(i.)

The sun blazed down upon Cave Hill Cemetery, bathing the graves of the fallen with tribute for their ultimate sacrifice. John Marshall Harlan stood among an impatient crowd. He knew some of the men interred here, who had departed their sweet Kentucky homes, their beloved creeks and valleys, for the sake of the indivisible Union, and from time to time he would visit their graves. Standing before the marble headstones, he would pray with profound devotion, then increasing disquiet as the voices of the dead would reproach him for abandoning service before the war had ended.

A roar went up from one corner of the crowd as the speaker arrived to deliver the oration for this memorial day. Every year a soldier for the Union had presented his reflections, but to-day was different — not only had a soldier arrived to give his sacred communion with his fallen brothers, but this soldier was Benjamin Bristow, a son of Kentucky, a hero of Shiloh, and now a paragon of Reform. Great huzzahs and applause — inappropriate for a cemetery, thought Harlan — marked Bristow’s passage through the crowd, which parted before him as did the Red Sea before Moses.

Bristow was indisputably the man of the hour. His patient inquiries into the source of the discrepancies between the amount taxed upon whiskey distilleries and the amount collected had proved unavailing, so he unleashed a swarm of Treasury agents to St. Louis, Chicago, and New Orleans. Bristow’s men compared the tax receipts from the whiskey to the bills of lading from the distilleries, to prove that a good deal of liquor had been shipped and consumed, yet the taxable revenue had fallen far short. There was little doubt that some of the missing revenue went to the distillers, for the sake of tax avoidance. The newspapers proclaimed that Bristow had smashed a Whiskey Ring, and for once the newspapers were correct. The more intriguing subject was where the rest of the kickbacks went. Orville Babcock, the President’s aide, was indicted but refused to cooperate.

Harlan pushed through the crowd to meet his old friend.

“Pardon me, sir — who are you?” A burly fellow with a club thrust himself into Harlan’s path.

“I am the Republican Party’s nominee for Governor of this State, the Secretary’s oldest friend, and not afraid to use my fists!”

The ogre was unmoved. “And I am an agent of the United States Treasury. What is your name?”

“It’s good old Harlan!” Bristow called from behind.

Harlan raised his chin in an aggressive manner at the agent, who looked appraisingly at Bristow then back to Harlan.

“You watch yourself.” He tapped Harlan on the chest with his club.

Harlan shoved the man aside and shook Bristow’s hand.

“You come now with a retinue?”

“A necessity, I am afraid,” said Bristow. “Come here,” he gestured to a small tent set before a wooden platform, “we shall catch up while the others warm up the crowd.”

Bristow and Harlan ducked into the tent. Several agents followed.

“You may speak freely before these men. I trust them completely.”

Harlan glared at the bystanders, for it was distasteful to speak to his old friend with three rowdies hanging upon his every word.

“How are you?”

Bristow beamed. “Very well! It is rare in public life to be so entirely vindicated.”

“You deserve enormous credit.”

“And the family is mostly well,” Bristow went on, “we have rented a little house on K Street, but the children may benefit from some time in Europe this summer.”

Harlan grunted.

“And you shall be Governor!”

The remark served to ease and amuse Harlan in equal, and considerable, measure.

“In that unlikely event, I can have ruffians of my own.”

“They are fine fellows.”

Harlan hesitated a moment.

“Are you in fear of retaliation?”

“The possibility cannot be excluded,” said Bristow.

Harlan lowered his voice. “Babcock?”

“The conniver himself!  When I went in to speak to the President, he said, ‘Well, Mr. Bristow, there is at least one honest man in St. Louis — the Supervisor of Internal Revenue there.’ The President must have seen the look on my face, so he said, ‘I know that because he is an intimate acquaintance and confidential friend of Babcock’s.’ But that is the very problem!”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Of course! ‘Mr. President,’ I replied, ‘That man is the head and center of all the frauds. He is at this very moment in New York ready to take a steamer on the first indication of any effort to arrest him.’ Well, the President was visibly shaken. Babcock was at Grant’s side when Lee surrendered to him at Appomattox.”

“You were at Shiloh — that must count for something.”

Bristow winced. “Grant has happier memories of Appomattox.”

“I wonder whether the President himself might want a third term. That would put us in an awful fix.”

“That would be Caesarism.”

“You must watch yourself very carefully!”

“I am in this fight up to my eyes,” said Bristow, “against unscrupulous thieves. I have but few men about me whom I can trust implicitly. The President told me — ‘Let no guilty man escape if it can be avoided.’ ”

“If it can be avoided?” Harlan snorted. “What the Devil does that mean?”

“I can only guess! But even worse — I spoke to the President early in the month, and my agents learned that a telegram arrived in St. Louis soon afterward, signed with a woman’s name — Sylph! — saying, ‘Lightning will strike on Monday. Be prepared for it’! Only one person other than Grant could have sent that telegram — Babcock.”

Harlan shook his head in disgust and spat. “I will be d___d!”

Cheers sounded from outside the tent.

“By God,” Bristow raised his palm to Heaven, “I will not sacrifice my personal honor and self-respect to the great Jehovah himself — let alone to these unmitigating plunderers of the people’s money. Now, we must honor the men of Kentucky who fought for the Union!”

Bristow turned abruptly and departed the tent and ascended the wooden platform. Harlan unobtrusively stole from the other side of the enclosure and stood at the edge of the crowd to watch.

No salutation or accolade was spared in the introduction of Bristow to the masses. When it was finally his turn to speak, Bristow bowed his broad forehead in prayer and dwelled for some time on the honor bestowed upon him by the invitation, his eagerness to forsake Washington to return to Kentucky, and the humility suffusing his spirit, reflecting upon the graceful hand of Providence in sparing his life at Shiloh. The recollection of his own service afforded him, moreover, the opportunity to renew his vow to the Union, and to the aim of the recent conflict — to prove that all men were created equal.

“A great blight was removed from the South,” Bristow declaimed, “and the last barrier upon the road to prosperity was removed.”

There was vast applause at this remark.

“If I am asked,” Bristow went on, “when will this prosperity be realized, my answer is when the passions and prejudices engendered by the strife shall have entirely subsided, when the inalienable right of every man to equal freedom with every other man is fully recognized by society — ”

The acclamations grew louder.

“ —  when the laborer is not only fully protected in his life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but ample provision is made for the education of his children — ”

This expression of solicitude for the tender young ones did not pass unappreciated. When the cries died down, Bristow raised one hand to permit him to proceed.

“ —  and when it becomes known and accepted that wealth and intellectual improvement come only from individual industry and effort, and not from the pursuit of politics!”

The crowd cheered Bristow with such force and enthusiasm that the dead men interred at Cave Hill could not but have wondered what prophet had come to lead the people.

 “Men of Kentucky!” Harlan cried, a few weeks later. “The choice before you for Governor of this State is a vital one!”

There were catcalls, hisses, and only a smattering of claps from an assembly that was equal parts curious, indifferent, hostile, and drunk. Harlan mopped his brow. It was July, and extremely hot, and Harlan stood upon an overturned wooden box to project his voice over a crowd gathered in the central square of those small towns that lend Kentucky its distinctive flavor.  Harlan rather wished he had paid closer attention to whatever rhetorical tricks Bristow must have used, as he was in need of flourishes at the moment.

“My opponent for Governor was a soldier of the Confederacy,” Harlan shouted, unintentionally drawing cheers from a vocal portion of the audience.  “The future of Kentucky does not lie with embracing the ghosts of the past.  These amendments are now the laws of the land.”

“You opposed them!” cried one red-faced man, who squatted atop a bourbon barrel.

“I did,” Harlan replied evenly.

“And now you support them!” he hurled back.

“I do.”

There was a wave of catcalls and jeers.

“Oh, General Harlan!” rose another objection.

“And I stand with the Republican Party in supporting the Administration to ensure that all people — ”

“Ha! General Harlan stands with the party?”

