Lincoln (24 page)

Lincoln sat at his desk; and rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Hay noticed that the lid of the left eye was now almost shut. “Well,” he said, turning once more to the window and the irresistible to him pale blue-green hills of Virginia, “those rebels did swear that they’d have this city by the first of May. Nine days to go.”

“If they should come, what is your plan, sir?”

“My plan, Johnny, is to have no plan. Particularly, when I don’t have much of anything to plan with.” Lincoln paused. “How quiet it is,” he said.

Both were still a moment. Except for the stirrings of the militia camped out in the East Room, all the usual sounds of the city had stopped. There was no sound of traffic. If the horsecars were running, their bells were silenced. Hay found it hard to believe that he was in the office of a bona-fide president of the United States at the capital of the country, and they were entirely cut off from the outside world. Worse, on every side
of the ten-square-mile rectangle known as the District of Columbia, enemy states were preparing for an attack.

Nicolay entered to announce: “General Scott’s outside, sir. He can’t walk up the steps but he wonders if you’d come down.”

General Scott was seated in the back of his barouche, gold epaulets gleaming in the sun, face gleaming, too—like an eggplant, thought Hay.

“Sir, forgive me for not rising. But I am in some pain.”

“That’s all right.” Lincoln leaned against the carriage door, rather the way a farmer would lean on a fence to chat with a neighbor on a Sunday evening. “What’s the bad news now?”

“One of our couriers just got through from Maryland, from Annapolis. I came straight here to tell you. The Eighth Massachusetts Regiment under General Benjamin Butler is aboard the ferryboat
Maryland
. They are anchored in the city’s harbor.”

Lincoln whistled. “How did he get to be aboard a ferryboat? Butler was to come by train, or on foot.”

“When General Butler heard what happened Friday in Baltimore, he figured that the rebels would cut the railroad line, so he commandeered a ferryboat at Havre de Grace and came down the Chesapeake. He has now told Governor Hicks that he means to disembark in Annapolis.”

“I must say I like General Butler’s enterprise.” Lincoln’s cocked eyebrow revealed his sense of the oddness of the situation. “Butler of all people! A rabid Democrat, who supported Mr. Breckinridge in the election.”

“I do not keep track of those things, sir,” said General Scott, austerely. “Thus far, our intelligence suggests that he is a highly resourceful commander. Thanks to his example, the New York Seventh and the Rhode Island First regiments are also approaching Annapolis, by way of the Chesapeake.”

“I was beginning to think that I had dreamed the North. That Rhode Island and New York were just names.” With a creaking sound, Lincoln stretched his long arms until he looked like a scarecrow. “What’s the condition of the railway out of Annapolis?”

“Twenty miles of track have been torn up.”

“Do you think the rails have been destroyed?”

“I would be very surprised, sir, if they had been. I think once General Butler is ashore he’ll be able to persuade the rebels to restore the track to what it was. But that will take time. Meanwhile, I’ve sent him word that the main body of his men are to march overland from Annapolis to Washington. The rest will remain in Annapolis and regain the Naval Academy, which is now in enemy hands.”

“If General Butler can land his troops without incident, there is still a militia in Maryland that is hostile to us.”

“I don’t think, sir, they will be a match for him. He is very much in charge. I am told that he was elected brigadier-general by his own men. Then the Republican governor of Massachusetts was obliged to confirm him in that rank.”

Lincoln nodded, more in bemusement than agreement. “You say the Naval Academy has been occupied?”

“Yes, sir. But their troops are few; and their governor fears us even more than he does his own rebel elements.”

“There is still no telegraph?”

“None to the north, sir. We have some communications, for what it’s worth, with the south. Anyway, in the absence of the telegraph or of any postal service to or from the city, our only connections with the rest of the world are my outriders.”

“I guess you are all the eyes and ears I’ve got left, General. When do you think Butler’s men will arrive?”

“No later than Tuesday, sir.”

The General-in-Chief then saluted the Commander-in-Chief, and the carriage pulled, slowly, away from the portico, as if the horses were having trouble with Scott’s deadweight. Lincoln stood a moment, staring at the back of General Scott’s neck. As usual, Hay wondered what the President was thinking; as usual, he did not have the slightest clue. They turned back to the Mansion. Willie and Tad intercepted them at the portico; each was riding, piggyback, a Kentucky volunteer. At the sight of the President, the two tall young men put down the two small boys.

