Lincoln (51 page)

“I suppose he was cured?”

“Well, you never can know for sure with such a thing. But four years later he was all set to get married, and he would never have married if he thought he was not cured. Of course, he called off the marriage, due to the crazy spell. But then he got married, finally.” Herndon was now drunk. But unlike most drunks that Hay was acquainted with, he did not slur his words or lose his train of thought other than to rely somewhat more than usually on ellipsis. “Lincoln’s totally blind to his children’s faults, you know.”

“I know,” said Hay. As a part of his recovery from the summer ague, he had been sent to the New Jersey seaside with Madam and Robert, whom he liked, and the other two …

“I have felt many a time that I wanted to wring the necks of those brats …”

“Amen,” said Hay. The bourbon had now reached his own head.

“But little Eddie died—three years old—and the one they call Tad is not right in the head, with his palate misformed.” Herndon frowned. “I wonder at times …” Herndon stopped. The red-haired waiter-girl had returned. Herndon rose, unsteadily, and offered her his arm.

As Herndon left the parlor, Hay had the sense that he himself must be very drunk or, perhaps, asleep and dreaming. But if he was not dreaming, then a concerted effort must be made to get Mr. Herndon safely married—and sober—in Springfield.

MARY’S VIEW
entirely coincided with Hay’s, though for different reasons. With a martyr’s good grace, she had invited Herndon to dinner in the family’s dining room. The only other guest was Congressman Washburne. Lincoln was in good form, telling stories of the early days in Springfield. Herndon was in less good form. Mary noted that the eyes were bloodshot and that his hands shook. When Lincoln asked Herndon about his evening with John Hay, he said, “We ate too much at Wormley’s, where we saw General McDowell drinking water, a somber sight.”

“I hope you imitated him, Billy.” Lincoln gave Herndon a mischievous sidelong look. “These are somber times.”

“Well, I
shall
be imitating him soon, anyway,” said Herndon. “Once safely married, I join the Order of Good Templars.”

“What’s that?” asked Lincoln.

“A temperance group that fights the demon alcohol with a vengeance, which will at last be mine, now that our affairs are all in order.”

“Did you find a job for Mr. Herndon’s friend?” asked Mary, with sweet interest.

Lincoln nodded. “I took Billy over to the Indian department, where we found one of Mr. Buchanan’s appointees who was eager to be set free from the national service, so Mr. Chatterton is now an agent for the Cherokee Indians, and Billy will soon be a Good Templar.”

“I am sure it is
never
too late,” said Mary, aware—too late—that she had given great offense to Herndon; and, worse, that she had embarrassed her husband, who now turned to Washburne, and asked for news of Congress.

“We wait for news of you,” said Washburne. “When does the army move?”

Lincoln slumped in his chair; and shook his head as the waiter offered him a huge silver dish on which rested a roast loin of pork that deeply appealed to Washburne. “I’m getting set to issue an order to the effect that by the end of February, no later, the army must be in Virginia. But if McClellan is still sick in his bed …” Lincoln stared absently at Washburne, who was helping himself to the roast.

“I thought
you
were general-in-chief now.” Washburne carefully stacked the slices of pork to one side of his plate so as to diminish the effect of what otherwise might have looked to be uncontrolled greed.

“Oh, I am that.” Lincoln sighed. “I also think that I could probably set the army in successful motion. But then I remember that I am only a politician, and must listen to generals, who are never ready to move. The people are impatient. Chase has no money. McClellan has typhoid fever. In the West, Buell and Halleck seem unable to move in concert.” At
length, Lincoln complained of the dilatoriness of his expensive generals, and Washburne listened; and helped himself to the last course, apple pie.

“You have other … maybe cheaper generals,” said Washburne, his mouth full.

Lincoln nodded. “I’ve been meeting the past two nights with McDowell and Franklin, trying to decide what to do if the rebels happened to attack the Army of the Potomac; trying to decide who should command.”

“What does Mr. Stanton advise?”

“He’s not yet part of our councils. He’s been too busy examining the War Department’s expenditures.” Lincoln grimaced. The waiter removed the last plates.

“The Augean stables?”

“Exactly. Unfortunately, our new Hercules is asthmatic …”

Ghostlike, Nicolay appeared in the doorway. “Sir, your … guests have arrived. They’re in the Reception Room.”