“ —  are able to avail themselves of the great bounty that this country — ”

“General Harlan! Please! I am an admirer of President Lincoln! Do you not support President Lincoln?”

“He should have replaced this General like he did McClell — hic — McClellan!” groused the man on the bourbon barrel.

“Sir! I fought for the Union and I supported President Lincoln!” Harlan sought to swat aside the interjection, yet he lacked Lincoln’s gift for dismissing a heckler with a curt remark; instead, his response provided the objector with an opportunity for disruption.

“Didn’t you oppose the Emancipation Proclamation, General? Lincoln’s Proclamation?”

There was a tumultuous wave of dismay at this remark from one part of the mob, and wide cries of satisfaction from the other.

“Now,” Harlan sought to quell the mutiny, “the Proclamation became the law of the land — ”

“But did you support it, General?”

“I am duty bound to support the law of the land, and will do as Governor just as I did — ”

“You opposed it at the time, General Harlan! You opposed it! Are you calling me a liar?”

Harlan paused for a moment, but the shouting grew louder as the miscreants among the assembled sensed weakness.

“Yes, that is true — ”

“Aw, you are nothing but a hypocrite!” the red-faced man swatted in Harlan’s direction, but too heavily, and he tumbled from his barrel into the dirt, much to the delight of those around him.

“Let it be said that I am right rather than consistent,” Harlan shouted angrily, as the crowd erupted in mocking laughter. “It is true, fellow citizens, that almost the entire people of Kentucky, at one period in our history, were opposed to freedom, citizenship and suffrage of the colored race.” His face was now crimson, with the heat of the sun and the passion of the moment. “With slavery, it was death or allegiance. It knew no compromise, tolerated no middle course. I rejoice that it is gone.”

“I have a question,” asked a smooth young man. “Is it not true that you dined with the Negro Douglass?”

“The question has been asked,” Harlan said, “whether I dined with Frederick Douglass.  I was proud to do so — ”

“Did you return him to his master?” asked the smooth young man, eliciting hisses and guffaws in equal measure.

“I dined with Douglass at the home of the great James Blaine, where Douglass and I united to urge the voters of the State of Maine to cast their ballots for General Grant.  I not only ate beside Douglass, but I also spoke from the same platform with him. And here let me say that there is no man of any party in Kentucky who can deliver a better speech than Mr. Douglass!”

“Must we all dine with Negroes, then?” called out another voice.

“Men of Kentucky!” Harlan pleaded. “The white and black races can move alone in this free land of ours, each cherishing the prejudices of race without interfering with the just rights of the other.”

This equivocal remark produced a sensation, with some men applauding it with enthusiasm, while others muttered darkly and spat on the ground.

An empty bourbon bottle flew past Harlan, poorly aimed, and exploded into shards behind him. This projectile commanded, for a moment, the attention of the unruly crowd, and Harlan thought he might seize the opportunity.

“Now, if you will throw a bottle at me,” Harlan growled, “let it at least be full!”

There was finally laughter at this remark, and Harlan would later wonder whether the jest was the only successful moment of his campaign.

“Mr. Secretary?”

Bristow looked up from his desk, engrossed in the application of an Assistant United States Attorney in St. Louis to take sworn testimony from the President of the United States. It was, as far as Bristow could ascertain, an unprecedented application, and had aroused condemnation from several branches of the Administration. Yet there did not appear to be any other method to determine whether Babcock had, from the Executive Mansion, received money from the Whiskey Ring and warned its conspirators of the investigation. The benefit of the deposition was to avoid having the President testify at Babcock’s trial — for it seemed likely to Bristow that Grant would gladly consent to ascend the witness-box to assist his old friend.

“You may return later, thank you.”

The aide did not leave. Bristow’s brow furrowed.

“I beg your pardon, I am presently — ”

“Secretary Bristow!” Senator Roscoe Conkling brushed past the aide at the door and quickly paced the room to arrive before Bristow’s desk, where, it seemed to Bristow, he surveyed the contents of Bristow’s papers while Bristow rose to meet him.

“Senator.” The men shook hands and sat. Conkling arrayed himself in his chair, with his shoulders thrown back, arms splayed out, and his knees pointing directly at Bristow.

“I trust you are well!” Conkling said brightly. “I have come to express my gratitude at the efforts you have made on the party’s behalf. I know that there are some who have not fully expressed their appreciation, and I hope that my most sincere compliments might compensate for these breaches of good manners.”

“Thank you.”

“A man such as yourself is a credit to the party.”

“I see.” The prospect occurred to Bristow that Conkling would ask him to forbear from the Grant deposition, and he wished his aide had remained in the room as a witness.

“We have sworn ourselves to the same cause, Mr. Secretary! And for our mighty galleon to sail into battle for victory, it is essential that we all shall row together.”

Bristow said nothing. It was best that Conkling introduce the subject of Grant’s deposition with specificity; otherwise, the Senator would surely disclaim any responsibility for broaching the subject.

“I understand,” Conkling sighed slightly, “that there are men who may slack at their oar from time to time, but rather than cast such men aside, should they not be counseled, so that they might return to provide assistance in our mutual endeavor?”

“I suppose,” Bristow said, slowly.

Conkling now leaned forward. “I trust you know the man of whom I speak.”

Bristow said nothing.

“When Mr. Howe came to speak to me,” here Conkling looked out the window as a fine mist formed in his eyes, “he was despairing, humiliated, humbled.” Conkling paused one moment, then turned his glance back to Bristow. “Yet he placed his trembling hand in mine, and swore to do better, if only given the chance!”

“Howe?” Bristow said and blinked. “Who the  — ?”

“The same,” Conkling said. “All of us shall benefit from Frank Howe’s reinstatement.”

“Frank Howe?”

“I would be pleased to bring word to him that his position has been restored and assure you that the wisdom of your decision will provide continual comfort to you in the years ahead.”

“Frank Howe?” Bristow sputtered. “In New York?”

“He has not travelled here himself out of deference to your position. Indeed, when I said that I would come to you, he begged me to desist — ”

“What!”

“ — but I prevailed upon him and explained that the Secretary of the Treasury is a wise man, and ever willing to hear the appeal of a man unjustly relieved of his duties.”

“Frank Howe? The Treasury agent? In New York?” Bristow exclaimed. “Why, it was I personally who relieved him of his duties. He is totally incompetent!”

Conkling’s face darkened for a moment. “There is no decision that does not benefit from reconsideration,” he said. “For you to reinstate the man would be abundant proof that you are ever on the side of what is right.”

Bristow pounded his fist on his desk. “I fired that man for good reason and will not rehire him!”

“He is a good worker.”

“He hardly worked at all!”

“He was a loyal worker.”

“Is that what this is about, Senator? He is one of your men — part of your machine!”

“Machine?” Conkling raised one eyebrow. “A government is a machine; the public-school system of the State of New York is a machine; a political party is a machine. Every organization that binds men together for a common cause is a machine.”

“The Republican Party is not simply a machine, Senator, it is a group of men who have come together in service of the highest principles of the public trust!”

Conkling rolled his eyes. “The Party is not built upon deportment, or by ladies’ magazines, or gush — it is built upon the backs of men like Howe!”

“Then it would be a corrupt machine.”

“Howe has ever been ready to defend our cause, and you cannot punish him for his selfless enlistment.”

“I am glad of his commitment to the Party — but he was hired to serve the Treasury!”

“Allow me to speak to you more personally,” Conkling interrupted.

“Have you not been doing that already?”

“You and I stand at the forefront of a great movement, a sacred union of men dedicated to the advancement of the most solemn of promises ever made — to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Can these promises be kept through dissension, through mistrust, through the misguided pursuit of this abstract notion of Reform?”

“I have come to believe that Reform is a good thing, Senator,” said Bristow.

