“Can I trust you with a secret that may involve the destiny of a nation?” he asked earnestly.

Marshall was surprised, but replied quietly:

“You can, sir.”

“I have lived in Washington for a long time,” said the old man earnestly,“and I have seen the Government conducted by all sorts of men, I have seen much to make me feel disgusted with, and ashamed of my country, but I have never seen or heard of such villainy as the present Administration is carrying on. All the plans of Lincoln and his Cabinet are known to me.”

“I was under the impression that you had nothing to do with the Administration, sir,” said Marshall, in great surprise.

“You are right,” replied Mr. Wheeler gravely—“But in spite of this all their plans are known to me. I will tell you by what means. Remember, you are not to breathe this to a living soul. When Martin Van Buren was President, unprincipled and treacherous, though he was, he repeatedly sought my advice, I knew all his plans and State secrets, and my advice repeatedly save the country from trouble which his rashness was about to cause it. He had a secret passage made, leading to the chamber in which the meetings of the Cabinet are held, and communicated the secret to no one but myself and a third party, who has since died. No one else knows of the existence of this passage. I was frequently placed in it by Van Buren to overhear the discussions of his Cabinet, in order that I might be the better enabled to advise him. Buchanan did not know of the existence of the passage, and Lincoln does not, I am sure. He has not brains enough to discover it, and no one could tell him of it. Since the entrance of the new Administration upon its duties, I have distrusted it. I have used the secret passage, and have overhead the discussions of the Cabinet. They mean war upon the South.”

“I was sure of it,” exclaimed Marshall quickly. Then he added, earnestly, “But, my dear sir, you have surely informed the Confederate Government of what you have discovered.”

“Alas! no! that is my misfortune,” replied his friend. “When I was made acquainted with the passage by Van Buren, I swore a solemn oath never to reveal any thing that I discovered by means of it, at any time. My oath is still binding, and I cannot warn my friends. I know of no man in this city whom I could trust. I have full confidence in you, and what I want you to do is to go with me to-night and take your station in the secret passage. To-night there will be a meeting of the Cabinet, in which a matter of great importance will be discussed. I cannot tell you what it is. You must discover it for yourself, and then hasten to Montgomery and lay the whole matter before President Davis. The Cabinet will meet at nine o'clock to-night. Will you go with me?”

Marshall paused for a moment in deep thought. He was amazed by what Mr. Wheeler had told him. He hardly knew whether to go or not. But the thought of the good he might be able to do for the South, determined him, and he answered firmly:

“I will go with you.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Wheeler, with satisfaction. “Be here tonight at seven o'clock. We will start a little before eight, in order that we may be in time. You are a lawyer, and have seen much of human nature; but I will show you to-night something that will startle you.”

Mr. Wheeler spoke with savage bitterness, and then abruptly changed the conversation. In a short time Marshall took his leave.

During the remainder of the day he wandered listlessly about the city, thinking of what Mr. Wheeler had told him. It was so strange that he could hardly believe it. For a moment he feared that it was some plot to entrap him. But this could not be so; for why should Mr. Wheeler wish to do him any harm? That gentleman had always been noted for his devotion to the South, as well as his unwavering integrity. Strange as the story appeared, it must be true. Besides gratifying his curiosity, Marshall would learn much that would be of importance to the South, and he would dare anything to gain this information.

Taking the precaution to arm himself, he returned to Mr. Wheeler's precisely at seven o'clock that night. He found his friend waiting for him. The old gentleman insisted upon his taking supper with him.

“You will have enough to excite you in what you will see and hear to-night, and I want you to have your head clear and cool, and your mind at rest to begin with. A full stomach and a clear head are inseparable companions.”

About eight o'clock they left Mr. Wheeler's residence, and proceeded leisurely in the direction of the White House. Upon arriving at the extension of the Treasury building, they left the Avenue, and entered the President's grounds, and in a few minutes they were standing in the rear of the White House. Glancing hastily around to assure himself that no one was near, Mr. Wheeler approached the house, and drawing from his pocket a piece of steel, pressed it against the wall. Instantly a small concealed door swung around upon a pivot, and the two men disappeared through it, when it was immediately closed. As the door closed behind them, Marshall found himself in a narrow passage and in total darkness. His friend grasped his hand and bade him remove his shoes, be silent and follow him. They passed on swiftly in the darkness, the young man being led by his friend, sometimes turning abruptly and at others ascending long flights of stairs. The atmosphere of the passage was close and confined, and quite cold. Suddenly his friend paused. The air was warmer, and Marshall felt that one of the walls that closed the passage was quite hot. Mr. Wheeler placed his mouth to the young man's ear, and whispered:

