Lincoln (43 page)

Miss Duvall stared into the silver teapot to see at what state the brewing had got. “Well, if he is so eager to use me—and I am happy to be of use—tell him that I’d appreciate it if he would ask Mr. Pinkerton’s secret service to stop staring through my windows, and going through my desk when no one’s in the house. We spies
never
leave evidence lying about.”

“I don’t quite know how I shall put
that
to him, but I’ll do my best if I have the chance.” Wikoff was somewhat uncomfortable. He had not been aware that the house was being watched. But then the ambassador of James Gordon Bennett ought to be above suspicion. “Actually, General McClellan’s the person to speak to about the secret service. Apparently, Mr. Pinkerton used to work for the Illinois Central, the General’s old employer. Anyway, the secret service now reports directly to our Young Napoleon and not to the Executive Mansion.”

“Whoever his men report to, they’re watching us now, especially today.”

“Why today?”

“Because we’ve just won a great victory.” Miss Duvall added hot water to the teapot. “Mr. Lincoln has given way. He will let our commissioners go on to London. Now, if I were truly brave, I’d give you champagne, to celebrate. But I don’t want to go to Fort Greenhow just yet. So we shall have tea instead—and liberty. How, by the way, am I to know whether
you
are not a spy, sent here to trap me?”

Wikoff made a self-abasing gesture. “I am practically a foreigner. I’m hardly apt to be trusted by Mr. Pinkerton. Besides, I did
not
encourage you just now to compromise yourself by pouring champagne.”

“That is true.” Miss Duvall poured tea; and the Chevalier stated his errand. “I want,” he said, “to go to Richmond.”

With a sharp click, Miss Duvall put her saucer down on a mother-of-pearl inlaid table. “Why?”

“I want to write a sort of … peace letter for the
New York Herald.
”

“What is a peace letter?”

“Just that. As you know, Mr. Bennett is against the war. He also inclines to the South.”

“But not too far. After all, he has yet to go to jail for his principles. How many newspapers has Mr. Lincoln shut down?” Miss Duvall’s somewhat beaky smile did not waver as her thin lips tightened, and the sharp curved nose more than ever resembled a crow’s beak.

“A dozen, perhaps. But I think that it is more Mr. Seward—and the generals—who do the shutting down of presses and the arresting of editors. It is my impression, perhaps mistaken, that Mr. Lincoln spends a
great deal of his time getting Mr. Seward’s political enemies
out
of prison. But then this is war, Miss Duvall.”

“A war that your generals don’t dare fight.”

“Oh, dear lady, not
my
generals. I take no sides. I’m not a Republican or a Democrat or a Confederate or a Unionist. I’ve lived abroad too long. If anything, I’m a Bonapartist. Anyway, Mr. Bennett and I do not want to see this war grow any bloodier than it has been thus far. That’s why we think that if I should, somehow, get to Richmond, I could then send back a peace letter to the
Herald
, showing the Confederacy in a favorable—and formidable—light, and mentioning on what terms the South might be willing to make peace, terms acceptable to President Davis and to … Mr. Bennett, if not Mr. Lincoln. I should tell you that last July Mrs. Greenhow had agreed to try to get me through. But then she was arrested.”

Bettie Duvall stared a moment into the fire. The Chevalier stared at his own large white soft hands. “Let me … talk to friends,” said Miss Duvall, finally, as the maid appeared in the doorway. “It’s the boy from Thompson’s, Miss.”

“Oh, give him my prescription, will you? It’s upstairs on the …” But then Miss Duvall was on her feet. “I better talk to him.” Wikoff had risen but she motioned for him to take his seat. “I’ll be right back.” Bettie Duvall crossed to the vestibule, where David stood, shivering slightly despite a heavy, brand-new, only slightly adapted Union army overcoat, bought on the sly at half price from an army quartermaster.

“You wanted to see me?” Since the arrest of Mrs. Greenhow, Miss Duvall had had two or three occasions to send David on mysterious errands. Since she did not dare to be seen talking to him at Thompson’s, they had agreed that whenever she placed a certain vase in the front-parlor window, he would stop at her house when he made his rounds of the neighborhood.

“I did. But I don’t now. It’s too late.”

“For what?”

“Next week Mrs. Greenhow and all the other ladies are being moved to Old Capitol prison.

