The Lincoln Myth (2 page)

“I have written to the general, and he knows what I want done,” he made clear.

“He feels he is at the great disadvantage of being opposed by people in whom you have every confidence.”

A curious retort. “Who do you mean?”

“He thinks that your advisers, men closer to you than him, have a better hold on your ear.”

“And that accounts for his disobeying my orders? Madam, his emancipation proclamation does not come within the range of military law or necessity. He has made a political decision, one that is not his to make. Just a few weeks ago I sent my personal secretary, Mr. Hay, to see the general, who asked him to modify the part of the proclamation that freed all slaves in Missouri. No answer was given to my request. Instead, the general has now sent you to speak to me directly.”

Even worse, Hay’s reports had made clear that Fremont’s command was rife with corruption, his troops on the verge of rebellion. Not surprising. Fremont was stubborn, hysterical, and rash. His whole career had been one fiasco after another. Back in 1856 he’d ignored the advice of political experts and made slavery that presidential campaign’s main issue. But the country was not yet ready for such an uprooting. Sentiment wasn’t right.

And it cost him a victory.

“The general’s conviction,” she said, “is that it will be long and dreadful work to conquer the Rebels by arms alone. To secure the support of foreign countries, other considerations have to be recognized. The general knows of the English feeling for gradual emancipation, and the strong wish to meet that feeling on the part of important men in the South. We cannot allow that to happen. As president, surely you know that we are on the eve of England, France, and Spain recognizing the South. England on account of her cotton interests. France because the emperor dislikes us—”

“You are quite a female politician.”

“I am not ignorant of the world. Perhaps yourself, a man who barely laid claim to this great office, should be mindful of other people’s opinions.”

An insult he’d heard before. He’d won the 1860 election thanks to a fracture in the Democratic party, which stupidly had offered two candidates. Then the upstart Constitutional Union party chose another of its own. Among them the three garnered 48% of the popular vote and split 123 electoral votes, which allowed his 40% and 180 electoral votes to claim victory. True, he was but a lawyer from Illinois, the extent of his national experience one term in the House of Representatives. He’d even lost the 1858 Illinois race for the U.S. Senate to his longtime nemesis Stephen Douglas. But now, at fifty-two years old, ensconced in the White House with a four-year term, he found himself at the center of the greatest constitutional crisis the nation had ever faced.

“I must say, madam, that I cannot be unmindful of others’ thoughts, as I am barraged by them every day. The general should never have dragged the Negro into this war. This is a conflict for a great national object and the Negro has nothing to do with it.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

He’d allowed this woman some latitude, mindful that she was merely defending her husband, as a wife should.

But now the Fremonts were
both
bordering on treason.

“Madam, the general’s actions have caused Kentucky to rethink whether it will stay with the Union or join the Rebels. Maryland, Missouri, and several other border states are likewise reconsidering their positions. If this conflict be about the freeing of slaves, then we shall surely lose.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a lift of his hand.

“I have not left anyone in doubt. My task is to save the Union. I would save it the shortest way under the Constitution. The sooner the national authority can be restored, the nearer the Union will be the Union as it was. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it. If I could save it by freeing all slaves, I would do it. If I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. What I do about slavery, and the colored race, I do because
I believe it helps to save the Union. What I forbear, I forbear because I don’t believe it would help to save the Union. I shall do less whenever I shall believe what I am doing hurts the cause, and I shall do more whenever I shall believe doing more will help the cause.”

“Then you are not my president, sir. Nor would you be the president of those who voted for you.”

“But I
am
president. So take this message back to the general. He was sent west to move the army to Memphis and keep advancing eastward. Those are still his orders. He shall either obey them or be removed from his post.”

“I must warn you, sir, that it could be hard if you continue to oppose the general. He could set up for himself.”

The federal treasury was empty. The War Department a mess. No Union army anywhere was prepared to advance. And now this woman, and her insolent husband, were threatening revolt? He should have them both arrested. Unfortunately, however, Fremont’s unilateral emancipation had become popular with abolitionists and liberal Republicans who wanted slavery ended now. A bold strike at their champion could be political suicide.

He said, “This meeting is over.”

She threw him a glare, one that said she was unaccustomed to being dismissed. But he ignored her sneer and stepped across the room, opening the door for her to leave. Hay, his personal secretary, was on duty outside, as was one of the stewards. Mrs. Fremont passed Hay without saying a word, and the steward led her away. He waited until he heard the front door open, then close, before signaling for Hay to join him in the parlor.

“That is an impertinent soul,” he said. “We never even sat. She gave me no chance to offer her a seat. She taxed me so violently with so many things that I had to exercise all the awkward tact I have to avoid quarreling with her.”

“Her husband is no better. His command is a failure.”

He nodded. “Fremont’s mistake is that he isolates himself. He does not know what is going on in the matter he is dealing with.”

