1.
“It’s unanimous,” William Chandler said, jubilance leaking through his deliberately casual tone as he relayed the results of the convention’s ballot to his employer. Ulysses S. Grant tapped a thin column of grey ash from his cigar into a tin ashtray and nodded. He had been expecting nothing less, the party was responding to his promise of peace and stability...and soon so would the nation.
“That’s good.” Grant said, blowing a smoke ring as he looked through the doorway of the room that he was in, out at the main convention hall. The 1868 Republican National Convention was being held in an opera house, and Grant quite liked the soaring, rounded roof. It allowed the voices of those who spoke from the stage to be magnified, even over the general hubbub generated by the delegates and audience.
Nearly everyone who was anyone in the party was in attendance, though Thaddeus Stephens was at home, ill, perhaps dying, and William Sherman hadn’t been able to make it, though he had expressed preliminary congratulations from the south, where he was managing his portion of Reconstruction...or whatever parts of it that Andrew Johnson hadn’t yet handed over to the very same aristocratic secessionists who had started the war in the first place.
Grant puffed thoughtfully away as he thought of Johnson. He had had high hopes for him at first, but soon had developed a healthy dislike for the man as soon as his true views on Reconstruction and a dozen other prickly issues became well known. He had cheated the hangman in his impeachment in Grant’s honest opinion, and even as he blew another smoke ring the General looked forwards to trouncing him in the fall.
“The choices for running mate are beginning to present themselves,” Chandler remarked from behind him, the campaign manager polishing his monocle on his lapel as he spoke. Grant turned and nodded, interested in hearing what Chandler had to say. He was still a relative novice to the game of politics, and trusted the man to brief him on such things.
“Oh?” Chandler fitted his monocle back onto his face and blinked experimentally, making sure that it would remain in place.
“Yes. It appears that Ben Wade and Schuyler Colfax are going to be the main competitors. Either one of them would be good for maintaining control over congress, Wade has ties to the Senate, Colfax to the House...though Wade is substantially more radical than Schuyler.” Chandler didn’t look terribly pleased with the idea of Wade being on the ticket, but Grant didn’t remark on that. He had spoken with Wade before and liked the man’s zeal, though he did have a tendency to not know when to stop pursuing an issue.
Colfax on the other hand was calmer and more passive. Grant hadn’t had many dealings with him, though he was aware that he had more ties to the more moderate sections of the party, which might be useful.
“What’re Fenton, Hamlin and the others doing?” He asked, watching a spark drift lazily from the end of his cigar and turn a circle in the air before extinguishing.
“Trying to rally support. Speaking of which...” Grant turned back around, just in time to see the first well wishers storm the room. It seemed like half of Lincoln’s old cabinet had come to say hello, as well as Hannibal Hamlin, Benjamin Wade and a dozen others, all jostling for space in a room that had suddenly become much, much smaller.
“Congratulations General,” Hamlin said, extending a hand, which Grant shook, “soon I’ll have to call you Mr. President.” There was a chorus of unanimous assent that wouldn’t have been out of place at a church and Grant smiled, feeling a little flustered by the sudden invasion of the room. He didn’t let it show, though his grip on his cigar tightened somewhat.
He had never enjoyed being crowded by other people, and decided that as soon as he was in office he would designate a little circle of space at his desk that others weren’t allowed to come into without his consent. He would be the President then, he could do things like that if he wished.
“So I’d hope,” he grinned, stubbing out his cigar and shaking a small forest of hands, “and so the American people shall provide.” Chandler, sensing Grant’s discomfort, practically dove before him at that point, busily and somewhat fussily clearing a path for the man.
“I think that the General would enjoy a celebratory drink,” he said as Grant slipped through the crowd, “how about the rest of you gentlemen?” A dozen hands raised and Grant slid out into the main room, feeling somewhat harried but also immensely excited. Unanimous, Chandler had said, the party had chosen him to represent them unanimously. That had never happened before in the short history of the Republican party, and it seemed to spell good things.
“General,” a voice called from his left and Grant turned to see a slight young man extending a hand, “I’m an artist with Harper magazine...here to document the convention. But I just wanted to congratulate you on your victory, I hope that you win this fall.” Grant smiled and shook the artist’s hand, patting him on the shoulder.
“I appreciate your support and wish you luck with your assignment, have a good evening.” The artist smiled giddily and disappeared into the crowd, no doubt heading back to his sketchbook. Grant enjoyed little encounters like that, it reminded him that he was running to guide a nation of innovators, artists, entrepreneurs and workers. America was filled with boundless opportunity for more people than ever, and he was determined to make sure that that opportunity remained open for all to enjoy.
A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts, and Grant recognized Chief Justice Salmon Chase, clad in a blue smoking jacket instead of his usual black court robes.
“Congratulations on your nomination,” Chase said, subjecting Grant to an especially firm handshake. Grant crushed Chase’s hand right back and wondered what he wanted to talk to him about, somehow he didn’t think that a congratulations was the entirety of the Chief Justice’s purpose for visiting.
“Thank you very much,” Grant said with a smile, “I’m pleasantly surprised that you’re in attendance.” Chase nodded slightly.
“It is a little partisan of me,” he admitted, “but I did want to talk to you about some things.” Grant allowed the Chief Justice to steer him over to a less crowded part of the room.
“Like?” Grant asked.
“Once you win the election this fall,” Chase said, surprising Grant by how confidently he predicted Republican victory in November, as though it was an absolute certainty instead of a mere likelihood, “I will still be Chief Justice, and in charge of a Supreme Court that is more or less dedicated to bettering the lot of the disenfranchised of this nation. I was not able to secure the nomination of this party due to my own views on those issues...which some perceived as too radical,” Grant remained silent, wondering if Chase was going where he thought he was going with all of this, “but with your nomination I have high hopes that Reconstruction will not die along with the radical faction of the party and can be continued by a moderate like yourself.” Grant was silent for a moment and wished that he had a drink.
“I can promise you that I will not let things go back to what they were before the war,” he said, putting his hand firmly on Chase’s shoulder, “I may not be able to cure the hatred that so many are plagued by, but I will work to make sure that life for the Negroes of this nation is better than it was before I took office.” Grant felt nervous making promises, he had been warned not to do that by Chandler and his other campaign staff, but Chase had been desperate to get a guarantee that at least some socially progressive views would make it to the White House, and Grant couldn’t stop himself. The Chief Justice nodded solemnly.
“Thank you.” He said, with a tone of finality, and suddenly Grant was seized by a memory. It was the summer of 1859, fading into the fall, and he was listening to the chirping of crickets and watching the gentle light of sunset fade into night. A mulatto man was sitting next to him, and Grant had just given him his freedom.
“Thank you.” The man had said, with a tone of finality, and for a long time both of them had sat in silence and listened to the crickets as the stars peeked out from the fading veil of sunlight that illuminated the sky. That had been nine years before, and somehow he had moved from that night, when he had been little more than an impoverished and failed farmer, to a convention hall where he was en route to becoming the leader of a free and enlightened nation. It felt surreal, and for a moment Grant wanted to sit down, close his eyes and think of nothing at all. But instead he smiled at Chase, watched as the man departed the convention hall, and then went to go get a drink.
