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.
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.
Stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old man.
The President gasped for breath and listened helplessly.
"You can't yield that fort to the conspirators who demand it. Dare to do it, and I tell you, as the Attorney General of the United States, you are guilty of high treason--and by the living God you should be hung!"
The venerable Secretary of the Navy, Isaac Toucey, lifted his hand in protest. Stanton merely threw him a look of scorn, and shouted into the President's face:
"Your act could no more be defended than Benedict Arnold's!"
"And what say you, Holt?" the President asked, turning to his heavy-jawed Secretary of War.
"Send a ship to the relief of Sumter within twenty-four hours, and let South Carolina take the consequences--"
Holt's crooked mouth was drawn in grim lines, and the left-hand corner was twisted into a still lower knot of ugly muscles. His furtive eyes beneath their shaggy brows glanced quickly around the table to see the effect of his patriotic stand.
The President turned to the white-haired Secretary of the Navy:
The venerable statesman from Connecticut bowed gravely to his Chief and spoke with quiet dignity.
"I would order Anderson to return at once to Fort Moultrie--"