“Howdy, sir, Mr. President Lincoln,” said one.

The other just touched his cap; and blushed.

“Boys,” said Lincoln to the volunteers, “carry on, as you were. And you pair of codgers,” he said to his sons, “stop pestering our defenders.”

“They enjoy our company very much. Don’t you, sir?” said Willie, looking up at the tonguetied youth. Hay was struck by the child’s vocal resemblance to his mother; even to the way that he used the word “sir” more as punctuation than politeness.

“Sure, Willie,” said the Kentuckian. With that, Willie was again hoisted on the volunteer’s back as was Tad, whose contribution to the scene had been noisy but incomprehensible. There were times, to Hay’s ear, when the beloved son of his beloved President sounded exactly like a goose
in extremis
. The volunteers galloped off. At the door, Old Edward said to Lincoln, “They’re at it cooking again. In the East Room, sir.”

“Well, as long as they don’t use the furniture for kindling …” Lincoln
paused in the entrance hall and looked toward the open door to the East Room, where a hundred Kentuckians were billeted. Smoke filled a fireplace where something large and quadruped was being roasted. The volunteers were in a fine mood; one played a banjo, while the others sang.

“Smells good,” said Lincoln, motioning for Hay to follow him into the Blue Room, empty now of Baltimoreans and filled with Mary’s Coterie, as Cousin Lizzie called those few who still came to pay court to the beleaguered First Lady of the divided land.

Mary sat in an armchair, back to a window, while Senator Sumner and Cousin Lizzie shared a loveseat without any great outward sign of amorousness or even amiability. On another loveseat, sat two men; one was known to Hay by sight and repute. This was the handsome, dashing—the press tended to run together the two adjectives when referring to New York’s forty-two-year-old former New York congressman and now brigadier-general—Dan Sickles, who was pleasant-enough looking to Hay’s cold, youthful eye. But then, for Hay, anyone older than thirty was already a palpable dinner for worms and not to be regarded seriously in a fleshly way. Nevertheless, this small officer with the narrow waist, deep-circled eyes and full moustaches, was not only a notorious lady-killer but also a gentleman-killer—literally, a gentleman-killer. Two years earlier, Washington’s district attorney, the equally handsome and dashing Philip Barton Key, son of Francis Scott, who had written Hay’s least favorite patriotic song, had shown the sort of attention to Congressman Sickles’s wife that Sickles found intolerable. One day, as Mr. Key was signalling Mrs. Sickles from the sidewalk, Mr. Sickles shot him. Mr. Key was taken to the Old Club House, where he expired in what was now Governor Seward’s dining room, a source of endless fascination to the premier, who liked, especially at table, to enact Key’s hideous death agonies.

The ensuing trial delighted the entire nation. Sickles was defended by the soon-to-be attorney-general, Edwin M. Stanton, who made the jury weep as he recounted the sufferings of his client when first he learned that the horns had been placed upon his unsuspecting and altogether innocent brow. So overwhelmed was the jury that Stanton was able to get them to accept a plea of something that Stanton had invented called “temporary insanity”—extremely temporary insanity, as it proved, because had it lasted longer than a day or two Mr. Sickles might have been obliged to resign from Congress. As Seward had said to Lincoln in Hay’s presence, “Any lawyer who can do what Mr. Stanton did in that case, can probably do anything.” Lincoln had agreed that he himself had never pulled off such a miracle in court.

As introductions were made, Sickles shook Hay’s hand, very man-to-man. Sickles was having his problems with the governor of New York over the brigade that he had raised. The President was supposed to intercede, thanks to Madam’s latest favorite and chief courtier, one Henry Wikoff, an old friend of Sickles who was known as the Chevalier. While Lincoln and Sumner conferred, Hay sat a moment with the Chevalier, a stout, honest-faced man with gray eyes and hair, and brown moustaches that looked as if they might have been gray, too, given a chance.

“I knew Mr. Sickles—I should say General, now—in London.” Wikoff smiled charmingly. He spoke with what Hay thought of as the Sumner Boston Brahmin—or whatever it was—accent. “When Mr. Sickles was with our legation, we saw a good deal of each other back in the fifties. Then, of course, when he was in Congress, he was close to my old friend President Buchanan.”