As he returned from that little mission, amber liquid and frost streaked ice sloshing and tinkling musically in a crystal glass, he spotted a very familiar set of faces, all of them smiling. Julia, his wife of eighteen years, was smiling the broadest, and Grant felt a little surge of adoration burn away the nervousness he was feeling as she held out her arms, eyes sparkling.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said as he embraced her, nearly spilling his drink. He silenced her with a quick little kiss, then ran his eyes over Fred, Junior, Nellie and Jesse, the latter shifting his weight impatiently from foot to foot as he watched the bustle of people move rapidly around the room. He was probably growing bored with the convention, which didn’t surprise Grant in the slightest, politics wasn’t terribly interesting to most nine year olds.
His family looked resplendent in their dresses and suits, and Grant felt proud of all of them. They had stayed with him through all of his struggles, and now they were here, at the beginning of what he hoped would be a great period of triumph.
“Unanimous.” He said in response, and realized that once again a crowd was beginning to close around him. Supporters, well wishers, congressmen and the odd journalist, all eager to see what he thought of the developing battle over who would serve as his running mate.
“Madam,” a young man with a yellow press badge tucked into his lapel said politely to Julia, “how are you looking forward to the campaign?” Julia smiled, practically glowing. She enjoyed social settings like this, seeming to draw energy from the bustle and noise.
“I have the utmost faith in our campaign staff and believe that the nation will deliver my husband to the White House this fall.” The reporter nodded and scribbled something down as Grant sipped his drink. Another reporter asked him something about temperance and whether or not his reputation for drinking would lead to voters eschewing him for more morally conservative splinter candidates. Grant didn’t bother to say that the voters who wouldn’t vote for a man because he drank whiskey probably also wouldn’t vote for a man who supported Reconstruction and suffrage for the Negro. Instead he took another drink and said something noncommittal as a small wedge of politicians herded the journalists away, eager to speak to Grant about the possibilities of his running mate, far away from the prying eyes and ears of the press.
“General,” the leader of the little wedge said, holding out a hand, “good to that you’ve been nominated...but we must talk.” Grant recognized him as Rufus Spalding, the leader of the Ohio delegation and one of the men who had given a speech to the hall before his nomination.
“I agree,” Grant said, then turned to Julia, telling her that he would be back in a few minutes before following Spalding and a half dozen others to the back room. Grant lit a cigar and took a seat, watching as Spalding and a few others gathered around him.
“There are very likely going to be three likely options for running mate...” Spalding said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. It was almost unpleasantly warm in the hall, and Grant could see other men tugging at their collars and fidgeting when they thought nobody was looking. Grant had spent too many days in the hot sun overseeing military drills to show any signs of discomfort, and the whiskey was doing a great job at cooling him down as well.
“Yes. There’s Colfax, Wade and maybe Fenton. The others probably aren’t going to gain enough traction to go anywhere.” There was a little bustle of motion and Chandler slid through the little crowd, straightening his monocle.
“Mr. Spalding,” he said with a smile, “pleasure to see you doing well. Excellent speech by the way...” He glanced over at Grant and then stood next to him, almost possessively. Spalding nodded at Chandler but didn’t say anything other than a brief ‘thank you,’ instead reserving his words for Grant.
“Yes. As of right now it appears that Wade may have the upper hand, but Colfax might be able to outlast him if he’s able to siphon support away from Fenton and the others.” Grant thought of his options once more. Wade was an extreme radical, but a charismatic and politically powerful one. Colfax was more moderate than Wade but still a definite radical, and Fenton was more or less a blank slate...though not one that was very likely to be nominated.
“I expect you’re here to get me to throw my support behind one of them.” It wasn’t a question, Grant already knew the purpose of Spalding’s visit, he just wasn’t sure who the Ohioan wanted him to support. Spalding nodded, looking slightly discomforted by Grant’s quick deduction.
“Well...after the debacle that is the Johnson administration,” Spalding narrowed his eyes ever so slightly as he mentioned the President, “we have to be very careful to make sure that we choose a potential Vice President who will remain loyal to the tenets of this party should the unthinkable occur.” Grant nodded, that was sensible. He had had a fairly strict succession policy in place just in case he had been shot from his horse during battle, there was no reason that anything would be different now, even if the crash of musketry and shriek of shells was nothing more than a distant memory.
“Wade, Colfax and Fenton are all party men,” Grant said, finishing his drink, “I don’t think we need to fear a Johnson style defection should I drop dead upon assuming office.” Spalding nodded slowly.
“So you have no preference as to running mate.” Chandler opened his mouth to say something but Grant motioned for him to remain silent.
“I plan on remaining alive for many years to come. As for a running mate, I’m content to let the delegates decide this one...we do want to run a ticket best fit to represent the party as a whole.” Spalding shrugged.
“Well said,” he smiled and offered his hand as he got up, “and good speaking to you General.” Grant shook the Ohioan’s hand and watched Spalding depart, his faction draining from the room, being replaced almost instantaneously by Hamlin and a cadre of others, mostly veterans of the Lincoln administration.
“Voting for the first ballot is about to begin,” Hamlin said, sitting down with a sigh, “I think it’s anyone’s game at this point.” Grant didn’t say anything for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what to think of the former Vice President, who busily checked his watch, then relaxed against the cushions of the armchair he was in, clearly enjoying what time he was able to spend off of his feet. Grant had heard more than a few stories that Hamlin wanted the vice presidency back, but if he was in the running then he certainly wasn’t working very hard to win.
“You might be correct.” Grant said, toying with his empty glass. He had chewed the ice up and now all there was left was a little splash of diluted amber liquid at the bottom, sliding slowly from one side of the glass to the other as he tilted it. He wanted to get back to his family but knew that blowing Hamlin off probably wouldn’t curry him any favors amongst the old Lincoln stalwarts.
“It’s unfortunate,” Hamlin sighed, “I was hoping that I would be chosen, but the party is moving on to fresher faces...” He didn’t seem very upset by this, more resignation than resentment in his voice. He certainly wasn’t trying to fight the inevitable.
“We have a deep bench,” Grant said, “the delegates are eager to see fresh faces. I’m sure that you can find your place, whether it be in the Senate or elsewhere...” Hamlin nodded distractedly as he watched the liquid in Grant’s glass slosh back and forth, back and forth.
“I’m sure I can.” A few more moments passed without comment and Hamlin excused himself, Chandler quickly occupying the closest seat to Grant and leaning in close.
“Wade is in the lead.” He said in a quiet, almost conspiratorial voice. This didn’t surprise Grant very much, but as Chandler began to relay the numbers from the aftermath of the first ballot that was even now being wrapped up outside, he raised his eyebrows.