Conkling leapt up and paced to the opposite end of the room, then took several great strides forward to Bristow’s desk, thrust out his massive chest and pointed his angry finger in Bristow’s face.

“You cannot fool me, Mr. Secretary! I know what you want!”

“Do you?” Bristow asked placidly.

Bristow’s apparent equanimity in the face of this provocation served only to increase Conkling’s ire.

“Do not deceive yourself! There shall be consequences, when a man of your ambition seeks to make his road by walking upon the bones of others!”

“I must do what I believe to be right, and let the consequences fall where they may.”

Conkling laughed bitterly. “You have practiced your lines well, sir! Quite well! But if you truly believe that your disloyalty to the Party is more sincere, or honest, or selfless, than my loyalty to the Party, you are lying to yourself.”

“I believe in good government, Senator.”

“And I,” here Conkling struck an oratorical pose, as if he were addressing a throng of a thousand men, “believe in the Republican Party then, the Republican Party now, the Republican Party forever!”

“There is no need for these theatrics.”

“Theatrics! You, Mr. Secretary, are also engaged in theater — a rôle in which you play the honest public servant committed solely to Reform. Yet it is all in service of your own ambition. Men like you are mere half-breeds, who shake the hand of the Republican Party while raising the knife to stab it in the back!”

“My ambition is to rid the Treasury Department of corruption.”

“Ha! Your ambition is to capitalize upon the corruption issue — not corruption itself — to rile the people up, to impugn their faith in the stalwarts of the Party, so that they turn to you instead.”

Bristow narrowed his eyes.

“My time is taken up for hours every day listening to just such speeches as yours, which all come down to urging some corrupt person for office. I will not reinstate Mr. Howe.”

Conkling puffed out his chest.

“Sir! The curse of this country is Reform!”

“Your remarks, sir,” Bristow replied calmly, “are offensive and I shall resent them.”

“Do you intend to take issue with me, sir?” Conkling shouted.

“Good afternoon,” said Bristow, who returned to the review of his documents.

“I swear to you,” Conkling exclaimed, “that this is the last time I shall enter this Department so long as you are at the head of it!”

Conkling stamped across the room, flung open the door of Bristow’s office, and stalked out.

“Good riddance!” Harlan laughed and spat a volley of tobacco juice with a Thping! “What happened next?”

“I wish the story had ended there.” Bristow sipped the excellent bourbon that Harlan had brought with him from Kentucky. The two men were ensconced in Bristow’s study in Washington, and the night outside was dark and cold.

“After Conkling left my office,” Bristow continued, “he went directly to the President, demanded Howe’s reinstatement, and I was overruled.”

“Godd___n!”

“You must understand that from Grant’s perspective, Senator Conkling has been unfailingly loyal, whereas I have not. Our relations have been complicated by Babcock’s indictment, and Grant must be careful with me in these weeks before his deposition.”

Harlan grunted.

“Grant sent for me shortly after I received word that Howe had been reinstated. He said that he was about to do me a great wrong in asking for my resignation, but upon reflection, had come to realize that I was only doing my job.”

Thping! was Harlan’s only response.

“I might have been better off had Grant requested my resignation.”

“If he does, he shall make you a martyr,” Harlan said sourly. “No other act would so advance your candidacy.”

“I have not made any final decision in that regard,” Bristow quickly interjected. He took a deep breath and continued. “Yet it seems all considerations commend it. There is much talk of Blaine as the favorite, but he has not escaped the general cloud of corruption that hangs over this Administration. The Democrats accuse him of taking bribes from the Little Rock and Fort Smith Railroad, and I regret to say that they may be right.”

“That is too bad,” Harlan said, “but the Party cannot afford to take such risks.”

“That leaves Grant. He published that letter some months ago declining to be considered for a third term, but there is nevertheless support for it. But are we so delicate a Republic that we shall turn to a Caesar?”

“He would accept a nomination if the convention tendered it to him,” Harlan said darkly.

“He might,” Bristow mused. “Yet the greater danger could be that Grant, having ruled himself out, has created an opportunity for one of his loyalists. I would almost rather see Grant serve a third term than have a man like Conkling ride upon his coattails.”

“There is still some time until the convention. I suppose we shall see how events unfold.”

Bristow was silent for a moment.

“I cannot help but think,” said Harlan, “that the tide runs in your favor.”

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” Bristow began quietly —

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

“I am more familiar with my Bible than my Shakespeare,” Harlan said, “but are those not the words of Brutus, before he stabs Caesar?”

“He was not the only one to do so.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“My dear friend,” said Harlan, “I will do anything to assist you in this endeavor.”

“I shall not forget it.”

(ii.)

The Cincinnati that opened its arms to the party that year would have been scarcely recognizable to the late Chief Justice Chase, its most beloved son. The men who had gathered in that city only four years before to bless the renomination of Grant perceived straightaway that much had changed, principally due to the invasion of rough-hewn men speaking the strange German dialects of Pomerania, Bohemia, and Bavaria.  The business of the German quarter, apart from hosting these inscrutable barbarians, was savagery — the gutters ran with gore, the walls of the butcheries rang with the screams of animal slaughter, and on cold mornings a fine mist of blood shrouded the tenement houses. The delegates were warned not to travel over the canal, or “over the Rhine,” in the dark-humored parlance of the locals, as those delegates who wandered into some “Bier Keller” could not be counted upon to emerge for the votes on the morrow.

Chester Arthur had strung an enormous banner across the street in front of one hotel, proclaiming: “ROSCOE CONKLING’S NOMINATION ASSURES THE THIRTY-FIVE ELECTORAL VOTES OF NEW YORK.” Abiding by tradition, Conkling did not attend the convention — and neither did Bristow or Blaine, to avoid seeming presumptuous. But Arthur had commanded the appearance of a vast number of New York Customs House appointees to set ordinary business aside and attend to the convention; as one of Blaine’s men marveled, it was a mystery how the Customs House had managed bail for all of those fellows. Arthur’s men also secured a row of gas jets at the Grand Hotel arranged to spell the name ROSCOE CONKLING, while Blaine’s men, not to be outdone, engineered a similar display of gas jets at the Burnet House to spell JAMES G. BLAINE. Bristow’s men, led by Harlan, pasted portraits of Bristow to nearly every available surface in the city. The Republican press had an ideal nominee in mind, but his name was The Great Unknown. A profusion of marching bands, orators, and rallies drenched the delegates in persuasion, with sincere telegrams bearing sworn allegiances and sacred promises posted in every barroom, and ear-splitting fireworks throughout the night.

The party being so divided, it fell to Frederick Douglass to open the convention on the fourteenth of June, with a speech that might remind the Republican Party of its common purpose. Douglass ascended the podium and beheld the assembled throng of white men, with an occasional black delegate to be glimpsed here or there. The hall was stifling hot, and resembled, in the words of one scribbler of the press, an ambitious but disappointed railroad depot, its decorations those of a country barbeque. The platform of the convention hall and its floor were filled with postmasters and revenue collectors, a motley assemblage of federal and state office holders whose livelihoods depended upon the success of the ticket.

“Gentlemen of the Republican Party!” Douglass roared, and the crowd roared back. “You have my heartfelt gratitude for the cordial invitation that you have extended to me, to appear upon this platform. This is the first time that I have had the pleasure of looking, squarely in the face, the party of Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant!”

The names of Lincoln and Grant were enough to put the delegates into a paroxysm. There were cries, shouts, chants, cheering, and applause in successive waves. Douglass waited for several minutes.

“But the matter of deepest interest for our party is the principles that carried your sons and brothers to the battlefield, that draped our Northern churches with mourning, that filled our towns and cities with mere stumps of men. Will you make good to us the promises in your Constitution? You say you have emancipated us. You have; and I thank you for it. You say you have enfranchised us. You have; and I thank you for it. But what is your emancipation? What is your enfranchisement? What does it all amount to, if the black man, after having been made free by the letter of your law, is unable to exercise that freedom, and, having been freed from the lash, he is subject to the shotgun?”

