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situation; reluctantly, he had concluded that the United States could no longer afford to tie the value of the dollar to fixed amounts of gold or silver. Until now, U.S. currency had been backed by precious metals, so a person holding a paper dollar could actually trade it at the bank for a dollar’s worth of gold. But with the cost of the war rising exponentially, the supply of precious metal was no longer sufficient. In late December 1861, Chase had informed Congress that by July 1 of the next year the federal debt would be more than $500 million, a greater than fourfold increase in a single year. This news had set off a bank panic and frozen the bond market; the only solution, Chase reluctantly concluded, was to switch to fiat money—so-called greenbacks, supported by nothing but the public’s faith in the government—which the Treasury could print as needed. The fact that Wall Street seemed willing to go along with such a dangerously inflationary plan was a testament to Chase’s reputation and credibility.
    A believer in sound money, Chase found the new monetary system unappealing. Even so, once the change was made it dawned on him that people all over the country were about to receive valuable pieces of paper from the government, paper that would feed their families, pay their rent, and appease the tax man. In that case, he thought, why not put his own handsome visage on those pieces of paper, making his face literally the face of prosperity and trustworthiness, putting his picture in the pockets of every American voter? And since design of the new money was his responsibility, he had gone that morning to a photographer’s studio for an official portrait. The photographer posed Chase with his arms crossed over his chest and his face slightly turned from the camera—an image that would soon be the most widely distributed in the country.
    Lincoln explained to one confidant that he “had determined to shut his eyes to all these performances” of Chase’s political ambition because the man “made a good secretary.” He well knew what Chase was up to, but could not afford to lose him. “I have all along clearly seen his plan of strengthening himself. Whenever he sees that an important matter is troubling me, if I am compelled to decide it in a way to give offense to a man of some influence, he always ranges himself in opposition to me and persuades the victim … that he would have arranged it very differently.… I am entirely indifferent as to his success or failure in these schemes, so long as he does his duty as the head of the Treasury Department.”
    Chase was particularly shifty during the cabinet meeting with the joint committee on January 6. First he defended McClellan as “the best man for the place,” who would surely have things moving by now if he hadn’t fallen ill. Then he pivoted to undercut McClellan by suggesting that command of the Army of the Potomac be transferred to a Republican favorite, Irwin McDowell. Supreme command and field command were too much for McClellan, or any one man, to handle, Chase argued. This was a reasonable observation, but Chase’s solution was wildly impractical. McDowell was the general who had failed at Bull Run. The idea that he could be placed in command of the army McClellan had built, or that McClellan would willingly share power, was absurd. But Chase was eager for the support of the pro-McDowell Republicans on the congressional committee, and his suggestion seemed calibrated to please them.
    All the talk by Chase and others that day led nowhere. The committee was sent away with only a promise from Lincoln to speak once more with McClellan. But this time, when the president ambled into the general’s house, he was turned away. The general, he was told, was too weak to see him. Whether McClellan had experienced a relapse or was simply fed up with visits from Lincoln is not clear. Little Mac did complain a few days later that “they don’t give me time to