“One hundred fifty delegates? Not bad.” Grant said. Wade still had a long ways to go if he wanted to win, but he wasn’t off to a bad start. On the contrary, it seemed that other candidates like Andrew Curtin and Hannibal Hamlin were wavering, on the verge of dropping out entirely. Curtin had been dangerously ill for nearly a week now, and when Grant had last seen him, a little more than an hour before, he had looked pale and unhealthy.
This wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence in the Pennsylvanian’s camp, but Chandler expected him to stick around for at least another few ballots...just to show that he wasn’t a pushover.
“Not bad at all. He’s in the lead, but Colfax and Fenton aren’t too far behind. Wilson is surging too...I didn’t expect that to be perfectly honest.” Grant nodded, Chandler seemed to be in his element out on the campaign trail, but when it came to things like conventions, he was still inexperienced. That might have worried Grant, but he was secure in the knowledge that he had been unanimously selected as nominee. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could dislodge him now.
“We’ll see what happens. Oh, and William, could you go and get Julia and the children?” Grant didn’t particularly feel like venturing back out into the bustle. The room he was in had drained of guests following Hamlin’s departure and he quite liked the comparative quiet. Now all he wanted was the company of his family while he waited for his running mate to be selected.
“Absolutely.” Chandler egressed and Grant sat back, setting his glass down on a polished mahogany coaster. He felt vaguely tired, but not in an immediate way. It had been a fairly demanding day, but now it was close to being over. Just a few more ballots, then he would know just how the coming election would play out.
A few moments later he heard a little cheer sound from the main room. This was followed by Chandler, Julia and the children. Chandler’s monocle had fallen off of his face once more and he was trying to make it stick, but to no avail.
“That was Wade’s delegation,” Chandler said, “I think Curtin just pledged his delegates to them.” That made Grant pause. Curtin was a fairly substantial candidate, so far as minor figures in the nomination process went. This would definitely help Wade along.
“Anyone else dropping out?” Chandler shook his head, then cursed under his breath as his monocle dislodged again.
“Hamlin looked fairly upset but I think he’s sticking around. Curtin is going home posthaste though, he’s very ill.” Julia frowned.
“That’s too bad,” she said, “he seemed like a nice man.” Grant nodded vaguely, but his mind was on other things. Since Wade seemed to slowly but surely be consolidating the radicals, what would Colfax, Fenton and Wilson, the comparative moderates, do in response?
“Papa? How big is the White House?” Jesse asked suddenly, snapping Grant from his thoughts. The boy still looked antsy, but not quite so much now that there was more real excitement going on.
“It’s an enormous place,” he said, “and you’ll get a chance to see every last bit of it in just a few months.” That made his son smile and Grant asked for a decanter of something strong to be brought in for him and whoever else wanted some.
If the convention had plenty of anything it was alcohol and within moments his request had been fulfilled. Grant sat back, a fresh drink in hand, and waited for more news to arrive.
“Six men have dropped out,” Chandler said, “three threw their support behind Wade, two behind Colfax, one behind Fenton. It looks like the party is beginning to draw its battle lines. I’d get ready for a long convention if I were you General...it doesn’t look like this will end anytime soon.” With him Chandler had brought a little note on which he had jotted the new delegate totals, and Grant read it carefully.
2nd Ballot
Senator Benjamin Wade - 230
Rep. Schuyler Colfax - 147
Rep. Reuben Fenton - 142
Senator Henry Wilson - 114
Former VP Hannibal Hamlin - 15
“It looks like Wade has hit the ceiling. Unless Colfax, Wilson or Fenton implode then he’s not going to get any more delegates.” Grant said and handed the delegate totals off to Julia for her to read as he wondered who was going to triumph. There was no easy answer to that, though he was beginning to suspect that it would probably be Colfax or Fenton, even if Wade was leading right now.
“That’ll probably be the case,” Chandler said, looking out the doorway, “Wade has accumulated quite the little coalition...it wont be easy for him to keep it together long enough to outlast the others.” Grant had nothing to say about that. He wasn’t particularly invested in the outcome of the ongoing battle, instead determined to remain aloof so that the party could decide on its own. While some of the more radical figures in the party didn’t enjoy this approach, fearing another Johnson type debacle should the unthinkable occur, Grant knew that the men who were available to succeed him in the event of his death were quite obviously more loyal than Andrew Johnson had proved to be.
Chandler sat down and silence gripped the room as Grant waited for the results of the third ballot. Things seemed to be proceeding very quickly, and the little rush of visitors had slowed, most people instead preferring to stay out and watch the proceedings up close.
“Hamlin dropped out,” somebody said from the doorway, “half of his delegates went to Fenton, the other half to Colfax. Wilson is starting to bleed delegates...Wade’s lead is steady.” The last part of the news seemed to surprise Chandler, who stood up and exchanged a few hushed words with the man in the doorway before nodding to himself.
“Fenton has maintained his delegates...it looks like Colfax and Wade aren’t losing anyone either, but Wilson certainly is.” Grant sipped his drink, wondering if perhaps the Senator had made a gaffe or something similar.
“Any idea why?” Even as he said that he realized that Wilson’s delegates were probably jumping ship to Wade; intrigued by the idea of getting a radical onto the ticket. Wilson himself was a radical, but not quite as much so as Wade, who terrified large swathes of the nation, especially in the reconstructing south, with his social ideals.
“Wade is probably welcoming them aboard,” Chandler said, “they’ve seen him gobble up the rest of the radicals, now they want to hop aboard as well.” Julia nodded.
“Wade wouldn’t be a bad Vice President...” she allowed, “though you’d have to be careful not to box him in...I’d expect that he’s gotten used to power in the Senate.” Though Chandler looked a little uneasy at Julia’s observation, and possibly the concept of a woman speaking politics, Grant nodded evenly.
“You could be right. But I’m going to wait and see if the delegates even select him before I start strategizing.” Julia smiled.
“Absolutely.” Once again they fell silent as the raucous and calamitous clamor from outside grew in volume, the voting growing more heated as the contest grew closer. With Wilson beginning to weaken, the surviving candidates were starting to try to win outright, Wade on the defensive, desperate to protect his lead as Colfax and Fenton tried not to tear themselves down.
As he waited Grant pondered the nature of the party, and pondered how he could keep such a broad coalition of people, ranging from freed southern slaves to wealthy New England bankers, happy and well off. It would certainly be a challenge, but one that he was well prepared to face.
“Wilson lost thirty delegates,” a young man in a Lincoln style top hat said, poking his head through the doorway, his eyes wide with excitement, “twenty of them went to Wade, the rest split between Colfax and Fenton...I think Wilson might withdraw next ballot.” Now that would be interesting. Grant thanked the young man for relaying the news to him and wondered how Wilson’s delegates would scatter. Not all of them would go to any one candidate, though the majority would undoubtedly align themselves with Wade. Colfax and Fenton would probably keep the moderates divided for the foreseeable future, which seemed to indicate that Chandler’s initial prediction of a deadlocked convention was more accurate than Grant might have otherwise wanted to think. Before he could express this sentiment though, Chandler began to speak.