These words inspired only listless impatience. Douglass had veered too sharply from the celebration of the Party, and its glorious history, to the task that lay still ahead. Yet he could not let this moment pass.

“When the Russian serfs had their chains broken and were given their liberty,” he went on grimly, “the government of Russia granted those poor emancipated serfs a few acres of land on which they could live and earn their bread. But when you turned us loose, you turned us loose to the sky, to the storm, to the whirlwind, and worst of all, you turned us loose to our infuriated masters.”

There was no response. Douglass now perceived, in the eyes of too many men in the hall, a smoldering resentment at his apparent lack of gratitude, as if he had insulted the family who invited him to dinner by reproaching them while saying grace. It was not to his advantage to continue. He contented himself with some concluding remarks on the necessity of victory and left the podium with downcast eyes. The wisdom of Douglass’s judgment in promptly concluding was confirmed when the next speaker, some insufferable suffragette, was ignored altogether.

The salutations having thus been given, if not appreciated, the party sought to settle some business before the nomination of candidates could proceed. There was little in the party platform to command extensive debate, but to assemble a number of political men into the same room and expect them to agree not merely upon airy aspirations, but precise words, was asking too much. The dreary march through the planks of the platform demanded many hours, particularly the provision insisting that it was the immediate duty of the Congress to investigate the effects of mass immigration by the Chinese. That plank was retained, it being the considered opinion of knowledgeable men that there was not sufficient brain capacity in the Chinese race to permit self-government.

The first day of the convention having been consumed by bickering, the delegates dispersed for several hours of drinking, leavened by speculation, rumor, and the very occasional debate over matters of substance, at the finest taverns and gin-houses of Cincinnati. It was at one such establishment that Harlan, through one misdirection after another, finally chanced upon Stanley Matthews, who was deep in conversation with a number of men that Harlan did not recognize. Matthews was short, with sharp eyes and a bristling beard that reached down to his chest. Harlan was compelled to stoop to speak with the man, lest their consultations be overheard.

“General!” Matthews greeted Harlan warmly. “It is good to speak to you. Everything depends on our hanging together tomorrow.”

“May we rely upon the Ohio delegates to support Bristow?” Harlan inquired.

Matthews’s eyes widened.

“That depends. I confess I do not know at this point if Governor Hayes will consent to having his name put forward. He has some inclination to fulfill his duties to the people of the state of Ohio.”

Harlan frowned.

“I don’t understand how a final decision has not been made.”

“We Ohio men have a luxury that you do not. I do not know whether your man is in Kentucky or Washington, but our man is nearby, and we can consult with him promptly.”

“Let us assume for the moment,” said Harlan, “that Hayes declines a nomination. May we count upon you for Bristow?”

“On that you have my word,” Matthews said.

“Now, it is understandable that if Hayes is nominated that he will draw the support of the Ohio delegates. You must understand, however, that a Hayes nomination will prevent the maintenance of a united front against Blaine.”

“I do not think that will matter,” Matthews shrugged. “I expect that the first few votes will be divided between Blaine supporters and Blaine opponents. He will not reach a majority. Then some of the lesser candidates will begin to fall in numbers once it is clear that they cannot win. That is the moment that your man may emerge as the strongest alternative to Blaine.”

“At that moment,” said Harlan, “I shall call upon the Ohio men to support Bristow.”

“You are awfully blunt, General!” laughed Matthews.

“I want to be certain that we understand one another.”

“I understand you, but it is imperative that you understand me.” Here Matthews’s voice took on a sterner tone, which Harlan could discern even over the shouting of the rest of the delegates in the tavern. “You must understand that the consideration that the Hayes men may extend to Bristow must be reciprocated in kind. If it appears that Blaine cannot command a majority, and the alternative is Conkling or Morton, or anyone else, we must unite against that alternative.”

“Of course.”

“By that I mean,” here Matthews drew closer as Harlan leaned down to listen, “that while I may bring the Hayes men to unite behind Bristow, you must be prepared to bring the Bristow men to unite behind Hayes.”

Harlan considered the proposal for a moment. Bristow had not expressly authorized any arrangement of this sort, but surely as a matter of honor he could not extract a commitment from Matthews yet decline to agree to the same terms.

“I suppose so.”

“We are resolved then — we shall stand together to oppose a Blaine nomination, and after that, may the best man win!”

Matthews extended his hand, and Harlan shook it. As he did, the thought briefly passed through his mind that Bristow had forbidden any arrangements with the enemies of Reform — but could it fairly be said that Hayes was an enemy of Reform? Surely, he was a supporter of that noble cause? As he walked out of the tavern and into the streets crowded with drunken delegates, Harlan realized that he had not the faintest conception of what sort of Republican Hayes claimed to be.

The convention the following day resembled nothing so much as an impatient prospector dragging a stubborn mule. Blaine’s men sensed that they had the advantage but could act upon it only upon a showing of immediate and overwhelming strength. Blaine would win the first vote, that much was certain, and the opposition could not be permitted time to organize around an alternative. It was therefore imperative that nominations be made speedily. Yet the Blaine men were equally matched by supporters of Conkling and Bristow, who cooperated to delay proceedings by insisting upon the reading of reports by the standing committees and tolerating every oratorical diversion by every third-rate postmaster. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon when the opponents of Blaine determined that there was insufficient time for Blaine’s forces to command the sympathies of the delegates, and that an entire night lay ahead for strategizing once the initial temperament of the Convention was known. The Convention Chairman finally gaveled for silence.

“The floor is now open for nominations!” he cried. “I shall call the roll of the thirty-seven states. During this first round, those states that wish to pass at this juncture may do so, and it shall not constitute a subsequent waiver of their vote. Is the Convention prepared to proceed?”

Profound affirmation greeted this inquiry.

“Very well, then!  The State of Alabama!”

“Pass!”

“Arkansas?”

“Pass!”

“California?”

“Pass!” There had been some rumors that the delegates of California might name Justice Stephen Field, but the prospect was not entirely serious.

“Connecticut?”

“The State of Connecticut,” announced one of its delegates, “is pleased to nominate its son and former Governor, the Postmaster of the United States, Marshall Jewell!”

There was general merriment at this nomination, a fitting tribute to Jewell’s years of public service with no prospect of success.

“Is there a second?” the Chairman cried.

The entire assemblage cried out in one voice.

“We have our first nomination!” There was laughter and applause; the Convention had honored one of the party’s lions, and his name need not be pronounced again.

Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, and Iowa all passed, as expected. The Chairman now paused for a moment, aware that he was poised to unleash a flood of contested nominations.

“The State of Indiana?”

“The State of Indiana nominates its Senator, Oliver Morton!”

There was a hue and cry as the name of the first serious candidate entered contention. Senator Morton was well known for his politically incorruptible nature, but while that nature was indeed untainted by greed, it was also untainted by any courtesy or grace, at least in the conduct of business in the Senate. Morton had also not recovered from a stroke several years before, which some attributed to a corruptible character as far as his relations with the fairer sex were concerned.

Colonel Richard Thompson of the State of Indiana took the platform to expound upon Morton’s virtues, and the nomination was seconded by P.B.S. Pinchback, who for two weeks had served as the first mulatto Governor of the State of Louisiana. The unity of purpose between the white man and the mulatto bore ample tribute to Morton’s appeal, but none of the delegates paid much heed to the speeches — the reason to nominate Morton was that Indiana was always a doubtful state, along with New York, and if the general election were close the Party might require a man from Indiana to secure victory.

Kansas passed, and Harlan felt the attention in the hall turn to him.

“The State of Kentucky?”

Harlan stood.

“The people of the State of Kentucky,” he shouted, “nominate the Secretary of the Treasury, Benjamin Bristow!”