“We are now standing in a small chamber constructed in the chimney of the room in which the Cabinet holds its meetings. We can hear the slightest sound that comes from there. I will listen, but I want you to see as well as hear. Remember! whatever you see or hear, you must be silent. Now, look!” So saying he removed the covering from a small opening in the wall through which a brilliant gleam of light came, and moving aside placed the young man at it.

Marshall placed his eye to the aperture, and gazed into the Cabinet council room. He perceived that he was standing some distance above the floor of the room, and could look down upon all that passed within it.

The room was of medium size, and simply but elegantly furnished. In the centre was a large table covered with papers. Seven or eight large arm chairs and a sofa completed the furniture.

Seated in one of these chairs, with his feet thrown carelessly upon the table, with a cigar thrust between his lips, was a tall, dark-complexioned man, with heavy black whiskers. He was dressed in a plain suit of black, which but imperfectly hid the natural ungainliness of his form. His whole appearance was expressive of great awkwardness, and there was about him an air of restraint, which impressed the gazer painfully. There was a dejected and careworn look upon his countenance, and an eager, uneasy gleam in his dark eyes. He was Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

Mr. Lincoln was busily engaged in reading a manuscript, which seemed to interest him very much. He was sitting with his face to the fire, and Marshall had an excellent opportunity to study his countenance. He could hardly believe that the awkward and ungainly man before him, whose appearance was at once suggestive of fraud and ignorance, could indeed be the Ruler of the American Republic. He searched his features closely, but nowhere could he discover the evidences of the genius, intellect or wisdom necessary to enable him to conduct the Ship of State safely through the dark waves which were swelling and surging around her. The more he looked at the man before him the more he became satisfied that he had been chosen only that he might be a weak tool in the hands of the wicked rulers of his party. Marshall became interested in his contemplation of Lincoln, and time passed rapidly away. Suddenly the President laid down the papers with a sigh of relief, and glanced at his watch. “Five minutes to nine,” he exclaimed, “I did not know it was so late.” Then gazing at the pile of papers on the table, he muttered: “Here's a pretty night's work, d—n the luck; I wish I had never been elected; but I must stick to it. Seward says we must run the machine as we found her, if we bust her; and I'll do it.”

Mr. Lincoln's manner was so strikingly ludicrous that Marshall could scarcely restrain his laughter.

The President then threw himself back in his chair, and smoked in silence. In a few minutes the door opened, and three men entered. Mr. Lincoln rose and greeted them with an awkward familiarity, and requested them to be seated. They were Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy; Montgomery Blair, Postmaster General, and Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury.

Welles would have been passed by at any time with a mere glance, for there was nothing striking or remarkable in his appearance.

Chase was a fair specimen of a keen, shrewd Yankee sharper. The quick, piercing eye, the restless and uneasy air, the mocking and sinister mouth, all told of trickery and deceit.

Blair was dark and gloomy. A bitter and malignant expression constantly hovered upon his countenance. His keen, observant eye was upon every thing around him, and not a look, not an expression escaped his notice. His manner towards the President was a strange mixture of fawning servility and contemptuous hate.

The three gentlemen had scarcely taken their seats when the door again opened, and Mr. Caleb B. Smith, Secretary of the Interior, entered. He saluted those present with great dignity, and took the seat to which the President pointed.

The door was again opened, and a tall, fine looking man, with a florid face and hair slightly tinged with gray, entered. There was something decidedly striking in this man's appearance. There was an air of defiant boldness and accomplished knavery which at once convinced the gazer that the man was a great villain. There was about him a sternness and haughtiness which agreed well with his manly and dignified figure. He was Simon Cameron, Secretary of War. He was greeted with marked respect by all present, and returned their salutations most courteously.

“All here, gentlemen?” he asked, glancing around the group. “No! where is Governor Seward?”

