John Hay, Lincoln’s secretary

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting even though there were some complications. Then he skillfully maneuvered Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats.

John Hay lay restlessly in his bed awaiting John Nicolay to finish ripping open letters in the office across the hall. As much as he tried, Hay was unable to go to sleep, because something odd struck him about the events of the afternoon and evening.
Hay had met Nicolay in Springfield, Illinois, and both of them met the gentleman who was a lawyer for the railroads. When Lincoln ran for president, he employed Nicolay to take care of his correspondence, and when he was elected, he took Nicolay’s advice to hire Hay. Few secrets were held from the two men, and that was why Hay was he left his bed and slipped on his pants. Walking barefoot, Hay entered to see Nicolay in the dimly lit office, efficiently opening letters, scanning the contents, and assigning them to various piles. Flashing in the kerosene lamp was Nicolay’s Bavarian wood-carving knife.
“Still busy?” Hay asked.
“Ja,” Nicolay replied in a tired accent.
“I couldn’t sleep. This afternoon and evening were so strange.”
“In what way?”
“First of all,” Hay began, while sitting on the edge of Nicolay’s desk, “the whole idea of Mr. Lincoln’s wanting both of us to take Tad to the Willard for pie and cake.”
“It takes two men to contain the boy.”
“I think he wanted both of us out of the building so we wouldn’t witness what was going on.” Hay’s eyes searched his friend’s face, hoping for an answer that would calm his fears.
“And what would that be?” Nicolay kept his eyes down as he continued opening and reading letters.
“Will you please look at me while I’m speaking?”
“I must have these letters ready for the president tomorrow morning. The unexpected trip to the Willard and the late Cabinet meeting put me behind in my correspondence.”
“But didn’t you think it was strange he’d call a Cabinet meeting so late, yet not come to any decision?” Hay’s nerves were being unsettled by Nicolay’s resistance to offer any solutions to his problems.
With a heavy sigh, Nicolay put down his Bavarian carving knife and placed his hands to his chin, narrowing his eyes on Hay, whose left eye was twitching a bit. “What is your job?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you paid to do?”
“Take notes at meetings.” Hay knew it would be folly to be esoteric. “Screen visitors to his office. Represent the president at events he doesn’t wish to attend.”
“Correct.” Nicolay continued his duties. “At no time did you mention making unpopular observations.”
“But it’s our obligation—”
“My obligation is to open letters, read them, and assign them to various piles.” He put the letter currently in his hand into the wastepaper basket. “That letter merited nothing. Others I pass on to you—social events and such. Some I pass on to Cabinet secretaries. And very few are forwarded to the president. That’s my job.”
“Are you saying,” Hay said, wrinkling his brow, “you didn’t notice anything?”
“I noticed the president was a half-inch taller,” Nicolay replied. “He spoke in a dialect more likely found in Michigan than Illinois, and there were no stray black hairs peeking above his collar. But those observations are not part of my job.”
“But that’s not right.” Hay shook his head.
“This is another letter from Mr. Herndon.” He held up an envelope. “He’s probably asking for another favor, obviously illegal or at least unethical, and which will certainly be approved by the president.” Nicolay placed the letter unopened in the stack going directly to the president. “If I did the right thing, the ethical thing, I’d take it to the Congress and report the president for impeachable behavior, but that’s not my job, and I won’t embarrass the president.”
“But don’t we have an obligation to the Constitution to reveal possible corruption?” Hay stood to lean over the desk toward Nicolay, who quickly rose and placed his knife to Hay’s throat.
“You do know men have had their throats slit for trying to uphold the Constitution?”
“Yes, sir.” Hay quavered, looking down at the knife.
“Don’t worry, Johnny.” Nicolay smiled, put his knife down, and patted Hay’s pale cheek. “I wouldn’t hurt you. And you’re right—Mr. Lincoln has disappeared and been replaced by a poor substitute. But if you ask questions about the change, I’m afraid someone might use a knife across your neck to keep you quiet.”

Edwin Stanton’s melancholic wife Ellen

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting even though there were some complications. Then he skillfully maneuvered Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats.

