Previously in the book: War Secretary Edwin Stanton places President and Mrs. Lincoln in the White House basement under guard and replaces him with a lookalike, a deserter named Duff, so he can run the government
As Duff and Stanton entered the president’s office, Stanton looked around and quietly shut the door, then crossed the room to look through the door to Nicolay’s office.
“He and Mr. Hay are still at supper,” Duff said.
“They may have returned earlier,” Stanton replied. “You must always be on the alert for people who aren’t supposed to be there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call me Mr. Stanton,” he continued. “‘Sir’ is much too severe a salutation and implies subservience. After all, you’re the president, and I the mere secretary of war.”
“Yes, Mr. Stanton.”
“And stop acting like a beaten dog, for God’s sake!”
Quietly, Private Christy entered, nodded, and hesitantly went to a corner to stand at attention.
“He’s your adjutant,” Stanton said at Duff’s look of unease. “He needs to be here.”
“I know he’s my adjutant. We met this afternoon. I know he needs to be here.” Duff paused to pout. “I don’t have to be told everything. I’m not stupid. I’m just nervous.”
A knock at the door caused Duff to fidget.
“Then don’t act so nervous. Relax! God, I hope you’ve a sense of humor.” Stanton paused and then spat out a sigh. “Aren’t you going to tell them to enter? It’s your office, for God’s sake.”
“Come in,” Duff called out as he sat behind the large wooden desk. When an older, balding man in servant uniform entered, he smiled. “Tom Pen, my friend.”
“The members of the Cabinet are beginning to arrive downstairs.” The servant smiled warmly and stepped just inside the door. “Shall I send them up?”
“Of course,” Duff replied. “The lamb is ready for the slaughter.”
As the old man laughed, Stanton caught the glimpse from Duff to acknowledge the fact that he indeed had a sense of humor. The war secretary told himself to calm down, because this man was going to be fine. He could see it in his eyes the day he met him in the War Department reception room. A bit stooped, defeated-looking, Duff spoke well and quickly, letting his intelligence shine through.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Pendel,” Stanton said.
“Yes, sir.” Pendel’s eyes went to the floor.
“Mr. Pendel is my doorman, Mr. Stanton,” Duff said quite aggressively. “I’ll tell him when to leave.”
A bit startled, Stanton stammered, “Yes, sir.” His mouth pinched shut as he watched Duff relish his new authority.
Pendel smiled broadly.
“If you can’t take time out of the day for a laugh, then you might as well be Edwin M. Stanton.” He smiled as Pendel laughed again. When Stanton took his glasses off and tapped them on his palm, Duff coughed nervously. “I guess you better get along before those fellers start talking about taking over.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Pendel gave a side glance at Stanton and turned to leave.
“I promise to end this to-do at a decent hour,” Duff said. “I know Taddie will have you up early tomorrow morning packing for the Soldiers’ Home.”
“Thank you; very kind of you, sir.” Pendel smiled. The pleasant turn of mouth disappeared when he addressed Stanton. “Sir.”
After the doorman left, Duff began to open drawers in the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“If someone asks for a sheet of paper, I got to know where to get it, don’t I?”
“You’re bordering on insolence.”
“First you say I’m acting like a whupped dog, and then you say I’m insolent.”
“Enough of that.” Stanton waved his hand as he put his pebble glasses back on his nose. “Mr. Chase informed me this meeting was opportune, for he’d just written a letter of protest for Cabinet members to sign and present to you.”
“So he’s in on this?”
“No. While he has the right views, he lacks the imagination to understand the need for subterfuge.”
Their heads turned as they began to hear footsteps and voices come up the stairs. As they came closer, Stanton took a seat at the long table covered with a green cloth in the middle of the room. Duff looked up at the portrait of President Andrew Jackson looming over the conference table.
“I wonder what he’d think about all this,” Duff wondered aloud.
“Shh.” Stanton furrowed his brow, leaned forward and whispered, “And don’t acquiesce too easily.”
“Is that Mr. Smith and Mr. Bates I hear plotting outside my door?” Duff stood.
Two ordinary-looking, elderly gentlemen entered the room with reserved smiles.