This announcement set off a vast wave of enthusiasm, carefully assessed by the leaders of the other campaigns. Delegates from nearly every state waved their flags in Bristow’s honor, and as Harlan walked to the platform there was cheering on all sides, and from the tumult a song caught hold —

You must see to it yourselves in every city, town, and ward —

That there shall be none but honest men on guard!

The speeches in support of the Bristow nomination, unfortunately, suggested that an abundance of virtue might amount to a vice.

“Secretary Bristow is an honest man!” cried Harlan. “His mode has been to execute the law; and if the Republican Party contained offenders who betrayed their trust, or who were thieves, he let them be punished as much as anybody else.”

There was some applause at this claim, but not among the New York delegation, Customs House employees who might, with varying degrees of precision, be correctly described as thieves. A dull fellow from Vermont seconded the Bristow nomination, followed by the editor of Harper’s Weekly, who perhaps unwisely described Bristow as the embodiment of governmental purification. The speeches in Bristow’s favor concluded with some intemperate remarks from a lawyer and abolitionist from Massachusetts, who opined that his state might vote Democratic in November if Bristow were not nominated. This statement, while intended as a prediction, was perceived as a threat, and cast Massachusetts in the rôle of the petulant child who insists that some advantage be given him in a game, lest he take his ball and go home. As Harlan returned to his place in the hall, it was difficult to avoid the feeling that the acclaim and goodwill from the announcement of Bristow’s name had rather dissipated over the course of the nominating speeches.

After Louisiana passed, Maine was called. Amidst the din of hundreds of hands clapping and hundreds of feet stomping the floor, Robert Ingersoll of Indiana — and the point was not lost upon anyone that a man from a swing state took to the platform — began the greatest oration of the day.

“Gentlemen of the Convention!” Ingersoll thundered. “Massachusetts may be satisfied with the loyalty of Benjamin H. Bristow. So am I. But if any man nominated by the convention cannot carry the State of Massachusetts, then I am not satisfied with the loyalty of Massachusetts!”

The arrow found its mark — the Bristow men all leapt to their feet in protest while Harlan unleashed a farrago of blasphemous oaths.

“If the nominee of this convention cannot carry the grand old Commonwealth of Massachusetts by a seventy-five thousand majority, I would advise them to sell Faneuil Hall out as a Democratic headquarters!”

There was inordinate glee at this jibe. Harlan stared at his feet while the humiliation exploded around him; meanwhile, there was deep consultation amongst the Ohio delegation — had Harlan bravely withstood the embarrassment instead of glaring at the floor, he would have seen Matthews in close discussion with the Indiana delegation.

“The Republicans of the United States,” Ingersoll went on, “demand as their leader in the contest of 1876 a man of intellect, a man of integrity, a man of well-known and approved political opinion. They demand a statesman. The man who has in full measure all of these splendid qualifications is the present grand and gallant leader of the Republican Party — James G. Blaine!”

Here there was the obligatory standing ovation. After several minutes, during which even the most ardent of Blaine’s opponents would be bound to admit that the man appeared to command the hearts of the multitude, Ingersoll proceeded in an oblique way to remove the sting of the accusations lately hurled against Blaine.

“Like an armed warrior, like a plumed knight, James G. Blaine marched down the halls of the American Congress and threw his shining lance full and fair against the brazen forehead of every traitor to his country and every maligner of his fair reputation!”

At this long-delayed but bold rejoinder to Blaine’s critics, his men could no longer be contained. They whooped and cried and demanded a vote upon the instant, to which the Chairman shook his head, as the convention had not even reached the end of the first roll call of the states. Ingersoll raised his hands and waved them about like the conductor of a symphony, as a glorious chant began:

“Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!”

This went on for several minutes, leaving the stewards of competing nominations at a loss. Chester Arthur, however, had at his disposal a number of delegates for whom the rules of etiquette were but a gentle constraint, and it was among these individuals a counter-chant emerged which immediately called to mind an intemperate phrase that Blaine had used on his correspondence. When the words reached the competing delegations, they laughed, and made the contrary chant their own:

“Burn this letter! Burn this letter!”

As is so often the case, lamentably, with those who engage in satirical observations of their fellow man, Ingersoll was unequal to the blade of mockery being turned against himself. He promptly rounded out his remarks with general statements as to the importance of defeating the Democratic Party, to which no man in the hall could possibly have objected and stepped down.

The day seemed to be going swimmingly from Arthur’s point of view. The Jewell nomination was an irrelevance, the Morton nomination was unpersuasive, Bristow’s men had seemed overly enamored of their own rectitude, and the excitement of the Blaine candidacy had been blunted to some extent. There were no more serious candidates who would be nominated, he reckoned, and the afternoon was slipping away. A stand could now be made in favor of Conkling, and he and his men had the entire night to win the other delegates over. And Arthur’s men were nothing if not skilled in the darker arts of persuasion.

Arthur waited patiently while a number of states — Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, then Nebraska and Nevada, the two States most recently admitted to the Union, all passed. After New Hampshire and New Jersey passed, as expected, the tension in the hall returned.

“The State of New York?”

“The State of New York nominates Senator Roscoe Conkling!”

The Customs House men, by themselves, made nearly as great a noise as all of Blaine’s supporters, as Stewart Woodford took to the platform.  The discussion as to who would nominate Conkling had been a very brief one. Arthur was entirely out of the question; his wit and urbanity made him an unparalleled companion in the drawing-room, the gentlemen’s club, or at the dinner table, but he was untested in the realm of public speaking. But Woodford was a man of parts. He had led an African-American regiment during the war and ascended to the rank of colonel; he had served as the United States Attorney in the Southern District of New York; he had been Lieutenant Governor of the State of New York; and — nearly as important as all of these other qualifications — he had been most grievously cheated, defrauded, and connived out of the Governorship of New York by the dastardly Boss Tweed, who must have manipulated the vote counts from New York City to deprive Woodford of his rightful victory. No man more than Woodford better reminded the delegates both of the imperative to prevail in New York, and of the Democratic frauds. For who knew where Boss Tweed had vanished, and what deviltry he might deploy?

Woodford kept his remarks brief. There was no greater country than the United States, he averred, no greater party than the Republican Party, and no man more stalwart in the defense of that party than Senator Roscoe Conkling. Having gauged the damage done by the mocking cuts and sarcastic thrusts of the other nominating speeches, and well aware that Senator Conkling’s chief weakness was the lack of warmth he inspired in the hearts of his fellow men, Woodford wisely forbore any assaults upon the other candidates. As Woodford returned to his place in the hall, Arthur rather fancied that of all the nominees thus far, Conkling’s men had put on the best face. Only a few irrelevant nominations were left, and as far as anyone could anticipate, certain state delegations would seek to honor their Governors with nominations, which ought not unduly delay the conduct of the convention.

North Carolina passed, to permit Ohio to nominate its Governor Hayes, now in his third term. Harlan applauded politely. Of all the nominees thus far, only Bristow and Hayes had served their nation in uniform, and while the civilian life should not be a disqualification from being nominated for President, the martial metaphors of the speechifying were wearisome for those who had actually served in battle. Only in the imagination of the delegates was Blaine a plumed knight with a lance; he and Conkling had been invincible in peace but invisible in war. After Oregon passed, Pennsylvania nominated its own Governor, a Union veteran named John Hartranft. Hailed by his own supporters as man who was good enough to know that he did not know everything, and willing to take and to follow good, sound, wholesome advice, Hartranft’s nomination appeared to pose no danger to anyone.

The remaining states passed quickly.

“Are there any other nominations?” asked the Chairman. There was restive silence as men cast wild glances about. There were none. With a hammer of the gavel, the nominations were set — Jewell, Morton, Bristow, Blaine, Conkling, Hayes, and Hartranft.

There was an eruption of confusion and discord. One of Blaine’s men moved for an immediate vote. One of Morton’s men cross-moved for an immediate adjournment, as it was by now well into the evening hours, and the convention hall had become dim. Arthur proposed a non-binding vote, largely to provide himself and his men with more specific information that might be profitably employed over the course of the evening. The Chairman banged his gavel, but it was all futility — order could not be restored.