Stanton entered his home, found the downstairs dark and empty, and proceeded upstairs to his bedroom, where he expected to see his wife, most likely polishing the urn. His steps slowed as he recalled how the death of his son James in February had not sparked the public sorrow and sympathy that did the death of Lincoln’s spoiled boy Willie. His son was a saint compared to the Lincoln brat, but no one gave notice to their grief. Shaking his head to rid it of such feminine thoughts, Stanton tried to tell himself that such slights did not enter into his decision to take control of the government’s executive branch. That would indicate a woman’s emotional disposition in his character, and he would never accept that. When he reached his bedroom door he paused to look in to see his wife Ellen, still wearing black, standing by the fireplace, just staring at the urn. She was fifteen years younger than Stanton and still considered a fine-looking woman of child-bearing age, but in her eyes—her dark, soulful, heavy-lidded eyes—was a silent burden which aged her.
“You’re home.” She kept her gaze on the urn. “You must be hungry.”
“I had a quick supper at the Willard.”
“Very well.”
“It was kind of you to wait up for me.” He stepped into the room, went to her, and lightly touched her shoulder.
“Think nothing of it.”
In the last few months, their conversations had been restricted to courtesies and pleasantries. She rarely smiled, and when she did it was at great emotional cost, as though betraying the memory of her son. This was, of course, all supposition on the part of Stanton, because he had never understood his second wife, unlike his first, Mary, who had been his promise of goodness and light. After Mary died in 1844, three years after their daughter’s death, Stanton had refused the notion of remarriage. Twelve years of aggressively pursuing his law practice and political aspirations had passed before he noticed Ellen Hutchinson, stately, grand, and slightly taller than he. She was quiet, compliant, and sweet in a mysterious manner. Their son James had brought out the sparkle in her eyes, which Stanton had not taken time to appreciate because he had been busy seeking national political power. Now the sparkle was gone.
“Would you care for a cup of warm milk?” Ellen looked at him without emotion.
“No, thank you.”
Could she suspect he was involved in an action that, if discovered, could ruin his career? Stanton wondered as he walked to his armoire, removing his coat. If she did know, would she approve? He softly grunted for worrying about what she would think. What he was doing was for the good of the nation, and he would not change his course now even if she did know and begged him to stop.
“What?” Ellen asked.
“What?”
“I thought I heard a laugh,” she said.
“As Mr. Lincoln says, sometimes one must laugh to keep from crying.”
“Oh.”
Would she care her opinion did not matter to him? Perhaps that was the reason for Ellen’s reserve. She knew her place was behind the deceased wife and children.
“Fine,” Ellen said. “I’ll prepare to retire as well.”
Stanton sat in his large stuffed chair to remove his shoes. He watched her remove the white lace collar and the breast pin from her black silk dress. For all his sorrow and anger that aged him, he reminded himself that he still was only forty-seven years old.
“Did you see Mrs. Lincoln today?” she asked.
“Yes.” Stanton stiffened.
“You don’t like her, do you, Edwin?”
“What makes you think that?”
“The tone of your voice.” She let down her shining hair. “Is she still suffering?”
“Suffering?”
“Mourning.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
Her compassion stirred him. The flickering lamp revealed her clear white cheeks to be too cold and stolid. Her pale lips never departed from their downward turn. Suddenly he was aware of his passion for her. Stanton, pulling the suspenders down from his trousers, walked to her.
“I think it’s admirable you’re able to be concerned about Mrs. Lincoln through your own grief.” He paused, hoping for a response. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“I know,” she replied as she combed out her hair. “I don’t want to be unhappy either.”
“I want to make you happy.” He tenderly touched her shoulder.
“You make me happy,” she automatically said.
“Do I truly?”
“Of course.”
Her emotionless tone drained his ardor, and he turned away. Stanton may force his will upon the nation, but not upon his wife.

Edwin Stanton never forgot or forgave an insult.

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting even though there were some complications.