Hay noticed that Wikoff was holding a book, partly concealed by his frock coat. “What is the book, sir?”

Wikoff flushed. “A present for Madam President. Do you think it presumptuous? To give her one’s own book?”

Wikoff showed Hay the slender volume entitled
The Adventures of a Roving Diplomatist
by Henry Wikoff. Hay opened the book; turned the pages; said, politely, “You have roved in many countries, sir. Your title …?”

“Oh, good Americans cannot have titles, sir. But it used to amuse Mr. Buchanan to call me Chevalier because I was so honored by Queen Isabella of Spain, for a small service I did her Most Catholic Majesty.”

For Hay, any news of the great world across the Atlantic was spellbinding. He envied Henry Adams, who would soon go to England with his father, once the Ancient got around to making the appointment. “You know the Emperor Napoleon?” Hay’s eye had seen this name more than once as he turned the pages.

“Oh, yes. I’ve always been a Bonapartist. I first knew the emperor’s uncle, Joseph Bonaparte. You see, I was at the American legation in London. This was around 1836, years before Mr. Sickles served there, of course. I was an attaché, which means that I was a spoiled young man with more money than was good for him and a liking for adventure. Since then, what I have managed to lose in money I have gained in adventure, beginning with my mission for Joseph, which was to smuggle out of France some of the first empress’s jewels. I was rewarded with a silver cup and the family’s friendship. During the six years that Napoleon III was in prison at the fortress of Ham, I often brought him messages from the
outside world. As a reward, when he became emperor, he made me a chevalier of the Legion of Honor.”

“Twice a chevalier!” said Hay, enormously impressed. “So what brings you here to …” For Hay the word “prosaic” or something like it was floating about in his head, but then he remembered that as dim and unexciting and republican as the United States was, they were still in the presence of its homely and most puissant Chief of State. So “this dull place” became “Washington?”

“My love of adventure, I suppose. And Mr. Sickles’s kind invitation. I saw him, by chance, at Mr. Bennett’s …”

“Of the New York
Herald?
”

“The same. We are old friends, Mr. Bennett and I. Anyway, Mr. Sickles said, Come back to Washington and get a front seat to watch the war. So I did. I’m at the Kirkwood, looking out the window with my spyglass for signs of
la réforme
and Lamartine. Not,” he added quickly, “that Mr. Lincoln is another Louis Philippe. Quite the contrary.”

“You were in Paris during 1848?” Hay was awed.

“Oh, yes. I was a secret agent for the British, engaged by Lord Palmerston himself. You will find a chapter devoted to me in Charles Schermerhorn Schuyler’s
The Barricades of 1848
. A superb history, as you know. Mr. Schuyler, who lives in Paris … But all that is yesterday. This”—Wikoff gestured toward Lincoln’s back, which was turned their way—“is the adventure now.”

“I suppose it is.” But Hay was unable to find any trace of high romance in the grim events that had overtaken the American republic. Madam joined them.

“As I keep warning you, Chevalier, this is not the court of France.” Mary smiled up at Wikoff, who bowed low.

“I would not trade our Republican queen,” he said, “for two empresses of the French.”

“
Vous êtes tellement charmant, Chevalier. Mais, l’on dit, l’Impératrice Eugénie est si belle que tous les hommes …
”

Hay was surprised that Madam’s French was both fluent and reasonably unaccented. He himself had learned German as a boy from the Germans in Warsaw, Illinois, and French at school. He was as enchanted as Madam by the Chevalier’s tales of the French and Spanish courts, as well as by the long and curious account of the fifteen months that Wikoff had spent in a Genoese prison; put there, the Chevalier was convinced, by British duplicity. Like Madam, Hay only knew of the European world from books, while Wikoff had managed to live at least one book’s contents in Europe, which he proceeded to present to the Republican Queen, who
was rapidly developing a taste for flattery on the grand scale, now ecstatically fulfilled by Senator Sumner, whose French was the most elegant of all and who knew even more of the Europe’s great figures than did the Chevalier himself. But Hay was quick to note that Sumner did not quite approve of so much traffic with royalty and so little with the world of the mind. Where the Chevalier would deal, as it were, with the Empress Eugénie, Sumner would deal with Victor Hugo and Lamartine. Mary was now aflame with delight; she quoted Victor Hugo at incorrect length, allowing Sumner to win the exchange.