The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Read Online Free PDF Page B

her tightly laced shoes. “But I also do not see its necessity. In any case, Mr. Dennard did not hire me to work on the impeachment trial. He hired me to be his legal secretary.” Her head came back up. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have chores.”
    Baker had no intention of letting her go so easily. “Do you know what the charges against the President are? Suspending habeas corpus, shutting down newspapers, locking up critics? Are you telling me that none of that bothers you?”
    From somewhere Abigail found just a bit of the sauciness that had characterized her attitude back at Oberlin. “You sound, General Baker, as if it bothers you.”
    This won her another baring of yellow teeth. “What about the charge that he means to overthrow the Congress? That he tried to establish a military district—the Department of the Atlantic—to run the government? How does that one strike you?”
    “As a patent absurdity.”
    “Ever met Mr. Lincoln?”
    “No.”
    “Know any member of his family? Any of his friends?”
    “No.”
    “Then how can you know what is in his head? And whether or not the charge is absurd?” Baker sighed, then hopped nimbly to his feet. Without warning, he stepped very close to her, crowding her back against the bookshelves. For a mad moment she thought he meant to kiss her. “We live in difficult times, Miss Canner. No Congress has dared act in this manner against a President. No one is above suspicion. Do you understand?” Once more he did not wait to hear her response. “If you choose to remain at Dennard & McShane, I shall have no choice but to continue to look into your story, finding all the holes. I shall poke and prod until there are only holes, and no longer any story at all. And at that point”—leaning so close that she could smell this morning’s garlic on his hot breath—“at that point, Miss Canner, you are mine.”
    Alone again, Abigail found herself unable to move. She was still on her feet. Her body began to tremble, then to shudder, until her entire being, physical and mental, jerked in uncontrolled spasms. The fear she felt was sharp and raw and red and deep. The hateful tears were but the smallest manifestation of her terror. She leaned over and put her hands on the table. Her late mother always said that God would get you through, and so she tried her best to pray; but in her fear and humiliation had no idea what she was praying for.
    She was standing in the same position when Little came in from whatever errand he had been running; although it was also possible that he had just been waiting outside for the general to leave. The old manglanced at her, hastily looked away, went to the cupboard. He took down the water jug, poured some into a glass, handed it to her. She drained it, and with movement came fluency. Her thoughts began to run clearly again. She found a smile, if a shaky one; thanked him; truly meant it.
    Little handed her the broom.
    “You gots chores, Miss Canner.”
    III
    McShane dropped his clerk at the carriage block twenty yards from the building entrance. He had a meeting, the lawyer said, and had to hurry. Jonathan was exhausted: worn out, like the man in his uncle Brighton’s favorite story, from doing nothing all day. He and McShane had arrived at the Mansion at eleven in the morning. Now it was past six in the evening, and nearly full dark. In the months since the firm’s retention to represent the President, Jonathan had attended five White House meetings with his employer, and had been invited into Lincoln’s office only twice, both times to write out a document that one of the others in the room dictated. Neither time had he stayed for more than a few minutes.
    Back at Fourteenth and G, peering up at the second-story windows, Jonathan was surprised to see lanterns burning. Old Little was usually more careful when he closed up. Unlocking the lobby door, Jonathan felt watched. He turned and saw, on the other side of the street, a tethered wagon,