“Gentlemen!” he cried. “I can hardly see you, but might we have a show of hands — ”

“Turn on the lights!” shouted the Blaine men, eager to press their advantage.

“No!” cried a Morton delegate. “These are very old gas lights! Shall you put us all in danger?”

“Turn on the gas!”

“Gentlemen! Might I . . .” but the Chairman could not be heard. Another Morton delegate, perceiving an opening, leaped onto the platform and whispered in the ear of the Chairman, who began gaveling without cease until the Blaine men ended their demonstration, growing acutely aware that nothing could be done in the dark.

“I desire to say,” the Chairman exclaimed, as the shouting ebbed, “for the information of the convention, that I am informed that the gas lights of this hall are in such condition that they cannot safely be lighted. The motion to adjourn to tomorrow morning is made. Seconded?”

“Aye!” cried the anti-Blaine forces.

Amidst awful complaining from the Blaine men, the convention adjourned for the day. Hundreds of men poured out into the street, in varying stages of anger, relief, and excitement, in search of fortifying beverages to carry them through the long night of negotiation that lay ahead. Harlan remained behind in the hall, with the intent to locate Matthews. He was surprised, and to a not inconsiderable extent perturbed, to be accosted instead by Arthur.

“General Harlan!” Arthur cried. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Good evening, sir,” Harlan said, peering beyond Arthur in what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner.

“To-day has gone quite well for our friends.”

“Has it?”

“Most certainly,” Arthur said placidly. “The nomination of Blaine was averted. There are abundant alternatives that have been laid before the party, and I have no doubt that the best choice shall be made among them.”

Harlan grunted. “It was a pleasure — ”

“And that is why I seek your assistance in uniting behind a common front.”

Arthur now commanded the entirety of Harlan’s interest.

“D____!” Harlan exclaimed. He did not dare to suppose that securing the nomination for Bristow would be so easily done; no doubt Arthur would command some price. And while he was under instructions to make no arrangements with the enemies of Reform, who would surely count Conkling in their number, a temporary agreement to oppose Blaine could hardly be against Bristow’s interest.

“I see that you are interested.”

“I am, but . . .” Harlan hesitated.

“We share an interest in opposing Blaine.” Arthur beamed.

“Of course.”

“And Senator Conkling is clearly the best alternative.”

Harlan blinked for a few moments. “What!”

Arthur took a step back, gave Harlan a quizzical glance, then understood.

“Oh dear,” he said, “I see you have developed a frightful misimpression.  I propose that your men ally with mine in support of Senator Conkling.”

“What the Hell would I do that for?” Harlan was astounded.

“It is a matter of simple mathematics,” Arthur explained. “There are three hundred and sixty-nine electoral votes, and so a majority is one hundred and eighty-five. The Republican Party must rely upon a solid North — that is New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, the states of New England and the states of the Great Lakes — that give us one hundred and eighty-two electoral votes. We also have the Pacific states, although they have so very few electoral votes — California, Oregon, and Nevada have only twelve altogether. And so, I anticipate that, with the proper candidate, we shall have with certainty one hundred and ninety-four electoral votes.  A comfortable margin.”

“Then you ought to direct your men to vote for Bristow.”

Arthur laughed. “I am not finished, General Harlan. You must concede that we are likely to lose the states of the Confederacy, and most of the border states — including your own.”

“I believe that Kentucky will vote for the Republican candidate.”

“If you could not get yourself elected Governor,” said Arthur genially, “you cannot expect your fellow Kentuckians to vote for your friend as President. So, we shall proceed on the assumption that we shall lose the states of the Confederacy, as well as Maryland, Missouri, and Kentucky, the Western states of Kansas, Nebraska, and Colorado, and we could even lose Indiana, which is always one of the two uncertain states.”

“One of the two?”

“Yes, General.” Arthur clasped Harlan’s forearm. “The other being New York. If you are managing your friend’s campaign, you surely must know that New York is the centerpiece of our entire approach. If we lose New York we go from one hundred and ninety-four votes to . . .?”

Harlan quickly began doing the mathematics.

“ . . . to one hundred and fifty-nine votes,” Arthur finished the calculation before Harlan could. “In which case, we shall lose the election. So General — how can the Republican Party win New York?”

“I am certain that Bristow’s stand in favor of Reform shall carry the day.”

Arthur assumed an air of bemusement. “The Democrats shall nominate Samuel Tilden, the Governor of New York and one of the men who fought against Boss Tweed. There is no better Reform credential than that! And who do you think the voters will decide to be the candidate of Reform? The man who defeated the infamous Tweed, or the man whose fearless crusades prompted the reassignment of Orville Babcock from Presidential attaché to Inspector of Lighthouses?”

“Boss Tweed is still at large, you know,” Harlan sputtered.

“But he is no longer in office,” Arthur brushed the objection aside. “And the voters will credit Tilden for that.  We shall be out-Reformed, and lose New York! Therefore, we ought to nominate the Senator from New York, who has a far better chance of winning the state. Is that not obvious to you?”

“I am not . . .” Harlan hardly knew what to say, but the prospect occurred to him of reaching an agreement with Arthur similar to the agreement with Matthews. “Would you agree to have Conkling’s men cast their votes for Bristow?”

“Conkling’s men vote for Bristow?” Arthur exclaimed. “Under no circumstances! You must be aware that Senator Conkling considers your friend quite unbearable?”

“But I thought that,” Harlan stammered, “as you were asking Bristow’s men to cast their lot with Conkling, I might ask Conkling’s men to cast their lot with Bristow.”

“That would be absurd.”

“What the Devil! How can you ask the same of me?”

“General, there is no need for that sort of language. I have already explained my reasoning to you. Conkling can win the election. Bristow cannot. Besides, if Bristow were elected President, he could not form a Cabinet — everyone would be afraid that they might be investigated for something or other. For that reason, the good of the Republican Party requires you to instruct your men to vote for Conkling.”

Harlan did not know how to respond.

“Well then!” Arthur said, and clapped Harlan on the back. “You need not give me your answer right away.” He beamed with satisfaction and waddled off.

There were countless similar negotiations that evening in Cincinnati. From the hotel rooms to the barstools, there was universal agreement that Blaine had put on a very strong showing and might capture the nomination if his opponents remained divided. The Blaine men set to persuade the delegates from every camp who might most easily be separated from their allies. The early rounds of bidding required the offer of postmaster positions; remaining in the game necessitated allusions to ambassadorships; and only the offer of cabinet positions would suffice to win the entire pot. The opposition to Blaine was deeply divided. Jewell’s name would undoubtedly be withdrawn after the first ballot, and Morton’s nomination was a mere tribute to vanity. Conkling, to be sure, was the man who would best extend the legacy of Grant, but that legacy appeared to have been lately tarnished. Eliminating Jewell, Morton, and Conkling left Bristow, Hayes, and Hartranft as the best alternatives to Blaine. All had discharged their duties admirably. Bristow fought at Shiloh, Hartranft at Bull Run, and Hayes was shot and left for dead at South Mountain. Yet the stalwart men preferred Hayes to Bristow, while the Reform element of the party preferred Bristow over Hayes. All of which might have opened a path for Governor Hartranft, were it not for the fact that even his own supporters could not ascribe any great ability to the man.

The next morning the delegates reassembled in the convention hall with no clear purpose in mind. The managers of the campaigns — including Harlan, Arthur, and Matthews — had slept very little, and many of their delegates were drunk, exhausted, or both. Yet a clarity of mind and purpose seized every man in the hall once the gavel fell and the roll of states was called.