David whistled; then he smiled. “I reckon she’ll give them Feds a mighty hard time.”

“I reckon she will,” said Bettie Duvall. “But, one thing, we’ll have an easier time getting to her there than we’ve had here, with everybody watching. So you be careful,” she added, as she turned back into the hall.

“Don’t worry, Miss. Nobody ever pays me any mind.” This was true,
he thought, bitterly, as he went out into the street. Despite the new overcoat, he found the day arctic. But then for the true Southerner, winter is never not a disagreeable surprise.

David turned left into Pennsylvania Avenue. At Lafayette Square, he stopped and stared at the President and his spiffy-looking young secretary Mr. Hay, whose moustaches were now longer and silkier than his own. Of course, Hay was at least four years older than he. Even so, Hay’s new moustaches were far more effective than his own dull dark ones. The two men, one tall and thin, the other short and slight, looked like two black sticks against the snow. They were walking, quickly, toward Mr. Seward’s house. As always, they were talking animatedly; and, as always, there were no guards in sight except for the cavalryman at the corner of Sixteenth Street who sharply raised his sabre in salute, causing the President absently to raise his tall silk hat. Then the two men entered the Old Club House.

Miss Duvall and the Chevalier Wikoff had also witnessed this not unfamiliar scene. “How easy,” said the girl, thoughtfully, “it would be to kill him.”

“He says the same, which is why he won’t have guards. Mrs. Lincoln is terrified for him. But he is indifferent, or so he says.”

“He’s also safe.” Miss Duvall turned back into the parlor. “At least from the Confederate government. They would never do such a thing. After all, what would be the point? Mr. Seward’s the real power …”

“So shoot Mr. Seward!” The Chevalier was buoyant.

“It is certainly tempting.” Miss Duvall was equally buoyant. “Unfortunately, assassination is abhorrent to President Davis, and all that he … that
we
stand for. For now the tyrants are safe. Tell me, was it you who gave the President’s message to the
Herald?
”

Wikoff took, smoothly, this sudden assault. “As assassination is abhorrent to President Davis, so theft is abominable to me, dear lady.”

“Then how could you
ever
have been suspected, Chevalier?” Miss Duvall held out her hand, which the Chevalier actually kissed, instead of his own thumb.

“At every court, Miss Duvall, there are favorites, and I am thought to be one at this court. Also, at every court, there are gossips. I hope that I am
not
a gossip—except when I praise the brilliance of our Republican Queen. Finally, at every court there are those who envy the favorite, and so … Dear Lady, you know the world.”

“Better, I believe, for having known you, Chevalier.” Miss Duvall swept him a great mock curtsey. “Come back in a week,” she said in a low voice. “I shall have an answer for you from Richmond.”

Happily, neither Seward nor Lincoln had the slightest inkling of what was being plotted in nearby Seventeenth Street. The President was stretched out on a settee with his legs dangling over the arm—so long were the legs that the feet rested on the floor—while Seward sat, demurely, at the massive desk which he had used in the days—happy days, he now thought—when he had been governor of New York. John Hay and Frederick Seward had been sent off to the adjacent parlor, as Seward had jovially put it, “To play.”

“Governor, tell me, what shall I write to the Queen of England?”

Seward was prepared. He had written a draft of a letter of condolence to Queen Victoria, whose husband, Prince Albert, had died, while making more palatable to the Americans the British government’s response to the
Trent
Affair. Seward read the letter in his special high-Episcopal voice. He was pleased that Lincoln seemed pleased. “Send it tomorrow, Governor, and I’ll copy it out.”

“Prince Albert was the best of the lot over there, and not even a politician. I suppose you’ve seen the press today on our statesmanlike resolution of the
Trent
Affair?” Seward could never believe that Lincoln was as indifferent to newspapers—other than Messrs. Greeley and Bennett—as he claimed.

“Well, I’ve looked at some. The boys read them for me. It would appear that the Southern papers are jubilant, while Mr. Bennett and Mr. Greeley are saddened and sickened.” The President pulled a cushion into place just back of his head. Seward had often wondered whether or not he should keep a pair of slippers at hand so that Lincoln might enjoy every comfort of home in the Old Club House. Certainly, the President tended to make himself entirely at home both here and at the War Department. Seward wondered if Lincoln put his feet up in Chase’s parlor. Although he rather doubted it, one never knew with this curiously unselfconscious man, who often spoke as if he was simply reporting on the thoughts that crossed his mind just as they were crossing it; yet, simultaneously, it was Seward’s impression that Lincoln never said anything that he did not very much mean to say.