“You should be in bed, Mr. Nicolay.” Lincoln put down his napkin; and got to his feet.

“I’m going to bed now, sir. It’s the
winter
ague I’ve got,” he added, wanly.

“Poor Mr. Nicolay,” said Mary, with some small compassion for her enemy. “Anyway, I now see why it takes two full-time secretaries so that Mr. Lincoln can have at least one secretary at work in the office.”

“Mr. Stoddard,” said Nicolay, with quiet satisfaction, “has just taken to
his
bed. Potomac fever, we think.” Nicolay left the room.

Mary rose. “Oh, poor Mr. Stoddard! I must go look after him.” They were all on their feet.

“Look to your own health, Mother. This is a sickly place.” As Lincoln turned to go, Herndon drew him to one side. Neither Mary nor Washburne could hear what the two partners were discussing but Mary was quick to see her husband’s mischievous half smile. Then, to her horror, she saw Lincoln remove from his pocket several greenbacks, as the new money had been promptly nicknamed; and give them to Herndon.

Mary glided toward the two men with, she hoped, genuine reptilian speed as well as grace. “What’s that for, Father?”

“Well, Molly, I was just showing Billy some of the new money that we’re going to print so much of. Now, here’s Mr. Chase’s honest face on the one-dollar bill, which everyone gets to see, and here I am—proposed, that is—on the two-dollar bill, which has a sort of rare look to it, doesn’t it?”

“Certainly rare by my standards,” said Herndon. He turned to Mary. “I’m twenty-five dollars short. His Majesty has graciously advanced me
the sum, which I will repay from the proceeds of our next fee. We’re still owed a fair amount, you know.”

“I see,” Mary began but her husband did not allow her to finish.

“You know,” said Lincoln, “I asked Mr. Chase why he had put himself instead of me on the one-dollar bill, clearly the most in use of the two denominations, and he said, ‘As you are the President, you must be on the more expensive bill; and I on the less.’ ”

Lincoln and Herndon and Washburne laughed. Mary did not. She not only disliked the idea that money should be lent to Herndon, but she had also been deeply affronted to see Chase’s face so conspicuously displayed on the currency. “He is running for president!” she had exclaimed when she saw the one-dollar bill. For once, Lincoln had agreed with her; but he also thought it wondrously funny, “To run for president on the money!”

Now Lincoln was showing Herndon the elaborate signature of Mr. F. E. Spinner, the Treasurer of the United States. “We’re in luck with him, because no one on earth can ever forge the way he signs himself. It is a truly resplendent signature, all those curves and slashes.”

“He don’t sign each one,” said Herndon. “That’s from a metal plate.”

Lincoln frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That’s from a metal engraving. Can’t you tell? God knows, we’ve been around a lot of print-shops in our day, you and I.”

Lincoln had gone pale. “I am the greatest fool,” he said. “I thought Mr. Chase ordered the money printed up and then Mr. Spinner signed it, and made it legal.”

“Well that
is
the way it’s done,” said Washburne, “only it’s all on metal plates.”

“And they can print as much as they please?” Lincoln shook his head. “Mr. Chase and I must have a talk. There must be safeguards. Suppose a thief got into the Treasury and …” Lincoln stopped. He shook hands with Washburne and bade him good-night; then he took Herndon by the arm, and said, “There’s a carriage waiting for you at the south portico; I’ll walk you down.”

“Mrs. Lincoln,” Herndon bowed.

“Mr. Herndon,” Mary nodded. Thus, they parted.

At the south portico, Lincoln stood a moment, shivering in the cold damp wind. A corporal held open the door to the carriage that would take Herndon to the depot. The night was clouded and dark, and the only lights to be seen in the distance were those of the camp fires within the White House grounds.

“Behave yourself, Billy,” said Lincoln, shaking Herndon’s hand.

“You look to your health, Lincoln. You’re too thin, and this is a
truly
sickly place.”

“Yes, Billy. It’s a truly sickly place indeed. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Thus, the partners parted.

