Lincoln (42 page)

Lincoln repeated his order. Cameron nodded. “Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He sounded as if he were concluding a deal with a Harrisburg legislator. Seward sighed. At the beginning of the Administration, Cameron had been his creature. In fact, if not in title, Seward alternated with Chase as Secretary of War, a state of affairs that did not in the least distress Cameron, whose innumerable other fish were constantly in the fat frying. But this happy state of affairs was now drawing to a close. During the course of a recent meeting in General Scott’s office, Lincoln had turned to Cameron. “How many troops,” he asked, “do we have in the vicinity of the city of Washington?”

“Well, I’m not all that sure.” Cameron had not been in the least taken aback. “There is a list somewhere, I guess.”

The President had then turned to the commander of the Army of the Potomac, already known to the nation’s press as the Young Napoleon even though he had yet to win a major battle. “General McClellan?”

“I don’t have the figures at hand, Your Excellency. I can give you the figures for the Army of the Potomac, of course. But not the rest.”

With some wonder, Lincoln had turned to General Scott. “You are general-in-chief …”

“Yes, sir. I am general-in-chief.” The old man’s red-glazed eyes stared at McClellan. “But I am given no information.”

At this point, wanting not only to be helpful but to avert a scene,
Seward had undone at a single stroke his own power over the War Department. “I have the figures here.” He had then produced the small notebook that he always carried with him. Halfway through his reading of the statistics, Seward realized, too late, the immensity of his error. Lincoln’s face had set as if cast in bronze, while the low brow of the handsome McClellan was now so creased with thick lines that between thick straight brows and glossy auburn hair there was practically no brow at all to be seen. Cameron alone was unmoved.

When Seward was finished, Winfield Scott got, unassisted, to his feet. “This is a remarkable state of affairs,” he rumbled. “I am in command of the armies of the United States, but have been wholly unable to get any reports or any statements of our actual forces. But here is the Secretary of State, a civilian for whom I have great respect.” The old man stared hard at Seward, who did his best to appear at ease, yet eminently respectful—had he not invented presidential candidate Scott? written all his speeches?
governed
him? “But he is
not
a military man nor conversant with military affairs, though his abilities are great. Even so, this civilian is possessed of facts which are withheld from me.” Like some ancient arcane engine of warfare, Scott swiveled round to face Cameron, whose tricky eyes were now at rest upon a chandelier. Seward found himself sweating. He glanced at Lincoln, and saw that that usually restless body was unusually still in its chair. Meanwhile, the huge engine was now swinging toward the President, who began, slowly, to sit up like an unprepared schoolboy about to be called upon to recite. “Am I, Mr. President, to apply to the Secretary of State for the necessary information to discharge my duties?”

Lincoln turned to Seward, who said, “General, I simply collect this sort of information because it interests me. I like to know which regiments have come, which have gone …”

Scott spoke through him. “Your labors are very arduous.” The old man’s contempt was withering. “But I did not before know the whole of them. If you,
in that way
, can get accurate information, the rebels can also, though I cannot.” It was not until then that Seward realized that Scott must have known all along that it was McClellan who had given him the figures, on the not unreasonable ground that of all the officers of state, including the President, Seward alone had been able, not to mention
obliged
, to gather in his hands the reins of power. But those reins now snapped.

Scott’s last mischief to the nation was to break up what Seward had been convinced was the winning team of Seward and McClellan. The old man now turned on McClellan, who promptly thrust his hand inside his tunic,
like Napoleon—was he not the Young Napoleon? But then, in the face of an actual hero of the republic’s wars, McClellan withdrew the hand from his tunic. “You were called here by my advice,” said Scott. “The times require vigilance and activity. I am not active and never shall be again. When I proposed that you should come here to aid, not supersede me, you had my friendship and confidence.” General Scott paused; then he murmured, “You still have my confidence.” On that note, the old man left the room, something that his sense of protocol had never before allowed him to do without the President’s leave.

AT FOUR-THIRTY
in the morning of November 3, General Winfield Scott left Washington from the Baltimore depot, en route to Europe. McClellan was now general-in-chief as well as commander of the Army of the Potomac. “I can do it all,” he had told the President.

