Read Online The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln by Stephen L. Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen L. Carter
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pigeonholes.
“You’re not just holding the fort,” Michael had teased her. “You’re cleaning it.”
Yet Abigail did it all without complaint. She had learned the rules of hard work from Nanny Pork, who yelled at you if you failed to do your chores; if you did them, she yelled at you for failing to do them right. If Abigail spent her days dusting and filing; if she was frustrated daily by her exclusion from important meetings, she nevertheless was here,in this momentous time, near enough to the center of things that she fancied she could feel the throbbing excitement of the nation’s leaders as, day by day, the possibilities for Lincoln’s survival waxed and waned.
But Abigail did her tidying, then sat down with the same first volume of Blackstone she had been examining in her private hours for the past two weeks. Mr. Little, who seemed to come and go as he pleased, had caught her more than once, but never said anything about it. Since Jonathan did not seem to mind, and even encouraged her, she supposed that the only person from whom she was hiding her secret studies was Mr. McShane, who turned out to be serious in his intention to limit her to chores scarcely removed from those assigned to Mr. Little. She was busily making notes about feudal land tenures when a knock on the door announced a visitor, who walked in without ever quite being invited: David Grafton, a lawyer with offices down on the first floor.
“I gather that you are here alone for the moment,” he said. “Good. I have been looking forward to this chance.”
He was an elegantly attired but oddly bent man, hips one way, torso the other, shoulders a third. He looked as if he had been twisted into a corkscrew by inhuman hands: the crooked man from the fairy tale. The truth was, he had been run over by a horsecar ten years ago, and should have died from the experience. But David Grafton was a man of indomitable will. Until two years ago, he had been the middle partner in what was then known as Dennard, Grafton & McShane. Jonathan was hazy on what had led to the crooked man’s departure, but on one rule he was crystal clear: Abigail was not to speak to him, at any time, for any reason.
“But why not?” she had asked. “He said hello to me the other day in the street.”
“Because he is evil come to earth,” said Jonathan, by no means a religious man. “Because he has made it his life’s work to sow discord, and to see to it that others reap the whirlwind.”
III
“Mr. McShane is not in,” said Abigail, on her feet, fists tightly clenched. “I shall tell him you were here.”
“Tell him what you like,” said Grafton lightly; his dark cloak fit perfectly the image Jonathan had sketched. “I am not here to see McShane, Miss Canner. I am here to see you.”
“I … I am rather busy.”
“I see that.” Eyeing the volume of Blackstone, then turning toward the wood stove. He stooped, opened the door, peered in. “Quite a fire burning there. Your work, or Mr. Little’s?” He slammed the door, then crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his upper arms. “The others are over at the Mansion, but not you, eh?”
“I am … holding the fort.”
“Indeed. In my offices, there is a man who keeps the fire burning and there are clerks who work on legal matters. Only on legal matters. They do not hold the fort.” He was near the window now. He had pulled a pipe from somewhere in his cloak and made to clean the bowl. “Perhaps you would like to make a change.”
He has made it his life’s work to sow discord
.
“You are very kind, Mr. Grafton, but I am quite happy where I am.”
“Pity.”
“I am afraid I must—”
“McShane is a good man,” said Grafton, as if Dennard was not. The visitor was prodding inside his pipe with a metal reamer. He turned the bowl upside down, rapped it on the side table. Wet dottle fell onto a silk handkerchief he had thoughtfully laid out. “A fine lawyer. Sound in his politics,”
“You’re not just holding the fort,” Michael had teased her. “You’re cleaning it.”
Yet Abigail did it all without complaint. She had learned the rules of hard work from Nanny Pork, who yelled at you if you failed to do your chores; if you did them, she yelled at you for failing to do them right. If Abigail spent her days dusting and filing; if she was frustrated daily by her exclusion from important meetings, she nevertheless was here,in this momentous time, near enough to the center of things that she fancied she could feel the throbbing excitement of the nation’s leaders as, day by day, the possibilities for Lincoln’s survival waxed and waned.
But Abigail did her tidying, then sat down with the same first volume of Blackstone she had been examining in her private hours for the past two weeks. Mr. Little, who seemed to come and go as he pleased, had caught her more than once, but never said anything about it. Since Jonathan did not seem to mind, and even encouraged her, she supposed that the only person from whom she was hiding her secret studies was Mr. McShane, who turned out to be serious in his intention to limit her to chores scarcely removed from those assigned to Mr. Little. She was busily making notes about feudal land tenures when a knock on the door announced a visitor, who walked in without ever quite being invited: David Grafton, a lawyer with offices down on the first floor.
“I gather that you are here alone for the moment,” he said. “Good. I have been looking forward to this chance.”
He was an elegantly attired but oddly bent man, hips one way, torso the other, shoulders a third. He looked as if he had been twisted into a corkscrew by inhuman hands: the crooked man from the fairy tale. The truth was, he had been run over by a horsecar ten years ago, and should have died from the experience. But David Grafton was a man of indomitable will. Until two years ago, he had been the middle partner in what was then known as Dennard, Grafton & McShane. Jonathan was hazy on what had led to the crooked man’s departure, but on one rule he was crystal clear: Abigail was not to speak to him, at any time, for any reason.
“But why not?” she had asked. “He said hello to me the other day in the street.”
“Because he is evil come to earth,” said Jonathan, by no means a religious man. “Because he has made it his life’s work to sow discord, and to see to it that others reap the whirlwind.”
III
“Mr. McShane is not in,” said Abigail, on her feet, fists tightly clenched. “I shall tell him you were here.”
“Tell him what you like,” said Grafton lightly; his dark cloak fit perfectly the image Jonathan had sketched. “I am not here to see McShane, Miss Canner. I am here to see you.”
“I … I am rather busy.”
“I see that.” Eyeing the volume of Blackstone, then turning toward the wood stove. He stooped, opened the door, peered in. “Quite a fire burning there. Your work, or Mr. Little’s?” He slammed the door, then crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his upper arms. “The others are over at the Mansion, but not you, eh?”
“I am … holding the fort.”
“Indeed. In my offices, there is a man who keeps the fire burning and there are clerks who work on legal matters. Only on legal matters. They do not hold the fort.” He was near the window now. He had pulled a pipe from somewhere in his cloak and made to clean the bowl. “Perhaps you would like to make a change.”
He has made it his life’s work to sow discord
.
“You are very kind, Mr. Grafton, but I am quite happy where I am.”
“Pity.”
“I am afraid I must—”
“McShane is a good man,” said Grafton, as if Dennard was not. The visitor was prodding inside his pipe with a metal reamer. He turned the bowl upside down, rapped it on the side table. Wet dottle fell onto a silk handkerchief he had thoughtfully laid out. “A fine lawyer. Sound in his politics,”
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