“If this drags out past ten ballots then you ought to pick somebody to throw your weight behind. Either that or we find a compromise candidate.” Chandler didn’t sound enchanted with either option, but it was better than letting the party tear itself apart at the seams trying to secure a viable running mate.
“You took the words right from my mouth.” Grant said, then fell silent. He didn’t particularly want to speculate on who would be a good compromise candidate. He had once been asked by a man on his campaign staff if William Sherman would be interested in running for Vice President, but Grant had shot that idea down immediately. He knew Sherman too well to even have to ask him, the man was professionally apolitical and probably would have ignored the question entirely had he voiced it to him. Besides, two pro-Reconstruction military men on the same ticket wouldn’t look good...it would only feed the fires of outrage in the south being stirred by the white supremacists and aristocrats who were yearning for their monopoly on power back.
“Are you alright dear?” Julia asked and Grant realized that he’d been frowning. He nodded and sipped his drink again. The ice was beginning to melt and water down the whiskey. He hated it when that happened.
“I’m fine. Just thinking about running mates...the south...you know how the mind can wander.” Julia nodded and Fred excused himself, announcing that he was going outside for some fresh air. Jesse, eager for any sort of adventure and exploration, jumped after him and Grant watched them go.
“He’ll start at West Point not too long after your inauguration.” Julia remarked, and Grant nodded slowly, thinking back to his own time spent at the military institution. That had been a long time ago, separated from the convention hall by twenty five years. Though he had spoken to many of his former classmates who claimed that they could fondly remember each and every sparkling detail of their time spent there, Grant had never considered his years at West Point anything extraordinary. Instead he mostly remembered the friends he had made there, and the aptitude for horsemanship that he had been allowed to hone.
He had been nothing more than a lucky young man with a scholarship back then, but now, now his own son was going to follow in his footsteps. It made him prouder than he could have ever expressed.
“That’s right...and soon enough Junior and Nellie will be going to school as well.” It would be nearly a decade until Jesse would do so much as contemplate university, but for the rest of his children, higher education was right around the corner.
Small talk was exchanged for a few more minutes, then the tip of a familiar top hat made a reappearance, followed by the head of the young man who had apparently taken it upon himself to deliver news of each successive ballot to them.
“Wilson is combusting, he’s down to seventy delegates and talking about dropping out. Wade is getting most of the castoffs, but it might not be enough...Fenton is starting to lose some delegates to Colfax, he might have to drop out soon too.” It was exciting news, now the nomination seemed to be a race between Wade and Colfax. Wade stood to benefit from the dissolution of Wilson’s candidacy, while Colfax would probably be pushed over the top if Fenton imploded. Whoever could dismantle their foe first would be the likely victor, and every last ballot would count.
“Maybe it wont be deadlocked.” Junior said, and Grant nodded.
“Hopefully it’ll be decided before too long,” Grant said, “I’d like to be able to invite the man who wins to dinner with us tonight.” He finished his drink and decided not to go for another one, at least not at the moment. Julia had made dinner reservations easily large enough to accommodate both Grant, his running mate and both of their families at a fabulously exclusive restaurant in the heart of the city, and Grant hoped that he wouldn’t have to miss it for the sake of the convention.
“I would hate to miss dinner tonight.” Julia sighed, then was silent. Once again they were waiting, and though he tried not to show it, Grant was suddenly a little bit anxious as he wondered who his running mate would be. Wade and Colfax had pros and cons alike, but both were very capable men who wanted very much to run alongside him. That both flattered and intimidated him.
He had felt the same way when he had first gone back into service at the start of the war. And just like then he had a tremendous responsibility to live up to, with dire consequences should he fail. Once again he thought of Ben Wade, then the other radicals. They wanted very badly for Reconstruction to be continued until every last trace of the Antebellum south had been purged from the region. As much as Grant wanted to pursue law and order in the region with the same vigor and fiery determination that the more hardcore radicals advocated for, he knew that the war was not on anymore. He would have to be careful, otherwise the Democrats would seize the region back and never let it go.
“Wilson is out,” Grant looked up, this time it was Chandler relaying the news of another ballot to him, “Wade soaked up most of his delegates and now he’s pushing three hundred delegates himself. Fenton’s still hanging in there...he’s lost another eight delegates though and I think he’ll call it quits after the next ballot. Colfax is beginning to bleed delegates too...” Chandler didn’t quite express his unhappiness with Wade’s resilience, but Grant could see it on his face.
“I think Wade may win this.” Chandler nodded stiffly.
“Maybe. Though Colfax could bounce back, so long as Fenton gives out before he does.” Judging by how shaky everyone seemed to be at the moment, Grant supposed that the radicals, banded together under Wade and beckoning to their brethren in Colfax and Fenton’s camps with open arms, were probably the stablest faction at the moment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“The next ballot will probably decide everything.” He said and the waiting game began once again. It didn’t take very long, Chandler departed, the noise levels in the hall rose and fell like ocean waves and soon the top hatted young man was back, Chandler in tow. Chandler was frowning, the young man smiling like a cheshire cat, their expressions clashing so dramatically that Grant smiled, wondering what was going on.
“Fenton has ninety eight delegates left. Colfax is hemorrhaging,” the young man spoke first, his statements short and punchy, packed with excited hyperbole, “Hamlin tried to jump back in, somebody claimed that they were representing Curtin and said that he would act as a compromise candidate if necessary but nobody listened. Wade has three hundred twenty delegates now, both Fenton and Colfax are on the verge of collapse. I think this next ballot will be the last.” Chandler interjected.
“Unless you go and throw your support behind somebody else.” For a moment Grant was tempted to take him up on that offer, then he thought of how that might look. It would be one thing if the convention was deadlocked, but it wasn’t. Not even close. Wade was on the verge of victory, and the motivations for his intervention would be quite apparent.
“No...all that would do is anger the radicals. Their man won fair and square.” Grant said. He had decided to sit out and let the party choose his running mate, and they had done so, he could hardly be angry at them for their choice...it would be unseemly. Julia didn’t seem quite so conflicted, she smiled.
“Looks like Ben and Caroline are coming to dinner tonight,” she said to Fred, Junior, Nellie and Jesse, who were all present to hear the news. Grant checked his pocket-watch, his earlier fears about the convention dragging on had been misguided, they would make it to dinner in plenty of time.
“It appears so.” He said, shutting the lid of the watch with a snap. Chandler sighed.
“It wouldn’t have to be you...” he said, “not directly...” Grant didn’t respond and after a few moments Chandler exited the room, his monocle once again falling off. The dejected campaign manager hardly seemed to notice.
“Are we going to have to get another manager?” Julia asked, a little hint of concern tinging her voice. Grant was silent for a few moments.
“Maybe. I hope not. William is good at what he does, he’ll learn to accept Ben...as will I, I suppose.” Grant poured himself another drink as Benjamin Wade won a spot on the 1868 Republican ticket. He felt that he would probably need it.