“I have been studying the art of war,” said the President, dreamily, eyes half shut. “Almost every day I send John down to the Library of Congress to take out books that I see referred to in my reading. You know, there are actually times when I think that I may have the knack, since war is not all that different from politics …”

“ ‘An extension of politics by other means.’ ” Seward quoted; or paraphrased—he was never certain what the line was. He had come across it a good deal in his own recent reading—of English newspapers.

Lincoln nodded. “Clausewitz,” he said, drawing out each syllable deliberately and correctly. “Or however he calls himself. John translates him for me. John’s German is first-rate. Anyway, I don’t see why
we
shouldn’t try our hand at it—in a sort of auxiliary way, of course. I respect McClellan, if only because whatever secret genius I may or may not have for strategy, it stops a mile or two short of training an army and victualing it, the way he does. But, basically, our Young Napoleon is really an engineer, just the way we’re lawyers. Now engineers have their uses, but I wonder if fighting a huge and complicated modern war is one of them.”

Seward blew smoke rings at the smoky wood fire. “I think he can do it.”

“I think he can, too. If I didn’t …” Lincoln stretched his long legs so that they were now at a hundred-eighty-degree angle above the sofa. As he stretched, there were a number of crackling sounds. Seward was pleased to note that the President shared at least one of his own afflictions—arthritis. “But I do wonder, from time to time, at his reluctance to use this wonderful—and wonderfully expensive—army that we’ve given him.”

“It’s possible he has too much to do. After all, he must now do Scott’s job as well as his own. That’s a lot for any man.”

“In a funny way,” said Lincoln, “I’ve always thought that General Scott was right. This war can only be won in the west. Take Richmond, and what have you? A section of Virginia. But split the rebels in two, and they have no country. You’ve cut Virginia off from its hog and hominy. The Mississippi is the key. That’s why I want us to build a railroad from Lexington to Knoxville.”

“I don’t think Congress will let you.”

“Then we must find a way to persuade them. Or just do it ourselves, you know, under our …”

“
Your
inherent powers.”

Lincoln nodded. “East Tennessee is pro-Union, which means the rebels are holding that territory by force. Senator Johnson swears that with the slightest aid from us, the folks back there will drive every last rebel out of the state.”

“But McClellan has most of the army right here, on the Potomac. General Halleck hasn’t got the means.”

“You know General Scott’s last official words to me were, ‘Make Halleck general-in-chief.’ But McClellan wanted the job, so he got it. And Halleck seemed the man to take Frémont’s place in the west.”

“Where he does nothing, either.”

“At least he’s not gone and freed all the slaves in his district.” Lincoln
shook his head. “I have never known such a subtle, calculating total fool as Mr. Frémont.”

“But you must admit he’s made himself irresistible to every abolitionist in the country, which means he’s popular with the Committee on the Conduct of the War.”

“On the other hand, Governor, he’s not very popular with me.” Lincoln was mild. “Why, if I’d let that order of his stand, we’d have lost Kentucky and East Tennessee and Missouri …” Lincoln drifted off. How, Seward wondered, not for the first time, did this man’s mind work? “You know, after I ordered Frémont to cancel the order, he sent his wife to me.” Seward knew, of course; everyone knew. But he said nothing, curious to hear Lincoln’s side of the story. “Now you may not know this”—Lincoln shut his eyes—“but when I first ran for the Illinois legislature, I came out, more or less, for female suffrage; not exactly the most popular position to take back then, and in that part of the world.”

“It is still not the most popular issue
anywhere
in the world, thank God.”

“Well, Mrs. Frémont comes to see me late at night—right off the cars from the West—and threatens me to my face with an uprising against the government, led by the Frémonts and their radical friends. So I called her, in the nicest way, I thought, ‘Quite a lady politician,’ and she was madder than a wet hen and went and told everyone that
I’d
threatened
her!
” Lincoln sighed. “Is it possible that female suffrage may not be the answer to every human problem?”