Читать книгу The Victim - Thomas Dixon - Страница 22
ОглавлениеA MIDNIGHT SESSION
The Secretary of War invited Socola to join him at the White House after the Cabinet meeting which President Buchanan had called at the unusual hour of ten at night. He had waited for more than two hours in the anteroom and still the Cabinet was in session. Without show of impatience he smoked cigar after cigar, flicked their ashes into the fireplace and listened with an expression of quiet amusement to the storm raging within while the sleet of a January blizzard rattled against the windows with increasing fury.
Once more the question of the little fort in the harbor of Charleston had plunged the discordant Cabinet of the dying administration into the convulsions of a miniature war.
The feeble old President, overwhelmed by the gathering storm, crouched in the corner by the fire. His emaciated figure was shrouded in a ridiculous old dressing-gown. Mentally and physically prostrate he sat shivering while his ministers wrangled.
He rose at last, shambled to the Cabinet table, and leaned his trembling hands on it for support.
"What can I do, gentlemen—what can I do? If Anderson hadn't gone into that fort at night, the State of South Carolina might not have seceded—"
Stanton shook his massive head with an expression of uncontrollable rage.
"Great God!"
The President continued in feeble, pleading tones:
"Now they tell me that unless Anderson withdraws his troops their presence will provoke bloodshed—"
"Let them fire on him if they dare!" shouted Stanton.
"I cannot plunge my country into fratricidal war. My sands are nearly run. I only ask of God that my sun may not set in a sea of blood—"
He paused and lifted his thin hands, trembling like two withered leaves of aspen in the winter's blast.
"What can I do?"
Stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old man.
"I'll tell you what you can not do!"
The President gasped for breath and listened helplessly.
"You can't yield that fort to the conspirators who demand it. Dare to do it, and I tell you, as the Attorney General of the United States, you are guilty of high treason—and by the living God you should be hung!"
The venerable Secretary of the Navy, Isaac Toucey, lifted his hand in protest. Stanton merely threw him a look of scorn, and shouted into the President's face:
"Your act could no more be defended than Benedict Arnold's!"
"And what say you, Holt?" the President asked, turning to his heavy-jawed Secretary of War.
"Send a ship to the relief of Sumter within twenty-four hours, and let South Carolina take the consequences—"
"Good!" Stanton cried.
Holt's crooked mouth was drawn in grim lines, and the left-hand corner was twisted into a still lower knot of ugly muscles. His furtive eyes beneath their shaggy brows glanced quickly around the table to see the effect of his patriotic stand.
The President turned to the white-haired Secretary of the Navy:
"And you, General Toucey?"
The venerable statesman from Connecticut bowed gravely to his Chief and spoke with quiet dignity.
"I would order Anderson to return at once to Fort Moultrie—"
Stanton smashed the table with his big fist.
"And you know that the State of South Carolina has dismantled Fort Moultrie?"
Toucey answered Stanton's bluster with quiet emphasis.
"I'm aware of that fact, sir!"
"And it makes no difference?"
"None whatever. Anderson left Fort Moultrie and moved into Fort Sumter without orders—"
A faint smile flickered about the drooping corners of Holt's mouth—
The speaker turned to Holt:
"As a matter of fact, he moved into that fort against the positive orders of your predecessor, James B. Floyd, the Secretary of War. As he went there without orders, and against orders, he should be ordered back forthwith—"
"With the look of a maddened tiger Stanton flew at him.
"And you expect to go back to Connecticut after making that statement?"
"I do, sir—"
"I couldn't believe it."
"And why, pray?"
"I asked the question in good faith, that I might know the character of the people of Connecticut, or your estimate of them."
The old man drew himself up with cold dignity.
"I have served the people of my State for over forty years—their Congressman, their Attorney General, their Governor, their Senator. I consult no upstart of your feeble record, sir, on any question of principle or policy!"