“It’s unanimous,” William Chandler said, jubilance leaking through his deliberately casual tone as he relayed the results of the convention’s ballot to his employer. Ulysses S. Grant tapped a thin column of grey ash from his cigar into a tin ashtray and nodded. He had been expecting nothing less, the party was responding to his promise of peace and stability...and soon so would the nation.
“That’s good.” Grant said, blowing a smoke ring as he looked through the doorway of the room that he was in, out at the main convention hall. The 1868 Republican National Convention was being held in an opera house, and Grant quite liked the soaring, rounded roof. It allowed the voices of those who spoke from the stage to be magnified, even over the general hubbub generated by the delegates and audience.
Nearly everyone who was anyone in the party was in attendance, though Thaddeus Stephens was at home, ill, perhaps dying, and William Sherman hadn’t been able to make it, though he had expressed preliminary congratulations from the south, where he was managing his portion of Reconstruction...or whatever parts of it that Andrew Johnson hadn’t yet handed over to the very same aristocratic secessionists who had started the war in the first place.
Grant puffed thoughtfully away as he thought of Johnson. He had had high hopes for him at first, but soon had developed a healthy dislike for the man as soon as his true views on Reconstruction and a dozen other prickly issues became well known. He had cheated the hangman in his impeachment in Grant’s honest opinion, and even as he blew another smoke ring the General looked forwards to trouncing him in the fall.
“The choices for running mate are beginning to present themselves,” Chandler remarked from behind him, the campaign manager polishing his monocle on his lapel as he spoke. Grant turned and nodded, interested in hearing what Chandler had to say. He was still a relative novice to the game of politics, and trusted the man to brief him on such things.
“Oh?” Chandler fitted his monocle back onto his face and blinked experimentally, making sure that it would remain in place.
“Yes. It appears that Ben Wade and Schuyler Colfax are going to be the main competitors. Either one of them would be good for maintaining control over congress, Wade has ties to the Senate, Colfax to the House...though Wade is substantially more radical than Schuyler.” Chandler didn’t look terribly pleased with the idea of Wade being on the ticket, but Grant didn’t remark on that. He had spoken with Wade before and liked the man’s zeal, though he did have a tendency to not know when to stop pursuing an issue.
Colfax on the other hand was calmer and more passive. Grant hadn’t had many dealings with him, though he was aware that he had more ties to the more moderate sections of the party, which might be useful.
“What’re Fenton, Hamlin and the others doing?” He asked, watching a spark drift lazily from the end of his cigar and turn a circle in the air before extinguishing.
“Trying to rally support. Speaking of which...” Grant turned back around, just in time to see the first well wishers storm the room. It seemed like half of Lincoln’s old cabinet had come to say hello, as well as Hannibal Hamlin, Benjamin Wade and a dozen others, all jostling for space in a room that had suddenly become much, much smaller.
“Congratulations General,” Hamlin said, extending a hand, which Grant shook, “soon I’ll have to call you Mr. President.” There was a chorus of unanimous assent that wouldn’t have been out of place at a church and Grant smiled, feeling a little flustered by the sudden invasion of the room. He didn’t let it show, though his grip on his cigar tightened somewhat.
He had never enjoyed being crowded by other people, and decided that as soon as he was in office he would designate a little circle of space at his desk that others weren’t allowed to come into without his consent. He would be the President then, he could do things like that if he wished.
“So I’d hope,” he grinned, stubbing out his cigar and shaking a small forest of hands, “and so the American people shall provide.” Chandler, sensing Grant’s discomfort, practically dove before him at that point, busily and somewhat fussily clearing a path for the man.
“I think that the General would enjoy a celebratory drink,” he said as Grant slipped through the crowd, “how about the rest of you gentlemen?” A dozen hands raised and Grant slid out into the main room, feeling somewhat harried but also immensely excited. Unanimous, Chandler had said, the party had chosen him to represent them unanimously. That had never happened before in the short history of the Republican party, and it seemed to spell good things.
“General,” a voice called from his left and Grant turned to see a slight young man extending a hand, “I’m an artist with Harper magazine...here to document the convention. But I just wanted to congratulate you on your victory, I hope that you win this fall.” Grant smiled and shook the artist’s hand, patting him on the shoulder.
“I appreciate your support and wish you luck with your assignment, have a good evening.” The artist smiled giddily and disappeared into the crowd, no doubt heading back to his sketchbook. Grant enjoyed little encounters like that, it reminded him that he was running to guide a nation of innovators, artists, entrepreneurs and workers. America was filled with boundless opportunity for more people than ever, and he was determined to make sure that that opportunity remained open for all to enjoy.
A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts, and Grant recognized Chief Justice Salmon Chase, clad in a blue smoking jacket instead of his usual black court robes.
“Congratulations on your nomination,” Chase said, subjecting Grant to an especially firm handshake. Grant crushed Chase’s hand right back and wondered what he wanted to talk to him about, somehow he didn’t think that a congratulations was the entirety of the Chief Justice’s purpose for visiting.
“Thank you very much,” Grant said with a smile, “I’m pleasantly surprised that you’re in attendance.” Chase nodded slightly.
“It is a little partisan of me,” he admitted, “but I did want to talk to you about some things.” Grant allowed the Chief Justice to steer him over to a less crowded part of the room.
“Like?” Grant asked.
“Once you win the election this fall,” Chase said, surprising Grant by how confidently he predicted Republican victory in November, as though it was an absolute certainty instead of a mere likelihood, “I will still be Chief Justice, and in charge of a Supreme Court that is more or less dedicated to bettering the lot of the disenfranchised of this nation. I was not able to secure the nomination of this party due to my own views on those issues...which some perceived as too radical,” Grant remained silent, wondering if Chase was going where he thought he was going with all of this, “but with your nomination I have high hopes that Reconstruction will not die along with the radical faction of the party and can be continued by a moderate like yourself.” Grant was silent for a moment and wished that he had a drink.
“I can promise you that I will not let things go back to what they were before the war,” he said, putting his hand firmly on Chase’s shoulder, “I may not be able to cure the hatred that so many are plagued by, but I will work to make sure that life for the Negroes of this nation is better than it was before I took office.” Grant felt nervous making promises, he had been warned not to do that by Chandler and his other campaign staff, but Chase had been desperate to get a guarantee that at least some socially progressive views would make it to the White House, and Grant couldn’t stop himself. The Chief Justice nodded solemnly.
“Thank you.” He said, with a tone of finality, and suddenly Grant was seized by a memory. It was the summer of 1859, fading into the fall, and he was listening to the chirping of crickets and watching the gentle light of sunset fade into night. A mulatto man was sitting next to him, and Grant had just given him his freedom.
“Thank you.” The man had said, with a tone of finality, and for a long time both of them had sat in silence and listened to the crickets as the stars peeked out from the fading veil of sunlight that illuminated the sky. That had been nine years before, and somehow he had moved from that night, when he had been little more than an impoverished and failed farmer, to a convention hall where he was en route to becoming the leader of a free and enlightened nation. It felt surreal, and for a moment Grant wanted to sit down, close his eyes and think of nothing at all. But instead he smiled at Chase, watched as the man departed the convention hall, and then went to go get a drink.
