Part 23 (1/2)
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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 ma.s.sive head with an expression of uncontrollable rage.
”Great G.o.d!”
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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.a.ggy 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?”