IN THE
President’s Office Chase presided at one end of the table while Generals McDowell and Franklin sat at the other end. The quartermaster-general, Meigs, sat next to the President’s chair. Although Seward had been present at the previous two meetings, he had this evening sent his apologies. While they waited for Lincoln to join them, Meigs told Chase that they now all inclined to McDowell’s view that the army move against Manassas rather than Franklin’s proposal—an echo of McClellan’s secret Urbana plan—to move south along the water routes to the east of Richmond. As Meigs explained McDowell’s plan, Chase could not help but wonder at the essential oddness or perversity of men. If he had had such a defeat at Manassas as McDowell had sustained, no power on earth would get him to return to that ill-fated place. But, presumably, McDowell felt that the only way to erase the infamous defeat at Bull Run would be with a famous victory in the same place. Certainly he had responded coolly to Lincoln, who had said with great kindness after the original debacle, “I still have confidence in you, General.” To which McDowell had replied, “I see no reason why you should not.” On the other hand, McDowell had lost Chase’s confidence; and Chase had been and still remained his friend in a way that Lincoln was not.

Alone, the President entered the room. Everyone rose. He motioned for them to sit. He himself sat not in his usual chair but next to Chase, who was somewhat surprised that neither secretary was present. “Mr. Seward cannot join us,” said Lincoln. “But we have another visitor, who shall be here any minute.” Then Lincoln turned to Chase and asked, in a low voice, “I had no idea that our greenbacks are not
each
signed by the Treasurer.”

Chase was stunned by the President’s naïveté. “But how could he sign each one? The first issue of ten million dollars in various denominations would have taken him more than a year to sign, particularly with that signature of his.”

“I know. I know.” Lincoln was distracted. “I did not understand. But this thing frightens me. I mean
anyone
can get into the Mint and start printing money.”

Chase’s jaw set. “Sir, from the beginning I warned you that this scheme
of issuing fiat money, with nothing but the government’s word to pay
in specie
one day, was unConstitutional—”

“That sacred instrument, as I pointed out at the time, is mute on the point in question.” Lincoln was sharp. “Besides, Congress is the initiator in money matters, and they wanted such an issue, as did you.”

“I accepted the necessity because I saw no other way of financing this war.” Chase prayed that the others in the room could not hear what they were saying, because if the word were to circulate that the President, whose face was on the two-dollar bills, had no idea what the greenbacks actually represented, the entire fragile currency of the United States would go crashing. But the generals were huddled together in their usual world of high intrigue. “But I did insist that we attach our money-machine to the creation of an internal revenue system and a national banking act and …”

“You have been meticulous,” Lincoln interrupted him. “I have not. But we must ensure the safety of the Treasury’s printers.”

“Sir, if you have faith in me and in Mr. Spinner …”

“I have every faith. As does the public. But …”

“But, sir, we must delegate authority.” Unlike Seward, Chase seldom interrupted the President. But now he was angry. “You must trust us to be able to appoint honest printers, and clerks to count the money and carriers to dispense it across the nation.”

John Hay stood in the doorway. “General McClellan,” he said. McDowell, Hunter and Meigs got uneasily to their feet, as did Chase and the President, who crossed to the doorway where the pale Young Napoleon now stood. Almost tenderly, Lincoln put his arm about the little man’s shoulders and drew him into the room. Hay vanished. The meeting would go unrecorded.

The President’s tenderness was plainly lost on McClellan, who greeted the President—and everyone else—with a scowl. Once seated, Lincoln said, “While you were ill, I called these gentlemen together to give me advice on the conduct of the war. I also asked them to draw up tentative plans for an advance into Virginia, which General McDowell has done, at my order.”

Chase noted the dark suspicion with which McClellan glowered at McDowell; so did McDowell, who said, “I proposed, sir, during your illness, that elements of the Army of the Potomac move on Manassas …”

“A strategy which I had, previously, rejected; and still do.” McClellan’s voice was as strong as ever, Chase decided; and he wondered, idly, if
McClellan had actually been stricken with typhoid fever. Certainly, his recovery had been uncharacteristically swift.

Lincoln turned, expectantly, to McClellan, who crossed his arms on his chest, in imitation of Napoleon; then lowered his head, and was lost in thought. There was a long silence. Finally, Chase whispered to Lincoln, “Is he really recovered?”

“So he tells me.” At the other end of the table, Meigs was whispering to McClellan, who simply shook his head. Meigs spoke again, and Chase heard McClellan say, “No. He can’t keep a secret.”