As he returned from that little mission, amber liquid and frost streaked ice sloshing and tinkling musically in a crystal glass, he spotted a very familiar set of faces, all of them smiling. Julia, his wife of eighteen years, was smiling the broadest, and Grant felt a little surge of adoration burn away the nervousness he was feeling as she held out her arms, eyes sparkling.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said as he embraced her, nearly spilling his drink. He silenced her with a quick little kiss, then ran his eyes over Fred, Junior, Nellie and Jesse, the latter shifting his weight impatiently from foot to foot as he watched the bustle of people move rapidly around the room. He was probably growing bored with the convention, which didn’t surprise Grant in the slightest, politics wasn’t terribly interesting to most nine year olds.
His family looked resplendent in their dresses and suits, and Grant felt proud of all of them. They had stayed with him through all of his struggles, and now they were here, at the beginning of what he hoped would be a great period of triumph.
“Unanimous.” He said in response, and realized that once again a crowd was beginning to close around him. Supporters, well wishers, congressmen and the odd journalist, all eager to see what he thought of the developing battle over who would serve as his running mate.
“Madam,” a young man with a yellow press badge tucked into his lapel said politely to Julia, “how are you looking forward to the campaign?” Julia smiled, practically glowing. She enjoyed social settings like this, seeming to draw energy from the bustle and noise.
“I have the utmost faith in our campaign staff and believe that the nation will deliver my husband to the White House this fall.” The reporter nodded and scribbled something down as Grant sipped his drink. Another reporter asked him something about temperance and whether or not his reputation for drinking would lead to voters eschewing him for more morally conservative splinter candidates. Grant didn’t bother to say that the voters who wouldn’t vote for a man because he drank whiskey probably also wouldn’t vote for a man who supported Reconstruction and suffrage for the Negro. Instead he took another drink and said something noncommittal as a small wedge of politicians herded the journalists away, eager to speak to Grant about the possibilities of his running mate, far away from the prying eyes and ears of the press.
“General,” the leader of the little wedge said, holding out a hand, “good to that you’ve been nominated...but we must talk.” Grant recognized him as Rufus Spalding, the leader of the Ohio delegation and one of the men who had given a speech to the hall before his nomination.
“I agree,” Grant said, then turned to Julia, telling her that he would be back in a few minutes before following Spalding and a half dozen others to the back room. Grant lit a cigar and took a seat, watching as Spalding and a few others gathered around him.
“There are very likely going to be three likely options for running mate...” Spalding said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. It was almost unpleasantly warm in the hall, and Grant could see other men tugging at their collars and fidgeting when they thought nobody was looking. Grant had spent too many days in the hot sun overseeing military drills to show any signs of discomfort, and the whiskey was doing a great job at cooling him down as well.
“Yes. There’s Colfax, Wade and maybe Fenton. The others probably aren’t going to gain enough traction to go anywhere.” There was a little bustle of motion and Chandler slid through the little crowd, straightening his monocle.
“Mr. Spalding,” he said with a smile, “pleasure to see you doing well. Excellent speech by the way...” He glanced over at Grant and then stood next to him, almost possessively. Spalding nodded at Chandler but didn’t say anything other than a brief ‘thank you,’ instead reserving his words for Grant.
“Yes. As of right now it appears that Wade may have the upper hand, but Colfax might be able to outlast him if he’s able to siphon support away from Fenton and the others.” Grant thought of his options once more. Wade was an extreme radical, but a charismatic and politically powerful one. Colfax was more moderate than Wade but still a definite radical, and Fenton was more or less a blank slate...though not one that was very likely to be nominated.
“I expect you’re here to get me to throw my support behind one of them.” It wasn’t a question, Grant already knew the purpose of Spalding’s visit, he just wasn’t sure who the Ohioan wanted him to support. Spalding nodded, looking slightly discomforted by Grant’s quick deduction.
“Well...after the debacle that is the Johnson administration,” Spalding narrowed his eyes ever so slightly as he mentioned the President, “we have to be very careful to make sure that we choose a potential Vice President who will remain loyal to the tenets of this party should the unthinkable occur.” Grant nodded, that was sensible. He had had a fairly strict succession policy in place just in case he had been shot from his horse during battle, there was no reason that anything would be different now, even if the crash of musketry and shriek of shells was nothing more than a distant memory.
“Wade, Colfax and Fenton are all party men,” Grant said, finishing his drink, “I don’t think we need to fear a Johnson style defection should I drop dead upon assuming office.” Spalding nodded slowly.
“So you have no preference as to running mate.” Chandler opened his mouth to say something but Grant motioned for him to remain silent.
“I plan on remaining alive for many years to come. As for a running mate, I’m content to let the delegates decide this one...we do want to run a ticket best fit to represent the party as a whole.” Spalding shrugged.
“Well said,” he smiled and offered his hand as he got up, “and good speaking to you General.” Grant shook the Ohioan’s hand and watched Spalding depart, his faction draining from the room, being replaced almost instantaneously by Hamlin and a cadre of others, mostly veterans of the Lincoln administration.
“Voting for the first ballot is about to begin,” Hamlin said, sitting down with a sigh, “I think it’s anyone’s game at this point.” Grant didn’t say anything for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what to think of the former Vice President, who busily checked his watch, then relaxed against the cushions of the armchair he was in, clearly enjoying what time he was able to spend off of his feet. Grant had heard more than a few stories that Hamlin wanted the vice presidency back, but if he was in the running then he certainly wasn’t working very hard to win.
“You might be correct.” Grant said, toying with his empty glass. He had chewed the ice up and now all there was left was a little splash of diluted amber liquid at the bottom, sliding slowly from one side of the glass to the other as he tilted it. He wanted to get back to his family but knew that blowing Hamlin off probably wouldn’t curry him any favors amongst the old Lincoln stalwarts.
“It’s unfortunate,” Hamlin sighed, “I was hoping that I would be chosen, but the party is moving on to fresher faces...” He didn’t seem very upset by this, more resignation than resentment in his voice. He certainly wasn’t trying to fight the inevitable.
“We have a deep bench,” Grant said, “the delegates are eager to see fresh faces. I’m sure that you can find your place, whether it be in the Senate or elsewhere...” Hamlin nodded distractedly as he watched the liquid in Grant’s glass slosh back and forth, back and forth.
“I’m sure I can.” A few more moments passed without comment and Hamlin excused himself, Chandler quickly occupying the closest seat to Grant and leaning in close.
“Wade is in the lead.” He said in a quiet, almost conspiratorial voice. This didn’t surprise Grant very much, but as Chandler began to relay the numbers from the aftermath of the first ballot that was even now being wrapped up outside, he raised his eyebrows.
