Lincoln (93 page)

Chase liked the tone of the letter not at all. Lincoln had said, right out, that Mr. Field was not the proper man for an office that Senator Morgan wanted to make a political machine of; worse, the President had refused even to discuss such an important matter with the Cabinet officer directly involved. Chase had responded with quiet firmness. He was sorry if he was a source of embarrassment—he had seized on the operative word—to the President. Because if this were the case, and Chase’s position should prove to be disagreeable to the President, he would resign that position with real relief. Actually, if he were to leave office, now was the time. The national finances were more than ever unsatisfactory. The price of gold was sky-high. The costs of the war could only be met through taxation; and Congress was not about to impose the necessary taxes in an election year.

Julia Ward Howe was now explaining the French Revolution to Mr. Field, who was enraptured. Chase pretended to listen but his mind was on other matters, of which not the least was the variety and quality of the leather with which he would bind
Passion Flowers
.

Across the room, Mr. Eames told Hay that he had read his poems and that he was a real poet. “When your present work is over, you must apply
yourself to poetry. Anyone can be a man of action. But hardly anyone can write a line that will live down the ages.”

“I am not
that
gifted,” said Hay, almost meaning it. He knew that his recent poems were good; he also knew that his talent was for comic verse; and no comic line had ever managed to get from one generation to the next, much less make its way through the ages.

“You will never know who you are until you are on your own and, of course, married. Yes, you must marry.” Since Mr. Eames had made a happy marriage, he inclined to fervor on the subject, particularly when dealing with contented young bachelors. “In fact, the earlier a man gets used to marriage, the better it is for him. Delay too long …” Mr. Eames shook his head at the horror that might lie in store for one who had married too late to get the knack of it—like the Ancient, Hay suddenly, perhaps disloyally, thought.

The next morning disloyalty was the theme at the White House. At nine, the Tycoon sent for Hay; he was at his writing desk, rereading a letter that he had just written. “What time does the Senate meet today?” he asked, without looking up.

“Eleven, sir.”

“I want you to be there when they open shop.” Lincoln looked up; and smiled. “It is a big fish this time. A salmon, in fact. Mr. Chase has resigned for the third or fourth time—I’ve lost count—and I have accepted his resignation. I could not take much more of him.”

Hay was stunned. Chase had seemed so entirely part of their Washington landscape that it was inconceivable that he could, with a stroke of the Tycoon’s pen, cease to exist. It would be like the view from the window, without Washington’s unfinished monument. “Is it about the Field matter?”

“Yes.”

“Who will succeed Mr. Chase?”

“Dave Tod. He’s my friend, with a big head full of brains. He’s also a Douglas Democrat.”

“But does he know about finances?”

“Well, he was a good governor of Ohio, and he made himself a fortune in business. I’m willing to trust him.” Lincoln gave Hay the message for the Senate. He then placed Chase’s letter in the pigeonhole marked “C.” “I suppose, sooner or later, there is bound to be a resignation that is accepted.”

“Why did you accept this one, sir?”

“How could he and I have gone on after all that has happened between us? Also, the sense of his letter to me is, ‘You have been acting very badly.
Unless you say you are sorry, and ask me to stay and agree that I shall be absolute and that you shall have nothing, no matter how you beg for it, I go.’ Well, he is gone now.”

Hay told Nicolay what had happened. Nicolay shook his head with disbelief. Then he said, somewhat grimly, “If I had the money, I’d buy gold today.”

Hay rode alone to the Capitol in the presidential carriage. Early as the day was, the sun was hot, while with each shallow reluctant breath, Hay was haunted by the ghosts of the millions of cats who had given their lives that the nearby canal might exude its distinctive odor.

At the door to the Senate chamber, Hay paused. While the chaplain exhorted the Almighty, the senators fanned themselves listlessly; the galleries were empty. When the chaplain finally boomed forth his “Amen,” John Forney turned to Hay. “Is there a message? From the President?”

Hay nodded; and gave it to Forney.

“Is it urgent?”

“Look and see.”

Forney looked and saw; and whistled. Hay hurried back to the carriage. He did not want to be caught in the storm that was about to break over Congress.