“And he refuses to listen.”

“She actually threatened that he might set up his own government.”

Hay shook his head in disgust.

He made a decision. “The general will be removed. But not until a suitable replacement is found. Locate one. Quietly, of course.”

Hay nodded. “I understand.”

He noticed a large envelope that his trusted aide held and motioned toward it. “What is that?”

“It arrived late today from Pennsylvania. Wheatland.”

He knew the location. The family home of his predecessor, James Buchanan. A man vilified by the North. Many said he paved the way for South Carolina to secede, blaming that act on the
intemperate interference of the northern people with the question of slavery
.

Strong, partisan words from a president.

Then Buchanan went farther and said that slave states should be left alone to manage their domestic institutions in their own way. Northern states should also repeal all laws that encouraged slaves to become fugitives. If not, then
the injured states, after having first used all peaceful and constitutional means to effect redress, would be justified in revolutionary resistance to the government of the Union
.

Tantamount to a presidential endorsement of rebellion.

“What does the former president want?”

“I did not open it.” Hay handed him the envelope. Scrawled across the front were the words
FOR THE EYES OF MR. LINCOLN ONLY
. “I respected his wishes.”

He was tired, and Mrs. Fremont had sapped what little strength remained from a long day. But he was curious. Buchanan had been so eager to leave office. On Inauguration Day, during their carriage ride back from the Capitol, he’d made his intentions clear.
If you are as happy in entering the White House as I shall feel on returning to Wheatland, you are a happy man indeed
.

“You may go,” he said to Hay. “I’ll study this, then be off to bed myself.”

His secretary left, and he sat alone inside the parlor. He broke the wax seal on the envelope and slid out two pages. One, a
parchment—brown with age, water-stained, dry and brittle. The second, a soft vellum, newer, the black ink fresh, in a firm masculine hand.

He read the vellum first.

It is a sorry place, the country which I left you, and for that I apologize. My first mistake was declaring at my inauguration that I would not become a candidate for reelection. My motive was pure. I wanted nothing to influence my conduct in administering the government except the desire to ably and faithfully serve and to live in grateful memory of my countrymen. But that proved not to be the case. On my return to the White House the day I accepted the oath a sealed package awaited me, similar in shape and size to this one. Inside was a note from my predecessor, Mr. Pierce, along with the second document I have enclosed. Pierce wrote that the enclosure was first given to Washington himself, who decided that it would be passed from president to president, each man free to do with it as he saw fit. I know you and many others blame me for the current national conflict. But before you criticize any further, read the document. To my credit, I tried in every way possible to fulfill its mandate. I listened carefully to your speech on Inauguration Day. You called the Union explicitly perpetual in name and text. Don’t be so sure. All is not as it seems. My initial intentions were not to pass this on. Instead, I planned to set it afire. Over the past few months, away from the turmoil of government and the pressures of the national crisis, I have come to believe that the truth should not be avoided. When South Carolina broke the Union I stated publicly that I could be the last president of the United States. You openly called that comment ludicrous. Perhaps you will see that I was not as foolish as you thought. I now feel that my duty has been faithfully executed, though it may have been imperfectly performed. Whatever the result, I shall carry to my grave the belief that I at least meant well for my country.

He looked up from the sheet. What a strange lament. And a message? Passed down from president to president? One withheld by Buchanan until now?

He rubbed his weary eyes and brought the second sheet closer. Its ink had faded, the script more stylish and difficult to read.

Signatures graced the bottom.

He scanned the entire page.

Then read the words again.

More carefully.

Sleep was no longer important.

What had Buchanan written?

All is not as it seems
.

“This cannot be,” he muttered.

ONE

O
FF THE COAST OF
D
ENMARK

W
EDNESDAY, OCTOBER
8

7:40
P.M
.

O
NE GLANCE AND
C
OTTON
M
ALONE KNEW THERE WAS TROUBLE
.

The Øresund, which separated the northern Danish island of Zealand from the southern Swedish province of Scania, usually one of the busiest waterways in the world, was light on traffic. Only two boats in sight across the gray-blue water—his and the fast-approaching profile of the one slicing toward them.

He’d noticed the craft just after they’d left the dock at Lands-krona on the Swedish side of the channel. A red-and-white twenty-footer with dual inboards. His boat was a rental, secured at the Copenhagen waterfront on the Danish side, a fifteen-footer with a single outboard. The engine howled as he plowed through the moderate surf, the skies clear, the crisp evening air devoid of breeze—lovely fall weather for Scandinavia.

Three hours ago he was working in his bookshop at Højbro Plads. He’d planned on dinner at the Café Norden, as he did almost every evening. But a call from Stephanie Nelle, his former boss at the Justice Department, changed all that.

“I need a favor,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. There’s a man named Barry Kirk. Short black hair, pointy nose. I need you to go get him.”

He heard the urgency in her request
.