Stanton quailed a moment beneath the cold scorn of his antagonist, surprised that another man should dare to use his methods of invective.
He lifted his hands with a gesture of contempt.
"All I can say is, that if I should dare take that position and return to the State of Pennsylvania, I should expect to be stoned the moment I set foot on her soil, stoned through the State and flung into the river at Pittsburg with a stone around my neck—"
Toucey stared at his opponent.
"And in my opinion they would deserve well of their country for the performance!"
While his Cabinet wrangled, the feeble, old man in the faded wrapper shambled to the window and gazed with watery eyes on the swaying trees of the White House grounds. The sleet had frozen in shining crystals and every limb was hung in diamonds. The wind had risen to hurricane force, howling and shrieking its requiem through the chill darkness. A huge bough broke and fell to the ground with a crash that sent a shiver through his distracted soul.
He turned back to the table to hear their decision. It came with but one dissenting voice, Toucey, Secretary of the Navy.
"A ship be sent at once to the relief of Sumter."
With stubborn terror the President refused to sign the order for an armed vessel. At one o'clock they compromised on the little steamer, Star of the West, and Buchanan agreed that she should attempt to land provisions for Anderson's fifty-odd men.
Holt hurried from the council chamber at one o'clock with a smile of triumph playing about his sinister mouth. His plan had succeeded. He had worked Stanton as the legal adviser of the President exactly as he had foreseen. The little steamer would test the mettle of the men of South Carolina who were training their batteries on Fort Sumter. If they dared to fire on her—all right—the lines of battle would be drawn.
He seized Socola's arm.
"Come with me to the War Office."
Inside, he closed the door, inspected the room in every nook and corner for a possible eavesdropper, seated himself and leaned close to his attentive listener.
"I have established your character now through your connection with the Minister from Sardinia beyond the possibility of any doubt. Your position will not be called in question. You will appear in the South as the representative, unofficial and yet duly accredited, for King Victor Emmanuel. Your purpose will be, of course, the cultivation of friendly relations with the officials of the new Government looking to the day of its coming recognition—you understand?"
"Perfectly—"
"You have absolutely consecrated your life, and every talent, to your country?"
"Body and soul—"
The dark eyes flashed with the light of a religious fanatic.
"Good." The Secretary paused and studied his man a moment.
"I introduced you to the girl not merely to obtain an invaluable witness to your credentials should they be questioned—but for a double purpose."
Socola nodded.
"I guessed as much."
"She's bright, young, pretty, and you can pass the time pleasantly in her company. The association will place you in a strong position. Her father is a fool—the storm petrel of Secession. He has the biggest mouth in America, barring none. His mouth is so huge, they'll never find a muzzle big enough if they could get men enough around him to put it on. He's bound to land somewhere high in the councils of the coming Confederacy—"
"There'll be one?"
Holt smiled.
"You doubt it?"
"It may be bluster after all."
"Men of the Davis type don't bluster, my boy. They are to meet at Montgomery, Alabama, on February fourth. They'll organize the Cotton States into a Southern Confederacy. If they can win Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas, they may gobble Maryland, Kentucky, and Missouri—all Slave States. If they get them all—they'll win without a fight, and reconstruct the Union on their own terms; if they don't—well, we'll see what we'll see—"
"And you wish?"
"That you get for me—and get quickly—inside information of what is done and what is proposed to be done at Montgomery. I want the names of every man discussed for high office among them, his chances of appointment, his friends, his enemies—why they are his friends, why they are his enemies. I want their plans, their prospects, their hopes, their fears, and I want this information quickly. You will be supplied with ample funds, and your report must be made to me in person. My tenure of this office will be but a few weeks longer—but you are my personal representative, you understand?"
"Quite."
"Your report must be in person to me, and to me alone."
"I understand, sir."
Socola rose, extended his hand, drew his cloak about his slender shoulders and passed out into the storm, his dark face lighted by a smile as he recalled the winsome face of Jennie Barton.
