Once more the question of the little fort in the harbor of Charleston
had plunged the discordant Cabinet of the dying administration into the
convulsions of a miniature war.
The feeble old President, overwhelmed by the gathering storm, crouched
in the corner by the fire. His emaciated figure was shrouded in a
ridiculous old dressing-gown. Mentally and physically prostrate he sat
shivering while his ministers wrangled.
He rose at last, shambled to the Cabinet table, and leaned his trembling
hands on it for support.
"What can I do, gentlemen--what can I do? If Anderson hadn't gone into
that fort at night, the State of South Carolina might not have
seceded--"
Stanton shook his massive head with an expression of uncontrollable
rage.
"Great God!"
The President continued in feeble, pleading tones:
"Now they tell me that unless Anderson withdraws his troops their
presence will provoke bloodshed--"
"Let them fire on him if they dare!" shouted Stanton.
"I cannot plunge my country into fratricidal war. My sands are nearly
run. I only ask of God that my sun may not set in a sea of blood--"
He paused and lifted his thin hands, trembling like two withered leaves
of aspen in the winter's blast.
"What can I do?"
Stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old
man.
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