A group of dirty, long-haired bearded men grinned, revealing mouths with scattered brown teeth, at Andrew Johnson who lay in his bed at the Kirkwood Hotel. Off to the side were the girls who laughed at him that day on the road to Greeneville.
“You think you’re smart enough to be president? You can’t even read or write!”
“You’re just a smelly old boy in ragged clothes, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
“You’re a drunk!”
“You’re poor as snot!”
His nostrils flared with the stench of cow shit and hog piss. Johnson looked around and found his body mired in a mud bog slowly sinking. He tried to scream but nothing came out. Mud crept in around the corners of his mouth. All he heard was laughter.
Johnson’s body shook violently until he awoke shouting, “No!” Looking around he realized he was in the Kirkwood Hotel in Washington City. His body was drenched in sweat. He sighed, realizing it had been a nightmare. He was not still in the pig sty in Tennessee but was the Vice-President of the United States. How long would he suffer from those dreams? How can a man with such horrible visions in his sleep become President of the United States? Perhaps when his wife Eliza joined him in the White House, she would give him confidence.
Struggling, he went to the washstand to splash water on his face. He observed himself in the mirror and remembered how Stanton reacted when he arrived at the boarding house to see President Lincoln. Stanton looked as though he had seen a ghost. His gut told him that Stanton had expected him to be dead.
The words “They said” swirled in Johnson’s mind, remembering what the assassin said at his door earlier in the evening. Was Stanton the one who masterminded the shooting of Lincoln and the stabbing of Seward? Johnson could not prove anything, but he was sure Stanton was capable of everything. A knock at the door stirred him from his thoughts.
“We have most solemn news, Mr. Johnson,” Preston King called out.
“Please let us in,” James Lane added.
After Johnson opened the door, King put his hand on his shoulder. “President Lincoln died at 7:22 this morning.”
“You look like a mess,” Lane blurted. “Of course, it’s understandable, considering the situation.”
“I only look this bad on nights the President has been shot and killed.” Johnson shut the door.
King laughed and slapped Johnson on the back. “You always have a joke for any occasion, Mr. Vice-President—I mean, Mr. President—I mean…”
“Stop being a jackass, King,” Lane interjected. He took a note from his pocket and handed it to Johnson. “This is from the Cabinet. Mr. Chase will be here at 10 a.m. to swear you in as president.”
“Do you have another suit of clothing, sir?” King said, going to the armoire in the corner. “We want you to look your best when the Chief Justice arrives.”
“Yes,” Johnson replied, running his hands through his hair. “I should change clothes.” What should one wear to such a tragic occasion, Johnson wondered, considering the wrinkled possibilities stored in the armoire.
“Smile!” Lane ordered suddenly.
Frowning while he considered telling the Kansas senator that was a damned fool thing to say, Johnson reluctantly turned the corners of his mouth up.
“No, I mean show me your teeth,” Lane corrected himself.
Johnson was not any more pleased with this order as the previous one. No one had talked to him like this since he was a child. He swallowed his pride and pulled back his lips to expose his teeth.
“Hmph, you better brush them,” Lane insisted.
“Oh, yes, this is much better,” King said, pulling a black suit from the armoire. “I believe this is the one you wore to the inauguration, isn’t it?”
“You’re not planning on dressing me, are you?” Johnson’s patience wore thin. “I don’t get naked in front of nobody.”
“Of course, not, Mr. Vice-President,” King replied with a guffaw. “What were we thinking? We only have your best interests at heart, I assure you.”
“We’ll leave,” Lane said, “but don’t forget to brush those teeth.”
‘Gentlemen, I am completely in control of myself. This is indeed a stressful time, but I think I am up to the challenge.”
“Of course, you are, Mr. Vice-President.”
“Oh,” Lane mumbled, pulling a small bottle of whiskey out of his pocket, “this is for you, to settle your nerves. Mr. Stanton thought….”
“We thought you might need it,” King interrupted, patting Lane on the shoulder.
Johnson’s eyes widened. “Mr. Stanton? Did he send you over here?”
“The Cabinet as a whole made the decision, sir,” King replied, taking the bottle from Lane and extending it to Johnson. “Here, this will do you good.”
He did not take the bottle. “But you talked directly to Mr. Stanton. All this was his idea, wasn’t it?”
“If you want to get technical, yes, it was Mr. Stanton,” Lane conceded, “but I’m sure he was speaking for the entire Cabinet. We all are concerned for your wellbeing, Mr. Johnson.”
“Please take it, sir.” King pushed the bottle closer to him.
“I appreciate your concern,” Johnson replied, accepting the whiskey from King. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Mr. Chase will be here soon, gentlemen, and I must prepare myself.” He pushed them toward the door.
“Yes sir, we want you to present yourself in the best way possible,” King said.
Opening the door, Johnson extended his hand to the exit. King and Lane bowed and walked into the hall. “Please report back to Mr. Stanton that I am doing well. Will you do that for me?”
