President Lincoln's Secret. Steven Wilson
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“This is a catastrophe, Mr. Lincoln,” Stanton cried in frustration.
Seward lit a cigar, leisurely waving the match back and forth just to watch the dancing flame. Stanton hadn’t learned the secret of handling Lincoln. The Secretary of War exploded about every subject until just the sight of his demonstrations wore everyone out. Lincoln remained calm. Even when Lincoln was not calm, he remained calm. Often the president would pull out a volume of humorous stories, read out loud for a bit, and then chuckle.
“The finest mind we possess—” Stanton listed the extent of the disaster “—equal to Ericsson in his ability to design ironclads—”
“I shouldn’t let Mr. Ericsson hear that if I were you,” Welles said, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he found the source of his torment. He worked the pencil feverishly, dislodging the wig.
“He has been gone a month,” Stanton snapped.
“How is it that we are just finding this out now?” Seward said. He prepared himself for Stanton’s onslaught.
Surprisingly, Stanton dropped into a chair, exhausted. “Abbott is a difficult man. Temperamental. Irascible. He is also an expert on everything. Guns, ships, powder—anything he turns his mind to.”
“Well then, Mars? What can the rebels make of him?” Lincoln asked, willing to talk now that Stanton had calmed down. He knew his Secretary of War hated the nickname.
“I don’t know,” Stanton returned curtly. He was submerged in defeat.
“What can he make of the rebels?” Seward asked, standing. “He has a remarkable mind, and the ability to turn it to any subject under the sun. He knows our secrets because he was there at their birth.”
Welles tossed the pencil on the table. It rolled to a stop against a sheaf of papers. “Midwife to every one of them,” he said, following the analogy. “Whatever Ericsson designed, Abbott made better. My concern is beyond that the rebels have our man—”
“Isn’t that bad enough?” Stanton said.
“It’s—did he go to them willingly?”
“Well,” Lincoln said, intrigued by the idea. “I’d like to hear more, Welles.”
Seward was impressed—he’d almost considered Gideon Welles nothing more than a capable government employee. Now he showed flashes of insight that revealed a fine mind at work behind those dull eyes.
“Abbott is a madman,” Welles said. “He’s made it known to me that other men are constantly at work to steal his ideas. He is convinced that others, Ericsson included, are plotting his downfall. He is virtually impossible to deal with unless he receives the glory he feels is rightfully due him. We’ve given him everything we could, and still he demands more.”
“Not a Union man,” Seward observed wryly.
“Not any sort of man except his own. I truly believe if the rebels offered to proclaim him Caesar, he would turn Confederate in an instant.”
“Good God!” Stanton exclaimed. “Have you ever seen such vanity?”
“Not outside of this room,” Seward quipped.
“Is it as bad as you let on?” Lincoln asked of everyone, turning the subject back to its origin. Seward noticed that some of the levity had gone out of Lincoln’s voice.
“It is,” Welles said, “if the man has gone over to the rebels. They cannot match our manufacturing, but they have shown themselves to be highly innovative. Virginia demonstrated that.”
“If he has gone over,” Stanton said.
“That reminds me of the story of the man on his way to the gallows,” Lincoln said. He ignored Stanton’s groan. “‘If I go willingly, or put up a fuss,’ the man said, ‘I’ll be just as hanged.’”
Stanton lost his patience. “Yes, Mr. President, but this is a damned sight more serious than a hanging.”
Seward burst out in laughter, followed by Welles. Stanton, angered by their response, stomped off to one corner of the room in defeat.
Lincoln smiled, but the emotion faded. “Come back to us, Stanton. No offense was meant.”
The Secretary of War spun around. “This is bad business, Lincoln, and it’s no time for stories. That man has secrets locked in his head that can do the nation great harm. Welles knows that. Or at least he ought to.”
“What do you propose?” Seward asked.
“Find him, and be quick about it,” Stanton returned.
“It’s reported he’s gone to Canada,” Welles said. “Quebec City.”
“My God,” Stanton gasped. “He’s in the clutches of those rebels already.”
“No,” Welles said. “His family has a lodge or something up there. On the St. Lawrence. Every time his feelings are hurt he flies north, vowing never to return.”
“Now the British are involved,” Stanton said. “Goddamn their meddling in American business.” He turned on Seward. “You ought to begin diplomatic action to have him return. And while you’re at it, warn those damned British—”
“No, gentlemen,” Lincoln broke in. “Let’s not twist the lion’s tail. You said the man was difficult. He may have just gone north in a fit of temper. Let’s not wring our hands just yet. Not until we know the true circumstances behind the man’s departure. There is no reason to believe the British are involved.”
“I don’t trust them,” Stanton snapped.
“You don’t trust anyone,” Seward said.
“You were the one who wanted to keep the Confederate emissaries, plucked from a British vessel,” Stanton huffed.
“Let’s leave the past in the past. We need to keep a lid on this,” Lincoln reminded his cabinet. “I have a fellow in mind who can do just that. Let us dispatch him and await his report.”
“Mr. Lincoln,” Stanton said grimly. “We mustn’t wait too long. Abbott is worth fifty thousand men to the rebels. If his Monitor secrets are made known to them they can be turned against us in any number of ways.”
Seward saw Lincoln’s shoulders slump and his face collapse in melancholy.
“He is worth those same fifty thousand men to us,” the president said. He asked Welles, “Does he really possess that much intelligence about our ironclads?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Lincoln,” Welles said. “Every secret of their construction. But that is not my only concern, sir. What troubles me is the excellence