The first vote of the convention came as no surprise. It was a show of force from the Blaine men, who roared with nearly every announcement of the count from nearly every state — while New York remained almost entirety with Conkling, the delegate counts of most states split among candidates, such that Blaine’s name was pronounced more than any other. When the call was complete, Blaine led with two hundred and eighty-five votes. This lead was hardly insurmountable — a majority required three hundred and seventy-six, placing Blaine well short. However, Senator Morton was far behind in second place, with one hundred and twenty-four, followed by Bristow with one hundred and thirteen. This was not unduly alarming to Harlan — Blaine would start strong but fail eventually. Arthur, on the other hand, was perplexed that Conkling was only fourth, with only ninety-nine votes —sixty-nine of which were from New York. Behind Conkling were a variety of also-rans — Hayes with sixty-one, Hartranft with fifty-eight, and one or two ballots cast seemingly at random. Eleven delegates voted for Jewell; his honor intact, the appreciation of his fellow Republicans noted, Jewell withdrew.

The next three votes proved little, apart from obstinacy to a Blaine nomination. Jewell’s support was far too inconsequential for his withdrawal to have effect upon the result. Blaine remained in first place but did not exceed three hundred votes. Bristow and Morton remained in a close contest for second, but by the end of the fourth round Bristow had crept ahead of Morton. Conkling lagged behind both men during all three rounds, and behind him struggled Hayes and Hartranft. It was apparent that the allegiances of the party had hardened, and Blaine could not be defeated unless the lesser candidates withdrew.

The endless votes were difficult for Harlan to manage. The nature of Bristow’s candidacy was such that he commanded the most Reform-minded men in each state, which necessitated continuous roaming around the hall, pleading with men from nearly every delegation to keep to their word. His attention devoted to these efforts, Harlan did not perceive that Matthews had ensconced himself with the Michigan delegation.

The fifth vote began in predictable fashion but then came an abrupt reversal.

“The State of Michigan,” one of its delegates announced, “cognizant of the service of Senator Morton, extends to him its most sincere thanks — but, in light of the need to field a candidate who draws greater support from the gentlemen assembled here, casts its votes for Rutherford B. Hayes.”

The Blaine men leapt to their feet and cried foul, alleging that all manner of corrupt bargains must have been struck. The Morton men scowled, for they knew their moment had passed. Harlan cursed himself for not anticipating the switch, and looked about for Matthews, who now seemed to have made himself invisible.

But Michigan’s defection hurt Blaine less than it hurt Morton and Bristow.  Blaine remained far ahead but had returned close to his first vote total of two hundred and eighty-six. Bristow was now in second place, with one hundred and fourteen, but Hayes was only ten votes behind Bristow, and within striking distance. Morton and Conkling remained mired at less than one hundred, and nearly seventy delegates stubbornly adhered to Hartranft in last place.

The sixth vote began. To nearly everyone’s amazement, when North Carolina was called, one of its delegates cried out:

“The people of the State of North Carolina hail the views of its sister state Michigan and equally commend the service of Senator Morton. Sharing as we do the belief that the candidate nominated by this convention must be the man with the greatest amount of support, and eager to begin the campaign, we cast our votes for the man who has led every vote so far — James G. Blaine!”

So, the convention had swung slightly in the direction of Hayes, but now caromed in the opposite direction, back to Blaine! North Carolina’s reversal prompted an anguished discussion among Morton’s men, who concluded that they could not survive another vote. Hartranft, too, had relied on North Carolina, and he appeared equally doomed. Yet if the delegates committed to Morton and Hartranft could be released from their obligations, more than one hundred votes would become available — enough for Blaine to seize the nomination, or enough for either Bristow or Hayes to survive another round, fend off the other man, then unite the remaining delegates against Blaine.

Harlan dispatched several of his lieutenants around the hall and rushed about to find the heads of the state delegations — surely, he could turn one state to his advantage. While the Bristow and Hayes men scurried about, they kept one ear to the roll call, its steady recitation of the name of James G. Blaine driving them through the hall like lashes of a whip. By the end of the sixth vote, Blaine was now over three hundred delegates, at three hundred and eight, while Hayes and Bristow were tightly matched in second place at one hundred thirteen and one hundred eleven. Morton and Hartranft both dropped about ten delegates apiece, and Conkling’s support remained stagnant.

Harlan and Matthews nearly ran into one another which, in view of Harlan’s significant advantage in height and bulk, might have ended the Hayes campaign once and for all. Matthews recovered quickly, grasped Harlan’s hand with its scarred flesh, then drew back at once.

“General Harlan,” Matthews said. “I too have seen war. And I saw it at the side of Rutherford B. Hayes, in the Ohio Twenty-Third Regiment. I can vouch for that man better than any man here. At South Mountain he lay between the front lines for hours before we could recover him. He was wounded as you were, but with bullets to his knee, his arm, his forehead. I have seen his horse shot out from under him — he leapt up and mounted another to lead our regiment.”

Harlan mumbled an oath.

“He offered his life for the Union. And he is a good family man — my sister married Lucy Hayes’s brother, and I have seen him with his children.”

“Bristow is also a good family man,” Harlan said. “And he was at Shiloh with Grant.”

“General,” Matthews remonstrated, “I do not believe that Bristow’s moment will arrive. It now appears that the party is uniting behind Governor Hayes. Morton and Hartranft will collapse on this vote — shall you have those delegates turn to Blaine?”

“They shall turn to Bristow.”

“I supported your friend as long as it was feasible. The Hayes delegates from Ohio have been willing to throw their support behind Bristow at the opportune moment. But that moment has not arrived.”

“Give me more time.”

Matthews sighed. “General, let us agree to this — I shall not demand that Kentucky cast its votes for Hayes, and you shall not demand that Ohio cast its votes for Bristow. We shall see how Morton’s men break. If they break for my friend over yours — or for your friend over mine — then we shall speak again, with a view to ending this. Are we in agreement?”

The proposal sounded tentative enough to Harlan.

“We are. But we must take care that they do not break for Blaine.”

“Oh, they will not,” said Matthews, who turned away with a queer gleam in his eye.

The seventh ballot, however, appeared to mark the moment when the convention began to unite in support of Blaine. One delegate from Alabama, then eleven delegates from Arkansas, and then all of California’s delegates moved to Blaine. If Blaine was to be stopped, the effort must come on this ballot — and Morton resolved that he was the man to do it, for his hatred of Blaine greatly dwarfed his own ambition. When the roll call reached Indiana, the convention hall became utterly quiet for the first time in hours. Morton signaled to his delegates.

“Senator Morton greatly appreciates the respect and support of his friends in the Republican Party,” shouted an Indiana delegate, “and thanks every delegate who voted for him. After due consideration, and under Senator Morton’s personal authority, we hereby release any delegate from any pledge made to Senator Morton, and cast the votes of the State of Indiana — ”

Harlan could barely hear the words.

“Twenty-five votes for Rutherford B. Hayes, and five for Benjamin Bristow!”

The noise was deafening. Twenty-five to five? thought Harlan. The states were falling in line against Blaine, but with Hayes! Across the hall he thought he saw Matthews gazing thoughtfully in his direction. After the commotion subsided, Iowa was called and stayed with Blaine. Kentucky was next. Hayes was now truly ahead of Bristow. If Harlan hesitated, the convention might continue to splinter, and Blaine would get the nomination. Yet to leave Bristow’s name in contention, only to prolong the convention and Bristow’s inevitable defeat, would subject him to grave embarrassment.

Harlan plodded toward the stand. At the sight of the large man advancing the delegates cheered, but Harlan heard none of it. He was deeply, savagely uncertain of what to do, but to him there appeared to be no other option. Bristow could not win. The delegates could vote again, and again and again, but the outcome would never be in doubt. Finally, the shouts and cries of the delegates subsided, and Harlan’s words could be heard distinctly at the rostrum.

“ — and I am honored to accept the support of his fellow citizens.” Harlan paused. “The gratitude of the great State of Kentucky is especially due to the men of Massachusetts and Vermont — ”

More uproarious cheers.