Both men blinked, and their smiles faded a moment.
“Of course, sir.”
Anything you say, sir.”
After closing the door, Johnson cursed under his breath. “Damn Stanton. He’s out to get me. He’d love to see me repeat my drunken stupor of Inauguration Day. But it isn’t going to happen. Not to me. Not twice.”
As he angrily considered how Stanton was setting him up, a sudden thought that the whiskey might be poisoned flickered across his mind. “Stanton is insidious,” he mumbled to himself as he strode straight the window, opened it and threw the offending bottle of booze onto the street. “Damn fools. I thought King and Lane were smarter than that.”
Johnson quickly changed his clothing and followed Lane’s advice, brushing his teeth vigorously.
Salmon Chase knocked at the door right at 10:00 and informed Johnson that members of the Cabinet would be arriving soon. Within minutes Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch, Attorney General James Speed and several members of Congress were in his room seated and waiting. There was little conversation as most of the thoughts were of the President who had died just three hours earlier.
He noticed that Stanton had not taken time from his duties to attend the ceremony. It was just as well, Johnson decided, although it might be amusing to see Stanton’s reaction when he realized I was not drunk.
Chase rose from his seat, motioning for Johnson to approach. Chase then administered the oath, and shook Johnson’s hand ceremoniously.
“May God support, guide, and bless you in your arduous duties,” the Chief Justice said in a loud solemn voice.
Johnson supposed Chase wanted the others to hear him clearly, so they could accurately quote him later. He wanted the press to report he was calm, grave and looking in remarkably good health.
“I can’t promise much,” he said to the witnesses. “I will follow the example set by Mr. Lincoln, God bless him.” After a round of polite applause, he added, “Oh, and tell the other Cabinet members we should have a meeting as soon as possible.”
“At the White House?” McCulloch asked.
“No, no. Leave Mrs. Lincoln to her grief.”
“I can arrange a room at the Treasury,” McCulloch offered.
“Very good.”
Johnson followed the men out of the hotel and hailed a carriage to the Treasury building which was close to the White House.
Passing the Executive Mansion, Johnson decided impulsively to stop to pay his respects to Mrs. Lincoln. It was the right thing to do, he reasoned. Probably. Maybe. If only his wife were here to guide him in these awkward social customs, he would feel much better.
At the door, a guard ushered him in and escorted him to the First Family’s private quarters on the second floor.
Soldiers milled around the second floor hall, seeming to be unsure of themselves. Were they waiting for orders? Didn’t they know their responsibilities on this solemn occasion? Were they posted to defend the Republic against more assassins? Were they purely ceremonial functionaries? Johnson’s mind was racing with the possibilities.
The escort officer conducted him to Lincoln’s office, and motioned for him to enter.
Johnson noticed the crowd outside a door at the other end of the hall.
“What’s going on down there?”
“That’s where the doctors are doing the autopsy, sir,” the guard replied in a low voice.
“The autopsy? You mean Mr. Lincoln’s body is here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My God, how is Mrs. Lincoln holding up, knowing her husband is in the next room like that?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
Before he could reply to the escort, Johnson heard a dress rustling inside the darkened room.
“Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered, peeking into the hall. “Please come in.”
He walked into the office, and Mrs. Lincoln shut the door behind him. She went to him and extended her tiny, gloved hand. Johnson smiled as he observed her face. She seemed calmer than the previous evening at the boardinghouse.
“I hope I am not intruding, ma’am.”
“No, I’m glad to see a friendly face,” she replied. “My husband always liked you. He had confidence in you.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am.”
Mrs. Lincoln looked around the room. “Don’t trust anyone, Mr. Johnson. Especially not that devil, Edwin Stanton.”
“Don’t worry about that, ma’am. I know how devious Mr. Stanton can be.”
She leaned into him. “No, you don’t. You cannot conceive of what that man is capable. He held us captive, Mr. Johnson, in the White House basement for two and a half years. And on the very night we were released he had my husband murdered.”
“The White House basement?”
“Yes, that devil imprisoned us. He found a man and woman in prison who looked like us and put them in the White House. Could you not tell the difference?”
Johnson had only met Lincoln a few times in his life. They had a nice long conversation before Lincoln appointed him the military governor of Tennessee in March of 1862. The times they met after that Lincoln seemed distant and distracted, but Johnson dismissed the change to the pressures of war.
“Have you told anyone else about this—this allegation?”
“It’s not an allegation. It’s the truth. I dare not say anything or else they will think me mad. But you believe me, don’t you? You will be my defender, won’t you, Mr. Johnson?”
“Mary, where are you, dear?”
Johnson turned to see Thomas Pendel, the White House butler. Pendel was wearing Lincoln’s clothing.
“You must return to your bedroom, my dear. This way, down our private hall. Don’t you remember? Too many people in the house right now. We must have our privacy. We decided to seclude ourselves today, remember?”
Mrs. Lincoln rushed to Pendel, hugging him.