“Drunk, I guess,” said the President, with a laugh, in which all joined. “That reminds me of a joke,” he continued. Suddenly he paused. The door was again opened, and this time there entered a man who, having been once seen, is not easily forgotten. He was a small, thin man, with a slight stoop in the shoulders. His hair was gray, and lay in graceful confusion around his brow. He was dressed in a neat and tasteful suit of gray. Every motion was graceful and dignified, and his whole manner was expressive of quiet consciousness of power. But what most interested the gazer was the calm, cold face, in which not a particle of color was visible; the keen, gray eye, which seemed to be reading one's very soul, and the firm, grave mouth, with its expression of energy and power. There was something fascinating in his appearance, but it was the fascination of the serpent, that made the gazer shudder as he looked upon him. One felt that he was a man utterly destitute of principle and integrity, that ambition was his God, and that he feared nothing, scrupled at nothing, in his efforts to gratify his absorbing passion. He was William H. Seward, Secretary of State.

When he entered the council chamber the laughter was hushed, and the Cabinet rose and received him with profound respect. The President glanced at him uneasily, fearing that he had heard his remark, and greeted him with awkward defference. Chase turned away to hide the broad grin which overspread his features; Cameron bit his lip to conceal the ironical smile that hovered around his mouth; and Blair looked on with an expression of withering contempt. Mr. Seward returned the greeting of the President and Cabinet with quiet dignity, and passing on to the table, began to look over the papers upon it.

“Pardon me, Your Excellency,” he said, turning to the President, and speaking in a tone of seeming defference, but which an attentive listener might have interpreted as a command, “we are wasting time. There is much to be done to-night, and we had better proceed at once to business.”

The President seated himself at the head of the table, and the members of the Cabinet took their places around it; Mr. Seward being on the right and Mr. Cameron on the left of the President.

All eyes were turned to the Secretary of State, and it was easy to see that he was the master spirit of the Cabinet, the true Ruler of the Union.

“Gentlemen,” he began, in a calm, clear voice, “we have met tonight to finish the Fort Sumter business. I am informed by the Secretaries of War and the Navy that the Expedition, which has been preparing, for so long, in the North, is at last ready, and will sail from New York in the morning, unless the President shall order otherwise The chief purpose for which we are assembled to-night is to advise His Excellency, either to allow the Expedition to sail, or to countermand the order. Our decision is to be final. As for myself, I shall urge him to allow the fleet to sail.”

Mr. Welles had listened attentively.

“The position of the Government is very peculiar,” he remarked. “If we evacuate Fort Sumter we will create a terrible storm of indignant opposition at home, which will overwhelm us. If we can, by any means, induce the Confederates to attack the Fort, the Government will be safe. We can throw all the odium upon them, and we can so manage the excitement and indignation of the North as to bring on a war, which will result in the utter extermination of slavery.”

“If the Expedition sails to-morrow, when will it reach Charleston?” asked Mr. Blair, addressing the Secretary of the Navy.

“On the eleventh of this month,” was the reply.

“Now I understand you,” resumed Mr. Blair, after a pause. “Your plan is to—”

“Allow me to state it for you,” said Mr. Seward, courteously. Mr. Blair bowed and the Secretary of State continued:

“A strong Military and Naval Expedition will sail to-morrow morning, and will reach Charleston on the eleventh of this month. A messenger has already been dispatched to Governor Pickens, to inform him that Fort Sumter will be provisioned at all hazards. He will receive this message on the eighth, the day after to-morrow. It is certain that the Southerners will attack Fort Sumter. That work cannot be held. A few days' bombardment will reduce it. The sailing of our fleet will give the appearance that we mean to save the garrison, when in reality we do not, as I shall soon show you. The fall of the Fort will arouse the Northern and Western States, and we will be able to mould them as we will. It is necessary to sacrifice the garrison of Fort Sumter for the effect that it will have upon the Free States. As soon as we hear of the fall of the Fort, the President will issue his proclamation, denouncing the Southerners as rebels, and commanding them to lay down their arms, and disperse within a given time. He will at the same time call for troops to put down the Rebellion. Of course the Southerners will resist, and then we shall have the war in earnest.”

“War is a terrible thing,” said Mr. Chase, musingly, “and it is a pity to embroil this country in it.”

