The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Read Free Page A

north. The tiny flakes were like pinpricks on her bright cheeks. She took care not to slip on the ice, but a wall of wind still almost knocked her from the cobbled sidewalk into the frozen mud of Fourteenth Street. As she regained her footing, two white women, heading the other way, began a very loud conversation about how, since the war, half the negroes in town seemed to be drunk from breakfast on.
    Abigail ignored them, too.
    She found the address at the corner of G Street. A policeman patrolled out front, resplendent and shivering in blue serge and brass buttons. The policeman was an unexpected obstacle, but Abigail chose to deal with him the way her late mother had taught her to deal with most barriers. She walked straight past him, head held high.
    He scarcely gave her a glance.
    The narrow lobby was dark after the glare of the snow. She took the creaking stairs to the second floor, where the bronze plaque read DENNARD & MCSHANE , and knocked on the door. Waiting, she was surprised to find herself nervous. She hated uneasiness as she hated mostsigns of human weakness, most of all in herself. Fear is a test, her late mother used to say. Fear is how God challenges us.
    Accepting the challenge, she knocked again.
    The door swung open, and there stood a gangly young man in high-collared shirt and black necktie. He was missing the jacket that doubtless completed his working attire. Straw-colored hair was pressed back in fashionable waves against a long, slim head. Even standing still, he displayed an economy of movement that implied a life lived without challenges. He was white, of course, and about her age, and Abigail could tell at once that he was ill at ease around women. Nevertheless, he found an awkward smile somewhere, and glanced, she noted, at her hands. Perhaps he thought she was carrying a delivery.
    “May I help you?” the young man said.
    “My name is Abigail Canner,” she said. “I have an appointment.” The man said nothing, so she tried again. “About the job.”
    “Job?” he repeated doubtfully, as if she were speaking Greek. In his shy earnestness, he gave the impression of a man trying desperately to live up to something terribly difficult.
    “The job as a law clerk.” She tilted her head toward the plaque. “For Dennard & McShane.”
    “Ah.” Nodding firmly, more sure of his ground. “That would be Mr. Dennard. His clerk left. I’m Hilliman. I’m Mr. McShane’s clerk. The partners are out just now, but if you would leave your employer’s card, one of the messengers will be round to set up an appointment.” When she said nothing, his smile began to fade. He gestured, vaguely. Peering past him, Abigail saw a long, narrow room dominated by a heavy wooden table heaped with papers and books. Shelves lined every wall, and the heavy volumes looked well used. In one corner, numbers were scribbled on a blackboard. In another, an elderly colored man tended a weak coal fire. “I’m afraid we are rather busy right now—”
    “I imagine you are, Mr. Hilliman. Preparing for the impeachment trial.”
    “Well, yes.” He looked at her with new respect, or at least growing curiosity, perhaps because she did not speak in the manner of the colored people to whom he was accustomed. Abigail Canner had provoked this reaction in others. She worked at it. “That’s right. The trial. I’m sorry,” he added, although, as yet, he had done nothing to apologize for.
    Almost nothing.
    “I find it most intriguing,” said Abigail, “that the Congress would attempt such a thing.”
    “Yes, well, if you would just—”
    “The committee has proposed four counts of impeachment, has it not? Half relating to the conduct of the war, and half relating to events since the war ended.”
    “How do you know that?” His tone suggested that she could not possibly have read a newspaper. He caught her expression, and realized his error. “I mean—well, that is very impressive.”
    “I try to be prepared,” she