states decide to leave the Union. I reckon by the Fourth of July we’ll know the worst.”

Douglas nodded. “Certainly, Virginia will go. Maryland?”

“I am prepared to hold Maryland by force.”

“Can you?”

“If I don’t, we lose this city. The governor of Maryland is with us, unlike the governor of Kentucky, who is working for secession. Fortunately, our friend old Doctor Breckinridge—you know, John C.’s uncle—is holding fast to the Union, and he carries great weight. It is also helpful that our first—and only—hero so far, Major Anderson, is a Kentuckian.”

“What did happen yesterday? Was he captured?”

“No. That was just our friends in the press. The major turned the fort over to Mister Beauregard, formerly of the United States Army, who then put him and his men aboard one of our ships. He’s on his way here now.”

“Why did Mister Beauregard fire on Fort Sumter when all you were going to do was provision it?”

“You will have to find some way to enter the mind of Mr. Jefferson Davis, who gave the order to Mr. Beauregard. A week ago, I sent a clerk from the War Department down to Charleston to read to Governor
Pickens a note from me to the effect that if they did not try to stop us from provisioning our fort, we would in no way add to its manpower or fire power. The clerk left my note with the governor, who sent it on to Mr. Davis, who then gave orders for Anderson to evacuate the fort, which he refused to do. I have always been told that Mr. Davis, when you really get to know him, is one of the damnedest fools that ever lived, and now I believe it.” Lincoln folded the proclamation; and put it in his pocket.

“Well, you said that
you
would never be the aggressor, and I guess you’re not.” There was a faint smile on Douglas’s lips.

“What does that smile mean, Judge?” With left eyebrow raised, Lincoln gave Douglas a look of comical suspicion.

“After that deep grave you dug for me at Freeport—and unlike Mr. Davis I am no damned fool—I suspect you of … maneuvering.”

“Oh, not like that, Judge. Not like that.” Lincoln was on his feet, pacing the room, pulling at his hair. “It is true that I could have let the thing go. What difference does it make who holds a fort that is worthless to us and probably not much use to them if war comes?”

“War has come, Mr. President.”

Lincoln stopped at the window; turned back into the room. “Yes, it has come.”

“So now you have your chance to re-create the republic.”

Lincoln was startled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, when I was getting ready for our last set of debates, I rummaged around and found a copy of an old speech you gave to the Young Men’s Lyceum in Springfield.”

“My God, Judge, I was a boy when I gave that talk.”

“You were twenty-eight, at which age Alexander the Great had been remarkably active. You mentioned him, too. And Julius Caesar. And Napoleon, I believe.”

“As tyrants, yes, but …”

“As tyrants, yes.” Douglas was inexorable. In a sense, this was his revenge on the man who had put him forever to one side. “You said that the founders of the republic had got all the glory that there was and that those who come after can never be anything except mere holders of office, and that this was not enough to satisfy ‘the family of the lion, or the tribe of the eagle.’ ”

Lincoln stared down at Douglas. There was no expression in his face; he had frozen in an attitude of attention; and nothing more.

“Your lion and your eagle cannot endure the notion of following in the footsteps of any predecessor, or of any one at all.
Your
great man ‘thirsts and burns for distinction; and, if possible, he will have it, whether at the
expense of emancipating slaves, or enslaving free men.’ I learned a lot of that speech, just in case.”

Lincoln continued to stare down at Douglas, who gave a half salute to the figure between him and the room’s far window. “Well, you are the eagle, you are the lion. You have it in your power, thanks to that marvelous oath the Constitution unwittingly gave you, to free the slaves or to enslave us all. Which will it be?”

Lincoln shook his head as if he had been dreaming; and said, “I have already given the proclamation to the Associated Press.” The manner was matter-of-fact. “It will be in every newspaper tomorrow.”

“You won’t answer me?”

“There is nothing to answer, Judge. But I seem to remember that I ended that speech with the hope that we would return to George Washington, and never violate his principles.”

“But you also said that those principles had quite faded away. And that there must now be something else.” Douglas waited for an answer; but there was none. “Well, whatever else there is, you have it now.”

“Yes.” Lincoln nodded; and looked away; and spoke as if to himself. “I have it now.”

Hay was at the door. “Mr. Seward is here, sir.”

“Tell him to wait in the Cabinet Room.”

“What can I do to help?” Douglas repeated.

“Make a statement to the effect that you support the proclamation and the Union.”

“And the eagle and the lion?”

“I would refrain from zoological metaphors.” Lincoln smiled.

“I will say that we are all Republicans, that we are all Democrats.
I
don’t mind imitating the founders.”

“And you think that I mind?”

