Lincoln by Gore Vidal Page B

Mr. Dayton as Secretary of State, while Mr. Seward could go as minister to London, a city that he had so recently taken by storm.
    Alarmed, the New Yorkers withdrew; their Albany Plan a temporary failure.
    Seward’s rage when Lincoln’s words were repeated to him resulted ina letter of withdrawal from the Cabinet. Lincoln had chosen not to accept Seward’s defection; and had responded with a polite note, asking Seward to remain where he was. As Lincoln signed the letter, he said, half to himself, half to Hay, “I can’t afford to let Seward take the first trick.”
    “Personally,” said Nicolay, “I’d rather Seward stayed out. But …”
    The door to the parlor opened, and the vast Lamon filled the doorway. “He wants to see you boys.” Lamon lumbered out of view.
    “What’s Lamon going to be in the government?” asked Hay.
    “Marshal of the District of Columbia, which means he can go on being a bodyguard.”
    “One of many, let’s hope.”
    The city was filled with alarming reports. The President would be shot on his way to the Capitol. The President would be shot at the Capitol. The President would be kidnapped at the Inaugural Ball and taken across the Long Bridge to Virginia and held hostage. Of all the rumors this one struck Hay as a possibility. It had also enlivened General Scott, who had placed two sharpshooters in every window that looked upon the eastern portico of the Capitol, as well as sharpshooters all up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, not to mention plainclothesmen everywhere.
    Lincoln himself seemed indifferent. For the last few days he had been preoccupied with the Virginians, who were holding a convention at Richmond to determine whether or not to secede. More than once, Hay had heard Lincoln pleading with one Virginian after another. Currently, the remaining Southerners in the Congress were particularly exercised by something called the Force Bill, which would give the President the right to call out the militia and accept volunteers into the armed forces. Lincoln had agreed, privately—and, Hay thought, cravenly—to reject the bill if that would satisfy Virginia. On Friday, acting on Lincoln’s instructions, just before the Force Bill was to be voted on, Washburne had asked for an adjournment of the House. With this adjournment, the Thirty-sixth Congress expired. But not before, as a further gesture to the Southerners, Lincoln’s party supported a measure, never, ever, to interfere with the institution of slavery in those states where slavery was legal. On that note of conciliation, the House of Representatives shut up shop on Monday, March 4, the day of Lincoln’s inauguration. The Senate remained in session.
    Nicolay and Hay proceeded down the police-lined corridor to Parlor Suite Six. Lincoln sat in his usual place beside the window, the light behind him, his glasses on his nose. Mrs. Lincoln, the three sons, the half-dozen female relations of Mrs. Lincoln quite filled the room.
    Hay had never seen Mr. Lincoln so well turned out. He wore a newblack suit that still fit him. But Hay knew that by the time that restless, angular body had finished pushing and prodding with knees and elbows, the suit would resemble all his others. For the present, the white of the shirtfront shone like snow, while beside his chair, next to the all-important grip-sack, was a new cane with a large gold knob. Hay could see that Mrs. Lincoln’s expensive taste had prevailed.
    “Gentlemen,” Lincoln greeted his secretaries formally. “We are about to be joined by the Marshal-in-chief, who will put us in our carriages, show us our seats, give us our orders …” There was a sound of cheering outside the window. Then a fanfare of trumpets. Lincoln got to his feet; and peered out. “Well, if it’s not the President himself, I’d say it’s a very good likeness.”
    Mary had rushed to the window. “It’s Mr. Buchanan! He’s come to fetch you.”
    “In a sense.” Lincoln smiled. “Now I shall want a