“One hundred fifty delegates? Not bad.” Grant said. Wade still had a long ways to go if he wanted to win, but he wasn’t off to a bad start. On the contrary, it seemed that other candidates like Andrew Curtin and Hannibal Hamlin were wavering, on the verge of dropping out entirely. Curtin had been dangerously ill for nearly a week now, and when Grant had last seen him, a little more than an hour before, he had looked pale and unhealthy.
This wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence in the Pennsylvanian’s camp, but Chandler expected him to stick around for at least another few ballots...just to show that he wasn’t a pushover.
“Not bad at all. He’s in the lead, but Colfax and Fenton aren’t too far behind. Wilson is surging too...I didn’t expect that to be perfectly honest.” Grant nodded, Chandler seemed to be in his element out on the campaign trail, but when it came to things like conventions, he was still inexperienced. That might have worried Grant, but he was secure in the knowledge that he had been unanimously selected as nominee. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could dislodge him now.
“We’ll see what happens. Oh, and William, could you go and get Julia and the children?” Grant didn’t particularly feel like venturing back out into the bustle. The room he was in had drained of guests following Hamlin’s departure and he quite liked the comparative quiet. Now all he wanted was the company of his family while he waited for his running mate to be selected.
“Absolutely.” Chandler egressed and Grant sat back, setting his glass down on a polished mahogany coaster. He felt vaguely tired, but not in an immediate way. It had been a fairly demanding day, but now it was close to being over. Just a few more ballots, then he would know just how the coming election would play out.
A few moments later he heard a little cheer sound from the main room. This was followed by Chandler, Julia and the children. Chandler’s monocle had fallen off of his face once more and he was trying to make it stick, but to no avail.
“That was Wade’s delegation,” Chandler said, “I think Curtin just pledged his delegates to them.” That made Grant pause. Curtin was a fairly substantial candidate, so far as minor figures in the nomination process went. This would definitely help Wade along.
“Anyone else dropping out?” Chandler shook his head, then cursed under his breath as his monocle dislodged again.
“Hamlin looked fairly upset but I think he’s sticking around. Curtin is going home posthaste though, he’s very ill.” Julia frowned.
“That’s too bad,” she said, “he seemed like a nice man.” Grant nodded vaguely, but his mind was on other things. Since Wade seemed to slowly but surely be consolidating the radicals, what would Colfax, Fenton and Wilson, the comparative moderates, do in response?
“Papa? How big is the White House?” Jesse asked suddenly, snapping Grant from his thoughts. The boy still looked antsy, but not quite so much now that there was more real excitement going on.
“It’s an enormous place,” he said, “and you’ll get a chance to see every last bit of it in just a few months.” That made his son smile and Grant asked for a decanter of something strong to be brought in for him and whoever else wanted some.
If the convention had plenty of anything it was alcohol and within moments his request had been fulfilled. Grant sat back, a fresh drink in hand, and waited for more news to arrive.
“Six men have dropped out,” Chandler said, “three threw their support behind Wade, two behind Colfax, one behind Fenton. It looks like the party is beginning to draw its battle lines. I’d get ready for a long convention if I were you General...it doesn’t look like this will end anytime soon.” With him Chandler had brought a little note on which he had jotted the new delegate totals, and Grant read it carefully.
2nd Ballot
Senator Benjamin Wade - 230
Rep. Schuyler Colfax - 147
Rep. Reuben Fenton - 142
Senator Henry Wilson - 114
Former VP Hannibal Hamlin - 15
“It looks like Wade has hit the ceiling. Unless Colfax, Wilson or Fenton implode then he’s not going to get any more delegates.” Grant said and handed the delegate totals off to Julia for her to read as he wondered who was going to triumph. There was no easy answer to that, though he was beginning to suspect that it would probably be Colfax or Fenton, even if Wade was leading right now.
“That’ll probably be the case,” Chandler said, looking out the doorway, “Wade has accumulated quite the little coalition...it wont be easy for him to keep it together long enough to outlast the others.” Grant had nothing to say about that. He wasn’t particularly invested in the outcome of the ongoing battle, instead determined to remain aloof so that the party could decide on its own. While some of the more radical figures in the party didn’t enjoy this approach, fearing another Johnson type debacle should the unthinkable occur, Grant knew that the men who were available to succeed him in the event of his death were quite obviously more loyal than Andrew Johnson had proved to be.
Chandler sat down and silence gripped the room as Grant waited for the results of the third ballot. Things seemed to be proceeding very quickly, and the little rush of visitors had slowed, most people instead preferring to stay out and watch the proceedings up close.
“Hamlin dropped out,” somebody said from the doorway, “half of his delegates went to Fenton, the other half to Colfax. Wilson is starting to bleed delegates...Wade’s lead is steady.” The last part of the news seemed to surprise Chandler, who stood up and exchanged a few hushed words with the man in the doorway before nodding to himself.
“Fenton has maintained his delegates...it looks like Colfax and Wade aren’t losing anyone either, but Wilson certainly is.” Grant sipped his drink, wondering if perhaps the Senator had made a gaffe or something similar.
“Any idea why?” Even as he said that he realized that Wilson’s delegates were probably jumping ship to Wade; intrigued by the idea of getting a radical onto the ticket. Wilson himself was a radical, but not quite as much so as Wade, who terrified large swathes of the nation, especially in the reconstructing south, with his social ideals.
“Wade is probably welcoming them aboard,” Chandler said, “they’ve seen him gobble up the rest of the radicals, now they want to hop aboard as well.” Julia nodded.
“Wade wouldn’t be a bad Vice President...” she allowed, “though you’d have to be careful not to box him in...I’d expect that he’s gotten used to power in the Senate.” Though Chandler looked a little uneasy at Julia’s observation, and possibly the concept of a woman speaking politics, Grant nodded evenly.
“You could be right. But I’m going to wait and see if the delegates even select him before I start strategizing.” Julia smiled.
“Absolutely.” Once again they fell silent as the raucous and calamitous clamor from outside grew in volume, the voting growing more heated as the contest grew closer. With Wilson beginning to weaken, the surviving candidates were starting to try to win outright, Wade on the defensive, desperate to protect his lead as Colfax and Fenton tried not to tear themselves down.
As he waited Grant pondered the nature of the party, and pondered how he could keep such a broad coalition of people, ranging from freed southern slaves to wealthy New England bankers, happy and well off. It would certainly be a challenge, but one that he was well prepared to face.
“Wilson lost thirty delegates,” a young man in a Lincoln style top hat said, poking his head through the doorway, his eyes wide with excitement, “twenty of them went to Wade, the rest split between Colfax and Fenton...I think Wilson might withdraw next ballot.” Now that would be interesting. Grant thanked the young man for relaying the news to him and wondered how Wilson’s delegates would scatter. Not all of them would go to any one candidate, though the majority would undoubtedly align themselves with Wade. Colfax and Fenton would probably keep the moderates divided for the foreseeable future, which seemed to indicate that Chandler’s initial prediction of a deadlocked convention was more accurate than Grant might have otherwise wanted to think. Before he could express this sentiment though, Chandler began to speak.