“I have never heard you praise any president or any political leader—except that one time when you were called on to give an obituary of Henry Clay.”

“Well, there is one that I always praise—when I remember.” Lincoln pointed to the portrait of Washington.

“The first of them all. Well, let us pray that you will not be the last.”

“Let us pray that I am the last of what we have been enduring for half a century.”

“It is not enough to be James Buchanan?”

“Oh, Judge! Go on like that and you will really hear the lion’s roar!”

Laughing, the two men left the Red Room. As they crossed the entrance hall, Mary and Lizzie came toward them from the East Room.

“Mary Todd!” Douglas threw wide his arms.

“Judge Douglas!” Impulsively, Mary embraced the man the world thought that she might have married. Then she pulled back. “Oh, what have I done, Father?” She turned to Lincoln.

“Well, I won’t tell the State Department about your unseemly display if you won’t tell them how many pairs of white kid gloves I’ve lost.”

“You grace this house, Mary Todd.” Douglas looked at her intently. She noticed, as she always did when they were face-to-face, that each was the same height and so they could look each other, levelly, in the eye. Then Douglas turned to Lincoln. “If she had consented to marry me, I’d be here instead of you.”

“But, Judge, suppose she’d gone and married John C. Breckinridge? Then
he’d
be here.”

Mary laughed, amused and proud. “I don’t think any other woman was ever in such a position, with three of her beaux all running for president in the same year.”

“Or,” said Douglas, “if she’d been a bit older, she might have got off with Jefferson Davis when he was at Transylvania College; and been queen of the South.”

Lincoln chuckled. “Or a bit younger and she could’ve married Montgomery Blair. He was at Transylvania, too.”

“Now you go too far, Father. I was never searching for a politician to marry, only a brilliant man. Having been courted by the two of you, that’s more than enough honor for me.”

“That was joy for me,” said Douglas, swaying slightly.

“Are you all right?” Mary took his arm. Lincoln came forward and took the other arm.

“You should go back to your bed, Judge,” said Lincoln. “Save up your energy and get well. There’s work for us to do.” Lincoln shook Douglas’s hand with both of his own.

“I know.” Douglas started toward the door. Lincoln motioned for Old Edward to help him. “I’ll write my message straight away, and give it to the wire-service. I’ll see that it appears alongside your proclamation.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

When Douglas was gone, Mary turned to Lincoln. “Father, he’s dying.”

Lincoln nodded. “That is my impression, too.”

“Our past is leaving us, isn’t it?”

“Well, I reckon we’re sort of in motion ourselves.”

“Father!”

“I didn’t say
today
, Molly. Now I’ve work to do.”

Seward was staring out the window of the Cabinet Room at the shaggy south lawn, strewn now with daffodils and narcissus and truly gorgeous weeds. Across the river, the hills of Virginia were a smoky blue—like good cigar smoke, he thought, removing the unlighted stump from his mouth just as Hay opened the door and said, “Sir, the President.”

Lincoln entered, hair on end. As Lincoln took his place next to Seward at the Cabinet table, Seward noticed that he had not shaved for at least two days. He also noticed several gray hairs in the coarse black whiskers at the corner of the President’s beard.

“Judge Douglas was just here. He thinks I should’ve asked for two hundred thousand men. But I’m afraid we’ll have trouble enough getting the ones I’ve called for.”

“Will he support you publicly?”

Lincoln nodded. “He’ll make a statement tomorrow.”

“He carries great weight, particularly in New York, where we will have our problems.”

“But I thought that your mayor of New York …”

“Sir, he is not
my
mayor.”

“Mr. Seward, I think of the whole state of New York as being your personal farm. Anyway, the mayor has just sent me a message saying that he would like New York City to secede from the Union, and become what he calls ‘a free city.’ ”

Seward sighed. “He is a great fool. But he is sly; and a lot of New Yorkers feel as he does. It’s all those immigrants, particularly the Irish, the Papists. I must say they have always loved me. Probably too much for my own good.” Seward suddenly smiled. “They ended my political career, you know. I thought we should give state money to their schools. The bishop thought me a splendid fellow. The West did not. What did you say to the mayor?”

“I said I was not about to let the front door set up housekeeping on its own.”

Seward laughed, genuinely amused; he was also genuinely uneasy. On April 1, he had written Lincoln a long memorandum, outlining the problems that faced the Administration and, in the process, he had delivered himself of certain “home truths,” as he described them to Chase, which he feared that Lincoln might take offense at. Nearly two weeks had passed and Lincoln had made no mention of the memorandum. Seward presumed that the reason he had now been sent for, on this day of all days, was to discuss those truths. Seward was right.