As the carriage passed Seventh Street, Hay saw Azadia coming out of a milliner’s. He took off his hat in order to hide his face; but he was too late. Azadia smiled; and curtseyed. He waved his hat politely. He knew that she knew who he was. Would she talk? Perhaps Mr. Eames was right. Perhaps he should marry. But who? After all, at present John Hay was the most important young man in Washington, not counting the Prince of Rails, who was at Harvard. But when the Tycoon’s first term ended, he would be no one at all. Both Nicolay and Hay had told the President that after four years he should break in new secretaries. The Tycoon had been sad but not grief-stricken. He had also realized that if either man was to have a proper career, he must start soon. Each thought that he might edit a small-town newspaper; and go into politics. Meanwhile, Major Hay might yet see action in the war; and then return to Florida and, as a new congressman, escort that exotic state back into the Union. He had not been discouraged by his recent failure to get elected; nor had the Tycoon, who thought it worth a second try.

At Sixth and E, Chase was helping Sprague write his somewhat belated answer to the Blair attack. Sprague had been silent during the furor that had followed upon Blair’s assault. Presently, on July 4, Sprague would rise in the Senate and answer each of the charges, including the ones against himself as the recipient of a trade permit from his father-in-law. Chase
reread their common work with satisfaction. “I believe the case well made,” he said. “But,” he quoted from scripture, “ ‘Oh, for more faith and clearer sight! How stable is the City of God! How disordered is the City of Man!’ ”

Sprague’s only answer was, “I wish I had Fred Ives here. He can write a speech like nobody’s business.”

Chase thought this somewhat tactless in the light of the composition at hand, which was largely his own doing. Kate joined them in the study. “Father, the carriage is ready. You won’t have breakfast?”

“No, I said I’d break my fast with General Schenk and General Garfield.” Although Chase was not able to see her features clearly, he was able to detect her pallor and thinness. Ever since the collapse of his presidential campaign, Kate had been withdrawn and listless. Their only hope now was the still unofficial convocation of true Republicans in September. If Grant had not shown interest by then, there would be a powerful movement among the Republicans to replace Lincoln. As always, Chase was ready to do what duty required.

Duty with Generals Schenk and Garfield was done at breakfast at the National Hotel. Chase then drove to his office, where he found a message from Senator Fessenden. Could he come immediately to the Capitol? Chase drove through the African heat, softly singing to himself a lament for Zion’s city, and reading a memorial from Fessenden on the repeal of the so-called Gold Bill.

Alone, Chase crossed the echoing rotunda where two soldiers were testing the acoustics by singing a martial song. Chase stood and waited until he was recognized; and shook hands all around. Then, as a former senator, he entered the Chamber, where the business of the day was proceeding in a desultory fashion. As there were a number of finance bills coming to vote, his presence was unremarkable. Chase shook more hands and then withdrew to the nearby cloakroom, a long, narrow space where, in comfortable leather chairs, the Senate’s real work was done.

A Vermont senator cornered Chase. “Fessenden’s not back yet. I can’t speak for him, of course, but I’m against any increase in taxes. The people won’t support it.”

While Chase spoke soothingly of the need for taxes in wartime, Fessenden joined them. But before he could discuss the Gold Bill with Chase, a messenger approached him and said, “Sir, you’re wanted on the floor.”

Fessenden excused himself, as did the Vermonter. The messenger looked at Chase curiously. Then he asked, “Sir, have you resigned?”

Chase was so startled that he both stammered and lisped. “I have tendered, yes, my resignation. But I have not heard that it was accepted.”

“It was accepted, sir. I’m sorry to say, sir. The President has already sent the Senate the name of your successor.”

“And … and …” Chase’s humiliation was now complete. He was obliged to ask a Senate messenger the name of his successor. “Whose name did the President send over?”

“Governor Tod, sir. Oh, I am sorry, sir.”

“A distinguished and honorable man,” said Chase, appalled. “And, of course, a Democrat.”

There was subdued panic in the opulent soon-to-be-vacated office at the Treasury. Field was, literally, wringing his hands, something that Chase had only read of. “It is a calamity, Mr. Chase! And
I
am the cause.”