“Then we must go out of power, sir,” said Mr. Seward, sharply. “We must either force the South into a war, or we must comply with their demands. We can drag the people into a war, and give them no time to think of anything else; but if we yield to the South, the people will drag us from power. There is a strong anti-slavery sentiment in the country, which will sustain us in a war with the South, and we can work upon the Unionism of the people. There is no retreat for us, gentlemen,” he continued emphatically. “We are pledged to carry on the war against slavery, and we have tried the ballot-box long enough. We must now use the sword.”

“Anderson don't like the idea of relieving Fort Sumter,” said the President raising his head from his hand on which he had been resting it. “He says it's a breach of the faith we have pledged to the South.”

“Anderson is a fool,” said Seward, contemptuously. “He is too punctilious. But the chances are decidedly against his ever getting out of his Fort. The more martyrs that there are, the more successful will be the cause. To endear Anderson's memory to our people, we'll make a saint of him, by allowing Beauregard to cannonize him.”

“I see but one difficulty about this war,” said Mr. Lincoln, musingly. “It may drive out the Border States, and then we shall have our hands full.”

“We are prepared for that,” said the Secretary of War. “We wish to force the Border States out of the Union. We have not calculated upon any trifling struggle. We anticipate a long and bloody war; one that will probably last during our entire Administration. But we must deceive the people by prophesying a short war. We will say that we will be able to crush the rebellion in ninety days. We can speedily organize an army. The nine Governors who have just gone from the city, have promised us as many troops as we need. To keep up the deception, we will call for seventy-five thousand men to serve for three months. After this we will be in a position to call for troops for years instead of months, and we shall get as many as we call for. The war will be long and bloody, but it will be advantageous to us as individuals, and in the end we will conquer the South. We have greater resources, more men and material, and we shall finally hold the Southern States as conquered Provinces.”

“I care not for the Border States,” said Mr. Seward coldly. “I am ready for either the Cotton or the Border States.”

“That reminds me of a joke, Seward,” said the President throwing himself back in the chair. “When I was cap'n of a flat boat, I used to hear tell of a man that lived down on the Chesapeake Bay, during the war of 1812. He used to sleep with his rifle at the head of his bed, so as to be ready for the British when they landed. One night there was a terrible thunder storm, and his wife woke him, crying, ‘Wake up, husband! the day of judgment has come, or the British have landed.’ ‘Let 'em come,’ cried the old man, jumping up and seizing his rifle—‘Let 'em come—I'm ready for either.’ So you, Seward, are like the old man; you are ready for either.”

The President sank back in his chair, and laughed heartily at his own joke, inappropriate and stale as it was.

The members of the Cabinet joined in his merriment. A smile of sarcastic contempt played around the lips of the Secretary of State, and he exchanged a meaning glance with the Postmaster General. Then they joined in the laughter.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Seward, when the mirth had subsided, “we must come to some conclusion upon this matter. What say you? Shall we have a war with the South, or a war with our own people?”

“A war with the South,” was the unanimous response.

“Very good,” exclaimed the Premier, in a tone of satisfaction. “The President will order the Expedition for the relief of Fort Sumter to sail at once. “When the war is begun,” he added, turning to the Secretary of War, “we will leave the management of the military details to yourself and General Scott, who has kindly offered to continue to command the armies of the Union. Now that this business is settled, we have other matters to arrange.”

Other business was then brought forward and discussed. The Council broke up about twelve o'clock. When the rest of the Cabinet departed, the Secretary of State remained behind.

“Mr. President,” said he, fixing his cold, clear eyes upon Lincoln, “you are too faint hearted. You have put your foot upon the plough, and you must not turn back.”

“I know that, Seward,” said the President, moving uneasily under the cold, satirical gaze of his master spirit. “But I am afraid we are not doing the right thing.”

“I tell you, Lincoln, you are a fool. Of course we are doing a d—d rascally piece of business. But we can't help ourselves. So what good will your grumbling do?”

The President laughed, and drawing Seward's arm through his own, said to him:

“You are getting personal. Come with me, and I'll silence you with a drink. I have some prime old brandy down stairs, if the old woman hasn't hid it, or Bob hasn't drank it.”

At the mention of brandy, Mr. Seward's eyes brightened, and he followed the President from the room.

From his place of concealment, Mr. Marshall had heard and seen everything that had transpired in the Council Chamber. He was bewildered by the cold-blooded plan of the Cabinet. He could hardly believe them capable of such villainy, and yet he had heard it from their own lips. He turned to his friend, who was standing quietly behind him, and said hastily:

“Let us begone from here. I want to get out into the fresh air.”

