The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Read Free Page B

said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. She had faced silly boys like this at college, too, unable to believe the evidence of their eyes and ears. No colored girl could possibly be their equal. “Do you know yet whether the House will adopt all four counts?”
    “There has been no vote as yet—”
    “They will vote in two weeks.” A prim smile. “I am here,” she said, “to help.”
    “To help what?”
    “Help you, Mr. Hilliman. With the impeachment trial.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “I am the new law clerk.” She drew the letter confirming her employment from her commonplace book. “Mr. Dennard hired me.”
    III
    There are in life moments that are irretrievable, and one opportunity fate never grants twice is making a first impression. Jonathan Hilliman, confronted with the least likely of all the possible explanations for this peculiar woman’s presence at Dennard & McShane, spoke out of utter confusion, and therefore from the heart:
    “That is not possible,” he said, jaw agape.
    Abigail’s eyes went very wide. They were wide enough already, gray and flecked and watchful, eyes that neither overlooked nor forgot. But, as Jonathan would come to learn, when Abigail was angry, those eyes could grow wide enough to swallow a room. Now, as he fumbled for the words to repair his mistake, Abigail, unbidden, stepped past him into the foyer. A long sooty window dominated one wall. Four inner doorswere closed, two presumably leading to the partners’ offices. The old colored man got to his feet, bowed, touched his cap.
    “My name is Little,” he said, with an affecting grin. He was nearly toothless. “I’se been with the Dennards going on sixty years now.”
    “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Little,” she said, extending a hand.
    He hesitated, then shook. “Just Little, miss.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “My name is Little, miss. Just Little.”
    “Excuse me,” said Mr. Hilliman, having recovered his composure. “Perhaps I could see that letter.”
    The black woman smiled blandly, the way Jonathan’s mother smiled at the servants when about to berate them. “Of course, Mr. Hilliman.”
    He took the page in his hands and read it slowly, then again, mouthing the words as if reading were new to him. At last he raised his eyes. “You are the new clerk.”
    “I believe I told you that.”
    “You are Miss Abigail Canner.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry.” He glanced around the messy room. It was obvious to them both what he wanted to say and could not. Instead, he retreated into a show of confusion. “I understood that Mr. Dennard was planning to hire a new clerk. I had no idea that he had—I mean, that he—that you were—um, that you were coming today.”
    “I understand, Mr. Hilliman,” said Abigail, standing there with bag in hand. There were, as yet, fewer than a dozen lawyers of African descent practicing in American courts. There were no women of any color. The Supreme Court had admitted the first colored attorney to its bar only a year and a half ago, and he had promptly gone into a wasting decline, from which he was not expected to recover. The wags said the Court’s members knew of his illness in advance, and wanted the credit for having admitted him without ever having to allow him to argue before them. “But I assume that there is plenty of work to do.”
    “Well, yes—”
    The door burst open, and in swept Arthur McShane, Jonathan’s boss, accompanied by a tough-looking man Jonathan did not recognize.
    “We’re thirteen votes down,” McShane growled, unwrapping himself. He was a diminutive man, small and trim and almost boyish except for the weathered face, all hollows and valleys. He handed his scarf to Little. “Thirteen votes. I don’t believe it. If the vote were held today, itwould be fourteen for acquittal, twenty-seven for conviction. The rest are undecided so far—”
    “That’s still short of two-thirds,” soothed the stranger. He was paunchy and confident, and