“Of course, darling. You always know best.” She took Pendel’s face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. “I had this terrible dream. We were in the basement, and then at the theater, and then someone shot you. But it was a terrible dream, wasn’t it, Mr. Lincoln?”
“You mustn’t rattle on so, Mary. Mr. Johnson wouldn’t understand.”
She turned and curtsied. “Excuse me, sir. I must do as my dear husband says. I need my rest.”
After she left the room, Pendel walked up to Johnson.
“You must understand, sir. Mrs. Lincoln is in a delicate condition at this moment. I thought if I wore Mr. Lincoln’s clothing, it would give her comfort. The doctors did not want her interrupting the autopsy, you see, and so I thought if I could create the illusion of normalcy….” His voice trailed off as he looked back at the door. “Even Master Tad needed comforting. I stayed by his bedside all last night.”
“So, do you believe her story?” Johnson asked. “About the abduction? Could they have possibly been in the basement for two and a half years?”
“The Lincolns are good people,” Pendel replied. “They have been through enough grief.”
“But do you believe they were in the basement for two and a half years?”
Without answering, Pendel turned abruptly, calling back over his shoulder as he exited, “Mrs. Lincoln needs me now.”
Perplexed, Johnson decided to leave for the Treasury. He had delayed the Cabinet meeting too long. He returned to his carriage and thought about Pendel’s reaction. The butler avoided answering the question directly. Why? Was he afraid for his safety and that of the Lincoln family? Did he not know about the abduction? Or maybe he did now, but could not bring himself to talk about it. Johnson shook his head to clear such swirling thoughts as he entered the room at the Treasury for the Cabinet meeting.
Sitting at the end of the table was Stanton, who showed no intention of moving. Johnson took his seat at the other end. As he looked around the room, he wondered if it had actually just been twenty-four hours ago, that he had been with this exact group of men. Only at that time Abraham Lincoln was alive and in charge of the meeting. General Ulysses Grant had been in attendance but not today. Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Interior John Usher, Treasury Secretary Hugh McColloch, Postmaster General William Dennison, Attorney General James Speed and Interior Secretary James Harlan were all back, staring at him. Johnson supposed they wondered if he were drunk as he had been at the Inaufural.
“I recommend that Chief Clerk of the State Department be appointed temporary Secretary of State since neither Mr. Seward nor his son are capable of the duties at the time,” Stanton said, shuffling through his papers.
Johnson had forgotten. Frederick Seward had been at the previous meeting, substituting for his father. Now he was suffering from stab wounds from the attack on his father.
“Yes, I think that would be most appropriate,” Johnson said just above a whisper.
“What is most important at this time,” Stanton continued in an imperious tone and showing no desire to relinquish the floor, “is that we have no intention of being intimidated by the forceful yet clumsy attempts of the former Confederate government to alter our plans of Reconstruction.”
“That is not your responsibility to make any statement of the kind,” Welles replied. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Speed? As the leading Constitutional scholar around this table, don’t you agree that any statements must come from the President?”
The Attorney General cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr. Welles. Mr. Johnson is now head of state. We all—at least many of us—attended the swearing in of President Johnson in his hotel room no more than an hour ago.”
“I don’t know if Mr. Johnson is informed enough to make any statements at this time,” Stanton said, removing his glasses and ceremoniously wiping them with a handkerchief.
“Whether he is informed adequately or not is not the point,” Welles stressed. “He is the President.”
“Yes, I am.” Johnson finally found his voice. “And I have no intention of changing the policy of Mr. Lincoln. He said many times we should treat the Confederate States gently, and I see no reason to change that approach.”
“Of course, being from a Confederate state, you would be expected to say that,” Stanton said.
“That is quite enough, sir!” Welles replied in a huff.
“Thank you, Mr. Welles,” Johnson interrupted in his best diplomatic tone. “I am quite capable of defending myself. I am beginning to feel this is an inopportune time to conduct this meeting. Emotions are riding high. I believe the best action at this time is for us all to concentrate on our specific constitutionally defined jobs.”
“Well said, Mr. President,” Speed said.
After he adjourned the meeting, Johnson gently took Welles by the elbow to pull him into a far corner of the room away from the other Cabinet members who were mumbling among themselves near the door. They watched as Stanton quickly gathered together papers in his leather case and strode out of the room. The cluster of Cabinet members standing by the door parted to let him exit in silence.
“He seems distracted.” Johnson chose his words with care.
“Hell, he’s the same son of a bitch he’s always been,” Welles replied.
Johnson wondered if this were a good time to mention Mrs. Lincoln’s allegations about lookalikes in the White House. Had Welles noticed any difference in the behavior of the president during the last two and a half years? Perhaps he should not broach such a fantastic subject right now. After all, only yesterday Welles had observed his own irrational, drunken behavior.
Welles put his arm around Johnson’s shoulder and turned him away from the other men.
“Take my advice,” he whispered. “Fire Stanton while you can.”