But now, thought Seward, as he gazed at his former minion, Cameron, all was changed. McClellan no longer turned to Seward as the natural leader of the government; but then he did not turn to anyone, so great was his youthful vanity. Meanwhile, Cameron had made an unexpected alliance with Chase and the radically minded Republicans in Congress. Cameron had come out for enlisting in the army those former slaves that had been liberated by the Union army. Lincoln had been as furious with Cameron as he had been in September when General Frémont had not only declared martial law in Missouri but had then announced that he would confiscate the property of all secessionists, including their slaves, who were to be freed. This had delighted the abolitionists while causing Lincoln to declare, with anguish, to Seward, “This is a war for a great national idea, the Union, and now Frémont has tried to drag the Negro into it!” Lincoln annulled the proclamation; relieved Frémont of his command; and incurred the enmity of Congress’s radical Republicans.

Lincoln rose. Cabinet was over. As Chase said good-bye to the President, he hoped that he could be out of the room before Cameron could buttonhole him. “We’ll see you New Year’s Day, won’t we?” The President was amiable. “With both your handsome daughters?” Lincoln stared down at Chase, a vague smile on his lips. He was never anything but the soul of courtesy and forebearance, thought Chase, full of Christian charity on this the anniversary of Christ’s miraculous birth.

“Oh, yes, sir! My young ladies look forward with pleasure to seeing you—and Mrs. Lincoln, as do I.” Chase managed to ruin every “s” in the sentence; but did not care. Although he was not exactly at ease with
Lincoln, he never felt any constraint when they were together. Chase was also aware of Lincoln’s profound regard for him as an educated man, with a lifetime’s experience in the higher realm of politics. “By the way, I suspect that the bankers will let us down on the payment
in specie
of the next loan, and I think that we should plan seriously for the issuance of our own government notes …”

“Mr. Chase!” Lincoln winced in a comical way. “Today, of all days, let me brood upon five sad things, not six. Be merciful.”

Chase inclined his head. “Our watchword—today—shall be ‘All quiet on the Potomac.’ ” This had been the daily report in every newspaper since McClellan had taken command of the army.

The President sighed. “As we all know, General McClellan is a great engineer, but I sometimes think his special talent is for the
stationary
engine.”

Chase smiled; and said good-day. He was first and forever a McDowell man. But after Bull Run, McDowell had been superseded by the thirty-four-year-old McClellan, who had kept a number of Virginian counties, now known as West Virginia, in the Union. McClellan was considered the perfect modern soldier, having been trained in Europe like McDowell but, unlike McDowell, he had seen action in the Crimea. He had then left the army to become chief engineer and vice-president of the Illinois Central Railroad, supporting for Senate the railroad’s counsel, Douglas, over Lincoln. McClellan was a Democrat, which Lincoln liked; but Chase did not. Lincoln tended to pamper pro-Union Democrats at the expense of loyal abolitionist Republicans. McClellan had just been made president of the Ohio & Mississippi Railroad, when he was called back to duty—and glory.

McClellan had taken Washington and the country—and even Chase—by storm. He was youthful, handsome if somewhat short and thick in stature, and confident to the point, Chase could not help but think, of hubris. But in a matter of months he had turned a frightened mass of men into a formidable modern army. Even Mr. Russell of the
Times
would now approve of their drilling. Chase had never realized just how awesome it could be to watch a well-drilled army of a hundred thousand men pass in review. But General McClellan loved the army so much and the army loved him so much that there had been, thus far, no military engagement of any kind except for a fracas at Bull’s Bluff, in nearby Virginia, which the Union army had lost, leaving dead on the field one of the President’s old Illinois friends, former senator Edward D. Baker. It was said that Lincoln had wept uncontrollably when he heard the news. Chase thought
this unlikely. Despite all of Lincoln’s charm and cunning, Chase found him, at bottom, an unexpectedly hard man, who would never weep for anyone—or anything, saving perhaps power withheld.

As Chase stepped out into the upstairs corridor, Cameron linked arms with him; and propelled him away from the others. “Governor,” Cameron’s voice was low and whispery and conspiratorial. “We have all the generals with us. There’s Frémont, who’s bound to get another command, which I’m working on. There’s Hunter. There’s Ben Butler, who’s declaring every nigger we free—I mean Negro—
Federal property
, so that he can confiscate them. He calls ’em contraband …”

“I know. I know.” Chase hated being told things that he already knew, which was how most of every day was spent, listening politely while others told him his business.