As Stanton sat back during his carriage ride to his home on Avenue K in Washington, D.C., he assessed how the day had gone, and decided to be quite pleased with himself. A few complications had arisen, like the janitor in the basement, and the fact he was unable to force the Cabinet to remove General McClellan, but perhaps such stumbling blocks made the situation he had created seem more real, less manipulated. Leaning his cheek on the back of the leather-padded carriage seat, he breathed the late night air and tried to relax. Quickly he pulled his head back, remembering he did not want to risk a new asthma attack. Stanton had not experienced one of his seizures for more than a year, and did not want a new episode at the beginning of the most challenging endeavor of his life, saving the Union from destruction.
His eyes closed, the war secretary could not help but think of the first time his lungs had refused to work, at age ten, in Steubenville, Ohio. His mother had held his slender little body as it was wracked by hacking coughs, while his father, a pious Methodist, prayed unceasingly over him. As the seizure subsided and his parents hugged him, he was aware of their moist cheeks pressed against his own, as though a baptism in tears. While the asthma regularly shadowed his early years, its effect was abated by the comforting knowledge that both of his parents loved him dearly. That assurance made the death of his father near Christmas when he was thirteen even more unbearable. Added to that trauma was the discovery that his father had left no money. With four children and generous donations to the church, Stanton’s father had nothing in reserve to protect his family in the event of his death; therefore, being the oldest, Stanton was apprenticed to a bookseller, James Turnbell, who kindly filled in as a father figure and overlooked his bouts of asthma and his tendency to ignore customers while reading.
His Cupid’s bow lips now turning up in a smile, he approached his Avenue K home, acknowledging that, while life had not been easy for him, there had been kind people along the way: Turnbell, his father’s friend, had loaned him money to go to college and, when the money ran out, allowed him to come back to work in the bookstore; his mother’s lawyer had tutored him on the bar exam, and a judge first took him into his practice and then turned it over to him upon being elected to the United States Senate. In a bit of irony, Stanton considered how Abraham Lincoln had favored him and named him secretary of war, a position he used to depose his patron, at least temporarily. He smiled to himself. Well, perhaps not temporarily.
The smile faded as he thought of the death of his first daughter and, three years later, of his first wife, followed two years later by the suicide of his brother and then the shattering blow of the death of his son by his second wife in February 1862. He had the boy cremated and kept the ashes in an urn on the fireplace mantel in his bedroom. Stanton knew he would have to dispose of the ashes sometime and move on with his life, but that deliberate action would be the permanent admission that two of his babies were gone. So until he could bring himself to that realization, the urn stayed in his bedroom, and his second wife dusted and polished it daily.
More than anything, Stanton’s black heart could neither forget nor forgive the sins committed against him. No one lived the good Methodist life better than he—chaste, moral, crusading against the evils of slavery—so no one deserved the ridicule and harassment heaped upon him. His eyes opened and narrowed as he remembered his teen-aged years in Steubenville. Short and slight of build, he could not attract the prettiest girls because they always liked tall, robust boys who ran and played games better than he did. When the daughter of the owner of his family’s boardinghouse paid him attention, he was enamored. At lunch one summer day in 1833, the girl’s brother declared he would rather see his sister dead than in love with Stanton. She had slapped her brother, which pleased Stanton. That night, when he returned home from the bookstore, he learned the girl had died of a quick bout of cholera. Fearing contagion, her family had buried her immediately. In his delirium of sorrow, Stanton believed the brother had buried his sister when the cholera had placed her merely in a state of unconsciousness. He disinterred the girl’s coffin to see for himself. As he stroked her cold cheek, Stanton had to admit she was dead.
In the carriage he clenched his fists as he remembered what had happened next. His ears still rung with the laughter above him when he looked up from the grave to see the brother.
“You have to rob graves to find girls?” the brother said, his face barely lit by the lantern in his hand, creating evil shadows across his face.
“I wanted to make sure,” Stanton said.
“I should beat the tar out of you for desecrating my sister’s grave, but you ain’t worth it. Bury her back proper.”
Even in the carriage in Washington, Stanton felt his neck burn with humiliation. But no longer. Besides winning the war, Stanton was avenging the most humiliating moment of his life, for the girl’s brother who had treated him with such contempt was the father of Private Adam Christy. The father’s letter had come fortuitously to complete Stanton’s plan. Momentarily, Stanton saddened, because the private did resemble his aunt in the face, fresh and innocent, but he resolved that Adam’s father had to pay for his insolence.