“If this drags out past ten ballots then you ought to pick somebody to throw your weight behind. Either that or we find a compromise candidate.” Chandler didn’t sound enchanted with either option, but it was better than letting the party tear itself apart at the seams trying to secure a viable running mate.
“You took the words right from my mouth.” Grant said, then fell silent. He didn’t particularly want to speculate on who would be a good compromise candidate. He had once been asked by a man on his campaign staff if William Sherman would be interested in running for Vice President, but Grant had shot that idea down immediately. He knew Sherman too well to even have to ask him, the man was professionally apolitical and probably would have ignored the question entirely had he voiced it to him. Besides, two pro-Reconstruction military men on the same ticket wouldn’t look good...it would only feed the fires of outrage in the south being stirred by the white supremacists and aristocrats who were yearning for their monopoly on power back.
“Are you alright dear?” Julia asked and Grant realized that he’d been frowning. He nodded and sipped his drink again. The ice was beginning to melt and water down the whiskey. He hated it when that happened.
“I’m fine. Just thinking about running mates...the south...you know how the mind can wander.” Julia nodded and Fred excused himself, announcing that he was going outside for some fresh air. Jesse, eager for any sort of adventure and exploration, jumped after him and Grant watched them go.
“He’ll start at West Point not too long after your inauguration.” Julia remarked, and Grant nodded slowly, thinking back to his own time spent at the military institution. That had been a long time ago, separated from the convention hall by twenty five years. Though he had spoken to many of his former classmates who claimed that they could fondly remember each and every sparkling detail of their time spent there, Grant had never considered his years at West Point anything extraordinary. Instead he mostly remembered the friends he had made there, and the aptitude for horsemanship that he had been allowed to hone.
He had been nothing more than a lucky young man with a scholarship back then, but now, now his own son was going to follow in his footsteps. It made him prouder than he could have ever expressed.
“That’s right...and soon enough Junior and Nellie will be going to school as well.” It would be nearly a decade until Jesse would do so much as contemplate university, but for the rest of his children, higher education was right around the corner.
Small talk was exchanged for a few more minutes, then the tip of a familiar top hat made a reappearance, followed by the head of the young man who had apparently taken it upon himself to deliver news of each successive ballot to them.
“Wilson is combusting, he’s down to seventy delegates and talking about dropping out. Wade is getting most of the castoffs, but it might not be enough...Fenton is starting to lose some delegates to Colfax, he might have to drop out soon too.” It was exciting news, now the nomination seemed to be a race between Wade and Colfax. Wade stood to benefit from the dissolution of Wilson’s candidacy, while Colfax would probably be pushed over the top if Fenton imploded. Whoever could dismantle their foe first would be the likely victor, and every last ballot would count.
“Maybe it wont be deadlocked.” Junior said, and Grant nodded.
“Hopefully it’ll be decided before too long,” Grant said, “I’d like to be able to invite the man who wins to dinner with us tonight.” He finished his drink and decided not to go for another one, at least not at the moment. Julia had made dinner reservations easily large enough to accommodate both Grant, his running mate and both of their families at a fabulously exclusive restaurant in the heart of the city, and Grant hoped that he wouldn’t have to miss it for the sake of the convention.
“I would hate to miss dinner tonight.” Julia sighed, then was silent. Once again they were waiting, and though he tried not to show it, Grant was suddenly a little bit anxious as he wondered who his running mate would be. Wade and Colfax had pros and cons alike, but both were very capable men who wanted very much to run alongside him. That both flattered and intimidated him.
He had felt the same way when he had first gone back into service at the start of the war. And just like then he had a tremendous responsibility to live up to, with dire consequences should he fail. Once again he thought of Ben Wade, then the other radicals. They wanted very badly for Reconstruction to be continued until every last trace of the Antebellum south had been purged from the region. As much as Grant wanted to pursue law and order in the region with the same vigor and fiery determination that the more hardcore radicals advocated for, he knew that the war was not on anymore. He would have to be careful, otherwise the Democrats would seize the region back and never let it go.
“Wilson is out,” Grant looked up, this time it was Chandler relaying the news of another ballot to him, “Wade soaked up most of his delegates and now he’s pushing three hundred delegates himself. Fenton’s still hanging in there...he’s lost another eight delegates though and I think he’ll call it quits after the next ballot. Colfax is beginning to bleed delegates too...” Chandler didn’t quite express his unhappiness with Wade’s resilience, but Grant could see it on his face.
“I think Wade may win this.” Chandler nodded stiffly.
“Maybe. Though Colfax could bounce back, so long as Fenton gives out before he does.” Judging by how shaky everyone seemed to be at the moment, Grant supposed that the radicals, banded together under Wade and beckoning to their brethren in Colfax and Fenton’s camps with open arms, were probably the stablest faction at the moment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“The next ballot will probably decide everything.” He said and the waiting game began once again. It didn’t take very long, Chandler departed, the noise levels in the hall rose and fell like ocean waves and soon the top hatted young man was back, Chandler in tow. Chandler was frowning, the young man smiling like a cheshire cat, their expressions clashing so dramatically that Grant smiled, wondering what was going on.
“Fenton has ninety eight delegates left. Colfax is hemorrhaging,” the young man spoke first, his statements short and punchy, packed with excited hyperbole, “Hamlin tried to jump back in, somebody claimed that they were representing Curtin and said that he would act as a compromise candidate if necessary but nobody listened. Wade has three hundred twenty delegates now, both Fenton and Colfax are on the verge of collapse. I think this next ballot will be the last.” Chandler interjected.
“Unless you go and throw your support behind somebody else.” For a moment Grant was tempted to take him up on that offer, then he thought of how that might look. It would be one thing if the convention was deadlocked, but it wasn’t. Not even close. Wade was on the verge of victory, and the motivations for his intervention would be quite apparent.
“No...all that would do is anger the radicals. Their man won fair and square.” Grant said. He had decided to sit out and let the party choose his running mate, and they had done so, he could hardly be angry at them for their choice...it would be unseemly. Julia didn’t seem quite so conflicted, she smiled.
“Looks like Ben and Caroline are coming to dinner tonight,” she said to Fred, Junior, Nellie and Jesse, who were all present to hear the news. Grant checked his pocket-watch, his earlier fears about the convention dragging on had been misguided, they would make it to dinner in plenty of time.
“It appears so.” He said, shutting the lid of the watch with a snap. Chandler sighed.
“It wouldn’t have to be you...” he said, “not directly...” Grant didn’t respond and after a few moments Chandler exited the room, his monocle once again falling off. The dejected campaign manager hardly seemed to notice.
“Are we going to have to get another manager?” Julia asked, a little hint of concern tinging her voice. Grant was silent for a few moments.
“Maybe. I hope not. William is good at what he does, he’ll learn to accept Ben...as will I, I suppose.” Grant poured himself another drink as Benjamin Wade won a spot on the 1868 Republican ticket. He felt that he would probably need it.
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