Chase quite agreed with both sentiment and analysis; but he chose to rise above mere emotion. “My days have been numbered since the Baltimore convention, when I ceased to be of any more value to the President.” Then Chase read the President’s letter: “Your letter of resignation of the office of the Secretary of the Treasury sent me yesterday is accepted.” Chase felt faint. Could these terrible words be at last before his eyes, each relentlessly formed by the familiar hand? “Of all I have said in commendation of your ability and fidelity I have nothing to unsay; and yet you and I have reached a point of mutual embarrassment in our official relations which it seems cannot be overcome or longer sustained consistently with the public service.” That was that. Because he had refused to allow the Treasury to be a part of the spoils system as practised by the New York politicos, he was now sacrificed. Chase wrote Stanton—his one ally—a note hoping that he would not resign, too, out of sympathy; which meant, of course, that he hoped he would.

At the White House, Washburne was apoplectic. “Of all times to let him go, this is the worst!” Washburne marched about the room waving his arms, while the President sat meekly at his writing table. “We have no tax program. The currency is collapsing. Whoever is secretary of the treasury must know how to raise one hundred million dollars a month, which Chase could do. Grant has turned into McClellan—temporarily, I pray. The war news is all bad, and the Jacobins are threatening to hold a Republican convention in September to put up their own candidate, who will now be Chase!”

Washburne had a great deal more to say; and said it. Then Hay announced the presence of the entire Senate Finance Committee in the Reception Room. Since eleven o’clock that morning, Hay had decided that the Tycoon had made a major error in letting Chase depart at a moment when the country’s finances were in total disarray, while Washburne
was positive that their ramshackle Union party could very easily split in two, making it possible for the Democrat McClellan to win.

Finally, Lincoln rose. “Brother Washburne, don’t fret. All is for the best, believe me. Now I just saw our friend Congressman Hooper in the waiting room. I’m not going to have a chance to talk to him today, but I know he’s a friend of Chase, and he’s a friend of yours. Tell him that I’d be obliged if he were to call on Mr. Chase this afternoon, and reassure Mr. Chase that my esteem for him continues unabated, despite our … embarrassments.” Lincoln smiled at the word. “He is also to say that I recall very well Mr. Chase’s remark to me that the one
other
office that he would most like in all this world is that of chief justice, and that I have it in mind, should Mr. Taney ever die, to appoint Mr. Chase.”

Washburne’s wrath at Lincoln suddenly evaporated. “You would do this?”

Lincoln nodded.

“Well, if he thinks that you will make him chief justice, I don’t suppose there’s much chance of his trying to run against you this year.”

“I would reckon none at all. So you go talk to Mr. Hooper, while I let the senators in there tell me my business.” Lincoln opened the door to the Reception Room. Washburne could hear the sounds of men rising and greetings being exchanged. Then he sought out Mr. Hooper in the crowded waiting room; and the netting of Salmon Portland Chase began.

If the Tycoon had made a mistake in letting Chase escape from the Treasury at a desperate moment in the country’s finances, he certainly did not show the slightest unease with the five senators from the Finance Committee. In fact, it was their chairman, Fessenden, who seemed most distraught. “I cannot imagine a worse time, sir,” he echoed Washburne, “to let him go.” The hard, thin New England face looked, to Hay’s unaffectionate eye, like that of an undernourished goat. “We have the Gold Bill before Congress. We have the various tax and trade proposals. We have need of Mr. Chase’s wise counsels.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Lincoln, amiably, omitting the expected “we.” “And I’m sure that he will share them with you.”

“But as secretary of the treasury, he was could have salvaged our position. Now
you
have let him go.” Senator Conness glared at the President.

The Tycoon spread wide his arms, as if to show that there was nothing up either sleeve. “How was I to stop him? This was his third or fourth resignation.”

“You should have appealed to his patriotism,” said Fessenden.

“
Should
I have?” Lincoln was ironical. “Well, I seem never to have you at my side when I need you, to tell me what I should be doing. Anyway,
Governor Tod has been nominated by me. You now have the duty and responsibility of passing on his fitness.”

There was a confused conversation about the merits of Governor Tod. Hay could see that the committee did not dare reject so powerful a politician but that Fessenden was displeased. Finally, the Tycoon ended the meeting with the announcement that he could not in justice to himself or to Tod withdraw the nomination.