The visit to West Point that had begun so well ended with deep unhappiness. They sat in silence as the train pulled out of the station. Cameron sat with his back to the engine, looking out at the snow-covered countryside streaming by. Lincoln sat opposite him, looking out as well but seeing only the endless problems of this war that assailed him at all times. His secretaries sat across the aisle going through a sheaf of records from the arms factory.
“General Ripley was not the easiest man to get along with,” Lincoln said, long minutes after their train had pulled out of the station. Stanton nodded silent agreement. “But he had an awesome responsibility which he labored at professionally. He told me that he had to supply cartridges and shells for over sixty different types of weapons. That we are fighting, and hopefully winning, this war is in many ways due to his labors. What will happen now?”
“General Ramsay has been his assistant for some time,” the Secretary of War said. Lincoln nodded.
“I met him once. A responsible officer. But is he qualified for this position?”
“More than qualified,” Cameron said. “In my contacts with him at the War Department I have seen all of his reports and have passed them on to you when they were relevant. Please don’t think me to be presumptuous — or to be speaking ill of the dead — but Ramsay is a modern soldier of the modern school.”
“While Ripley was most conservative, as we all know.”
“More than conservative. He looked with great suspicion at any new weapon or invention. He knew what guns were like and how they were used. Knew that wars have been fought and won with these weapons and he was satisfied by that. I don’t believe he liked change of any kind. But you must meet General Ramsay before you decide, Mr. Lincoln. Make your mind up then. I think you will be more than interested in his approach.”
“Talk to my secretary and arrange it then. For tomorrow. This important post shall not remain vacant for an instant longer than is necessary.”
AN ULTIMATUM FROM BRITAIN
“Mrs. Lincoln said you had no dinner to speak of last night — and that you were to come down to breakfast now.”
Keckley was more than a Negro servant these days; the President could hear a ready echo of his wife’s voice in her words. Mary had originally hired her as a seamstress but that relationship had shifted and changed to an ambiguous but important place in the family.
“I’ll be there in just a minute…”
“She said that you would say that too and I shouldn’t believe it.”
Keckley stood in the open doorway silent and unmoving. Lincoln sighed and stood. “Lead the way. I trust you will take the word of the President that I am right behind you.”
As always the hall was filled with petitioners seeking jobs in the government. Lincoln thrust his way through them, as though wading through an angry sea. If he addressed one he must address them all. Not for the first time he wondered at the long-established policy that allowed anyone — and his brother — easy access to the Presidential Mansion. Of course, America was an egalitarian society. But there were, he was beginning to think, certain demerits in complete openness. He sighed and opened the door to the dining room, closing it behind him with a satisfactory thud.
The table was already laid when he came in; buttermilk cakes with honey, always a family favorite.
“You start with that, Father,” Mary said. There was a thunder of feet as the boys rushed in.
“Paw, Paw!” Tad shouted as he rushed at his father and seized him around the leg. Willie, always more restrained, seated himself at the table.
“Tad — you stop that,” Mary ordered, but was completely ignored. The boy climbed his father as though he were a tree, wrinkling his already wrinkled trousers and jacket in the process. He did not stop until he was perched triumphantly on his father’s shoulder. Lincoln marched twice around the table while Tad screeched with pleasure, before he lowered the boy into his chair. Willie had already poured honey on his cakes and was chewing an immense mouthful.
Keckley and Mary were bringing in more food, as well as hot freshly brewed coffee. Lincoln poured a cup and sipped it as the table slowly filled with more and more attractive dishes. Under Mary’s watchful eye he forked a spicy Virginia sausage onto his plate, took some hominy grits and poured some red-eye gravy over them. He ate slowly, his thoughts a hundred miles from this warm domestic scene. The war, the endless dreadful war. Mary saw this clearly, pressed her hand to his shoulder in silence, then joined them at the table. She ate well, too well if the tightness of her dress meant anything.
She went to fetch more milk for the boys and he was gone when she returned, his plate scarcely touched. He worked too hard and ate too little she thought. And he was losing weight steadily. The war was eating him up. He would be back in his office now and it might be another day before she saw him again.
“John,” Lincoln said, “I want you to write a letter for me.” Hay used his own system of shorthand to record Lincoln’s dictation. Now it was yet another memorandum from the President to General McClellan asking some sharply pointed questions about a possible forward movement of the Army of the Potomac. There was exasperation in Lincoln’s voice as he concluded.
“ ‘And how long would it require to actually get into motion? You have the army and you have the recruits and all are well trained, if I can believe the reports. But to win this war this army must be used in battle and Richmond must be taken.’ End there and have that telegraphed to him at once. Now cheer me up, John. Tell me some good news from the morning reports.”
“Good news indeed, sir. We now occupy Ship Island and all resistance is ended. The mouth of the Mississippi is close to this island so that part of the blockading fleet will be well supported and supplied. More news at sea. The USS Santiago de Cuba has halted a British schooner, the Eugenia Smith, near the mouth of the Rio Grande River.”
“Are any reasons given why?”
“Indeed. Commander Daniel Ridgely has explained that the British vessel had called at a Texas port. His suspicions were confirmed when a well-known Confederate purchasing agent was found aboard. J. W. Zacharie, a merchant from New Orleans. He was removed from the schooner which was then allowed to proceed.”
Lincoln shook his head wearily. “This will only add fuel to the fire we are having over the Trent. Is that all?”
“No, sir. The Rebels are so sure that Savannah will shortly fall to our troops that they are burning all of the cotton on the docks and in the fields. At sea the gunboat Penguin has captured a blockade runner trying to get to Charleston. A rich cargo indeed. The manifest lists small arms, ammunition, salt, provisions of all kinds. Not only fancy fabrics from France but saddles, bridles and cavalry equipment which is valued at $100,000.”
“Capital. Their loss, our gain. Is the Attorney General here yet?”
“I’ll go and see.”