“I guess you heard what a success my swing through the North last month was. ‘Free the slaves!’ I said. ‘Arm the slaves!’ I said. The audiences just ate it up.” With an unexpectedly powerful grip, Cameron positioned Chase on the grand staircase; then helped him down, as if he were an elderly lady.

“It is certainly my wish,” said Chase. “But I’m alone in the Cabinet except, now, for you.” Chase could hardly believe that he and this embodiment of American political corruption were speaking so intimately. It must be a dream, he thought, as Old Edward met them at the bottom of the stairs. Cameron whispered in Chase’s ear, “We’ve got Sumner, the whole Committee on the Conduct of the War, the big generals …”

“Yes, yes,” said Chase. “I shall see you here, I suppose, on New Year’s Day.”

“Growing very cold, sir,” said Old Edward, as he led Chase out onto the portico where a line of carriages with smoking horses waited to collect the magnates.

“And the autumn was so beautiful,” said Chase, wistfully. It was true. There had never been such beautiful dry weather. There had never been such a perfect time to send an army straight to Richmond. There had never been such a rare opportunity, so peculiarly lost by the Young Napoleon.

As Chase drove away from the White House, the Chevalier Wikoff was being shown into Bettie Duvall’s parlor in Seventeenth Street. From time to time, in the most casual way, they had met at those houses where the grand people of every persuasion gathered. They had first been introduced to each other by the Widow Greenhow, whom the Chevalier had already come to know. He had found Miss Duvall plain in appearance but delightful in manner, largely because of her bold secessionist statements.
Since the house arrest of Mrs. Greenhow in August, he had got to know Miss Duvall even better; and if she had charmed him he had also charmed her. But then, in a sense, each was in the same business.

Miss Duvall led the Chevalier into her somewhat overfurnished and overheated parlor. Miss Duvall’s aunt was not in view. But then she was never in view. Miss Duvall came and went as she pleased. It was said that she had money of her own. It was said that she had a beau, in the Confederate Army.

“This is a pleasure, Chevalier.”

“I was on my way to … the
other
house,” delicately, he indicated that corner of the Mansion which was visible through the iced-over window, “when I thought I’d pay my respects.”

Miss Duvall sent for tea. Then they sat in front of the coal fire. “I’m glad you dared to come. Mr. Pinkerton’s men watch me morning, noon and night. I expect to end up any day at Fort Greenhow.”

Wikoff was grave. “I pray you remain at large, Miss Duvall.”

“That is a generous prayer, Chevalier. Does this mean that you are a secret secessionist?”

“
Pas moi
.” But then Wikoff realized that despite Miss Duvall’s name, she did not speak French, unlike his patroness the Republican Queen, Wikoff’s epithet for Mrs. Lincoln had so caught on throughout the country that now both the unfriendly as well as the friendly Press had taken it up, to the President’s dismay and to Mrs. Lincoln’s delight. Happily, neither suspected that Wikoff was the author. From the beginning, Bennett had agreed that Wikoff must never sign his dispatches; thus, he could continue to be not only Mrs. Lincoln’s devoted
cavalier servente
but Mr. Bennett’s man at the Mansion.

“I am,” said Wikoff, “simply a friend of the Lincolns. I particularly admire her. I always told Mrs. Greenhow what a pity it was that she did not go to the Mansion when … she could. She would have had a lot in common with Mrs. Lincoln.”

Miss Duvall was sardonic. “If what the papers write is true about Mrs. Lincoln’s loyalty to our native country, why, yes, I’m sure that our hearts all beat as one. But if that’s the case, then all the more reason for Rose—and me—to stay away and not compromise her. You realize, sir, that I am notorious for my outspoken sympathies.”

Wikoff raised one hand, as if in benediction. “Miss Duvall, you are much admired for your candor and your courage. I shouldn’t be surprised if the President himself does not think you a valuable asset at this time, to keep a line, as it were, of communication to the reb— To the Confederates.”