“Never plotting, Mr. President,” Edward Bates, attorney general, said pleasantly as he extended his hand to greet Duff.
“Well, I’d plot against a man who roused me out of the house at a late hour like this,” Duff said as he firmly shook Bates’s hand.
“We’re ever pleased to do our duty in serving the presidency,” said Interior Secretary Caleb Smith with a slight lisp.
“My Lord, you should be in bed, Mr. Smith.” Duff paused in the middle of his handshake to lean forward and examine Smith’s prosaic, thin, pale face. “Forgive me, but you look worse than the puny turkey the poor relations turned down for Christmas.”
Stanton stiffened at Duff’s forwardness. If he had written a script for Duff to follow, it would not have included that observation on Smith’s health.
“Exactly Mrs. Smith’s sentiments as I dressed to come here,” Smith replied. “She would’ve been frightfully upset with you, Mr. President, if you had not yesterday sent her a note concurring with her insistence that I see my physician.”
Stanton relaxed in his chair as the light conversation continued between the men as they ambled to the conference table. Squinting at Bates, he surmised that the attorney general should not be a problem in agreeing with Chase’s letter. Most of the time he was courteously quiet during Cabinet debate, except when a matter of Constitutional law arose, and then he spoke with authority.
“I know you can’t expect to have the energy of a young man when you pass the age of fifty, but you’d think I could make it through the day without a nap,” Smith said as he slid into the nearest chair.
He would be no problem, Stanton judged the Interior secretary, though he had expressed admiration for General McClellan’s conservative approach to military strategy. Smith’s health was failing, and he conceded arguments simply to end the stress.
“Mr. President,” Gideon Welles said with a flinty New England accent, “I swear I’ll join Jeff Davis if you don’t stop calling these late meetings. I thought you were leaving for the Soldier’s Home tonight.”
The arrival of the secretary of the navy caused Stanton to stir uncomfortably in his seat. On one hand, he knew Welles was no supporter of McClellan and would welcome Chase’s initiative; on the other hand, however, he could not abide the man.
“Good to see you, Mr. Welles,” he said, smiling and stroking his pharaoh beard.
“Stanton.” Welles nodded his way.
Welles may well have been a good administrator from his years of running a newspaper in Hartford, Connecticut, but he knew nothing about ships. When Stanton joined the Cabinet, replacing corrupt Simon Cameron, he recognized Welles’s inadequacy immediately and could not conceal his contempt. Stanton showed no restraint in expressing disdain—his voice dripped with sneering reproof and his eyes glowed with incredulity until, to his surprise, Welles confronted him. It was then that Stanton had become alarmingly aware of how tall Welles was. His appearance may have invited scorn, with his flowing white beard and huge gray wig making him look like Saint Nicholas, but the gnome-like Stanton realized, as Welles loomed over him, Welles was not to be ridiculed. Since then, Stanton had forced himself to smile and be courteous, keeping his opinions of Welles to himself.
“So, Mr. President,” Welles said, “what’s the news?”
“Who else? General McClellan.” Duff stole a glance at Stanton, who looked down at the table.
“Ah,” Welles replied. “The man from West Point.”
“The man from West Point?” A hatchet-faced man appeared in the door. “We must be discussing the esteemed commander of the Army of the Potomac.”
“One and the same, Mr. Blair,” Welles said. “Come, sit down.”
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Mr. Postmaster General,” Duff said.
“Mr. Stanton.” Montgomery Blair, tall and weedy, focused his intense eyes on Stanton, and nodded stiffly.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Duff said, “we only lack two players, and we can start the game.”
A mild chuckle rolled around the table as Blair sat next to Smith and leaned toward him to whisper. Stanton squinted as he tried to make out what he was saying, for he could not trust Blair. He was an abolitionist for sure; in fact, he had acted as defense attorney for the runaway slave Dred Scott before the Supreme Court, and urged hot action on Fort Sumter, but Stanton felt as though he could not control the man, and that made him dangerous. Radicals and moderates together hated Blair, because he always said what he thought, and true believers, Stanton knew, only wanted to hear what they believed.
“Ah,” Duff said with light humor, “Mr. Seward and Mr. Chase. Now let the games begin.”