“ — because when it was whispered throughout the length and breadth of this land that Benjamin Bristow was not to be President because he was born and reared in the South, the men of Massachusetts and Vermont came forward and said they were satisfied that a Kentuckian would be loyal, and that Benjamin Bristow was a man to be trusted!”

There was a deep swell of approbation.

“The convention having so honored itself, it is now my duty to honor this convention. I withdraw the name of Benjamin Bristow” — here Harlan felt a deep stab of guilt — “and cast the entire vote of the State of Kentucky for Rutherford B. Hayes!”

The convention exploded into all manner of cheers, applause, exhortations and imprecations of a sort impossible to describe. Harlan felt the adulation wash over him, but in his heart, there was an aching emptiness.

Released of its obligations to Bristow, Massachusetts swung to Hayes. Michigan and Mississippi remained with Hayes. Then New York was called, and Arthur was silently glad that the decision had been made that he would not speak publicly at the convention. Instead, its Governor took the platform.

“To indicate that New York is in favor of unity and victory,” he declared, “she casts sixty-one votes for Rutherford B. Hayes — ”

The convention exploded. With Morton and Bristow withdrawn, the alliance against Blaine had achieved its purpose.

“— and nine votes for James G. Blaine.”

No one heard these words, over the curses of the Blaine men and the exultations of the rest of the convention. North Carolina swung back, from Blaine to Hayes. When Pennsylvania was called, Governor Hartranft’s name was withdrawn, in the name of party unity.

And so it was that upon the seventh vote, Hayes of all people prevailed.  It was well and fairly said that Hayes was a third-rate nonentity whose only recommendation was that he was obnoxious to no one. In the final vote, Hayes received three hundred and eighty-four votes, while Blaine was defeated with three hundred and fifty-one votes. Twenty-one implacable men of Reform held with Bristow, but it emerged to Arthur’s severe embarrassment that no one stuck with Conkling until the bitter end.

The principal labors of the convention concluded, there was a final surge of activity as Arthur’s men, adhering to the same argument they had made throughout the entirety of the convention, proposed Representative William Wheeler of New York as the candidate for Vice President. The proposal was met with rapturous and relieved applause, and universal acclaim — that is, from all but one man.

“Wheeler? Who is Wheeler?” Hayes asked later, when informed of the result of the convention. The question was a fair one, as Wheeler had done little to distinguish himself in a manner that might have commanded Hayes’s attention.

Meanwhile, nearly everyone else in the country was asking, “Hayes? Who is Hayes?”

(iii.)

It had been a dreadful night at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Arthur had stowed a case of champagne in the Republican suite, but as the evening wore on he became despondent that it would ever be opened. Hayes had carried nearly all of the states in New England, but Connecticut had inexplicably gone for Tilden. New York was lost, just as Arthur had warned at the convention. New Jersey, too, went for Tilden, as did Delaware. The Southern states were generally hopeless for Hayes, but complete counts had not yet arrived from South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana. Unless Hayes swept the remaining states, all was lost.

The following hour brought little hope. Hayes carried Illinois but lost Indiana, and was ahead in Ohio, but only barely. As Ohio hung in the balance, the assemblage of office-seekers, wardheelers and party men who had gathered for champagne began to diminish. Arthur would emerge from his room to mournfully request further information from the stream of telegraph reports, and fewer men would remain to answer his queries.  When the news came late in the night that Hayes had won California and Oregon, barely worth ten electoral votes altogether, there was no cheer.

“Good night, General Arthur.”  The chairman of the Republican effort appeared in Arthur’s door.  He did not appear entirely steady. “I am going to sleep. It has been a long campaign, and there is nothing more.” He rubbed his eyes, and Arthur noticed a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his other hand. “You are staying?”

“I suppose I ought,” Arthur hesitated. His wife Nell had been unwell, and remaining at the suite did not seem particularly necessary. “But I should like to depart soon. Is anyone left?”

“Clancy.  He is already packing up.”

“Perhaps I shall leave in a few moments. Good night.”

Well then, Arthur thought, that is that. He stood up, put on his coat, and walked out of his office. The suite was by now entirely empty except for Arthur and poor Clancy, who was sorting papers into boxes for removal. Better retrieve the champagne tomorrow, thought Arthur.

“You have done your duty, Clancy. I must depart to see my wife at home.”

“Where in Godd___n Hell is everybody?” came an angry voice from behind them.  Arthur and Clancy turned and inwardly cringed.  General Daniel Sickles stumped into the room, a hellion upon crutches, one leg lost at Gettysburg for the Union, and good sense lost long before then. Devil Dan was a man of legendary ill temper, having murdered the man who had carried on an affair with his wife some fifteen years ago. That the lover was the son of the man who composed the national anthem reflected poorly upon Sickles’s patriotism, leg or no leg.

“I am afraid we are the only ones who remain, General,” said Arthur.

Clancy cleared his throat. “It is hopeless, sir.”

Sickles snorted and stumped over to Clancy’s desk.

“Where is the party chairman?” he demanded.

“Retired for the evening,” said poor Clancy.

“Hah!”  Sickles began rummaging about the telegrams upon the desk and began sorting several of the telegrams into a small pile before him.

“Might we help you, General?”  Arthur asked.

“I do not need your help, Arthur. You need mine,” Sickles muttered, seizing one telegram and then another. “I went to the theater to-night, as I was very concerned about the outcome of the election. I went to forget! But on my way home I thought I might stop in. I am glad that I did!” He turned to Arthur and Clancy, eyes blazing.

“General Sickles, sir,” quavered Clancy, “we are very considerably behind.”

“Look at these telegrams!” Sickles held up a fistful of paper. “There is uncertainty as to Louisiana, South Carolina, and Florida — and if we win them all, we have exactly one hundred and eighty-five votes!”

Clancy and Arthur fell silent.

“And?” Arthur asked.

“That,” said Sickles, “is the bare minimum needed for a majority of the Electoral College.”

“I do not question your mathematics,” Clancy said, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “If we have those three states, Hayes would indeed have one hundred and eighty-five electoral votes and Tilden would have exactly one fewer. But we do not have those states.”

“What if we did?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“We would have to win all three of those states,” Arthur pointed out, “all of which appear lost.”

“And avoid any reversals anywhere else,” Clancy said. “We must also hold Oregon, which is unsure.”

“What if the matter is in doubt?” Sickles raised an eyebrow.

“Is there doubt?” asked Arthur.

“There is if we create it!”

“Sir?”

“Here is what I propose, Arthur. Clancy shall send telegrams to our men in Louisiana, Florida, South Carolina, and Oregon to say as follows: ‘With your state sure for Hayes, he will be elected. Hold your state.’  Clancy, are you not writing this down?”

Clancy slumped his shoulders, seized some paper, and obediently scribbled out the messages.

“If you advise it,” Sickles said to Arthur, “I have no doubt that Clancy will feel authorized to send off these telegrams with the chairman’s signature. There will be no need to disturb his slumber. I will then see to it that The New-York Times is advised of the telegrams.”

“The Times?” asked Arthur.

“Yes — John Reid of The New-York Times!” Sickles insisted. “He spent part of the war in a Confederate prison. If there is any man out there who will not countenance a Democratic victory, he is the very man. And if there is any doubt in the result, The New-York Times will not say that Tilden has won.”

“Then what?”

“That is a question for tomorrow!” Sickles spat a generous stream of tobacco-juice into a nearby wastebasket, much of which missed the mark and splattered upon the floor. “At this moment the papers are preparing to report that Tilden has won — and once they do, all hope is lost! If we can make it known that these states are uncertain, then the election is uncertain, and Hayes might still prevail!  All that is needed is your authorization to send these telegrams!  Do you so advise it, Arthur, or shall I wake your superiors?”

Arthur thought of the party chairman and his whiskey bottle.

“Very well, then,” he shrugged.