They retraced their steps, and in a few minutes were standing in the grounds in the rear of the Mansion. They hurried into the Avenue, and after a rapid walk, during which both were silent, they reached the residence of Mr. Wheeler.

“Now, are you satisfied?” asked the old gentleman, when they were seated in the Library.

“I am,” replied Marshall. “I shall hasten to Charleston, and offer my services to General Beauregard. After Fort Sumter is taken, I shall inform the Confederate Government of what I have heard.”

Marshall passed the remainder of the night with his friend. The next morning he went over to Alexandria, and took the train for the South.

This was Sunday, the 7th of April. On the same day the Expedition for the relief of Fort Sumter passed out of New York harbor, and sailed Southward.

“I was about to go to headquarters when you were announced. My carriage is at the door, and I shall be glad to take you with me.”

The two gentlemen then left the house, and entering the carriage which was in waiting, were driven rapidly to the headquarters of the Confederate commander. They were immediately ushered into General Beauregard's presence.

He was sitting at a table, glancing over some papers, but rose as the gentlemen entered. He was of medium size and well proportioned. He was dressed in the plain blue uniform of a Brigadier General, and was scrupulously neat in his attire. His features were prominent, and indicative of his foreign descent. There was much of benevolence and good humor in the expression of his countenance, and through every action there breathed a quiet dignity which at once won the respect and confidence of all persons. You felt at a glance that he was born a soldier. It was impossible to see him without admiring him, and it was equally impossible to know him without honoring and loving him. Uniting that warm and genial disposition which at once endeared him to all, with that brilliant military genius which has ranked him among the greatest Generals of the age, it is not strange that every Southern soldier's heart should throb with devotion, and his eye glow with pride, when he hears the magic name of Beauregard. It is to him the embodiment of chivalry and patriotism. He greeted Governor Pickens cordially, and that gentleman presented Marshall.

“Is my friend well?” inquired the General, when he had read the letter Marshall had brought from Baltimore. “I am glad to meet you as a friend of his.”

Marshall bowed, and replied, that the gentleman was well when he left him.

“Are you busy, General?” asked the Governor.

“Not at present,” was the answer. “I have demanded the surrender of Fort Sumter, and am now waiting for Anderson's reply. I was about to send for Your Excellency when you arrived. But why do you ask if I am busy? Do you wish me to do anything for you?”

“No,” replied the Governor, “but Mr. Marshall has told me that he desires to lay before you some important information, and he wishes me to hear it.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed the General, gazing earnestly at the young man. “Then, my dear sir, we must hear him at once. It will be some time before I receive Anderson's reply, and we can listen to Mr. Marshall while waiting for it. Now, Mr. Marshall,” he added, placing himself in front of that gentleman, “His Excellency and myself are ready to hear you.”

“I can,” was the reply.

“Then I will tell you one. Virginia seceded to-day. There are movements on foot, of vital importance to the State, that render it necessary that this should be kept secret.”

“Thank God,” exclaimed Marshall, fervently. “But,” he continued, “the position of the State is very critical. The Federal Government has a strong force of regulars, and may at any time throw them into Virginia. Its war vessels can come up to this very city, and either lay it in ashes or take it. You are at the mercy of Lincoln, and your action certainly evinces a great amount of moral courage.”

“You are right,” said his friend, musingly. “But anything was preferable to a union with the North. What does Maryland intend doing?”

“We are in a most unfortunate condition,” said Marshall. “The State is divided by a wide Bay, and separated from the South by a deep river. Our Governor has refused to convene the Legislature, and we have been deprived of a Convention. We have no legal means of expressing our wishes. Our hearts are with you, but I am afraid that we have been betrayed into the hands of our enemies.”

“Revolutionize your State. Force her out,” exclaimed his friend, impulsively.

“That is easier said than done,” said Marshall. “It is too late now. Mark my prediction. In one week from to-day we will be at the mercy of the troops who will assemble at Washington.”

The friends soon after separated. The next morning Marshall continued his journey and reached Baltimore, owing to a delay, late in the night of the 18th of April.

In the meantime the Northern troops had begun to assemble. On the 18th of April a body of four hundred half armed and miserable specimens of humanity from Pennsylvania, calling themselves United States soldiers, passed through Baltimore en route for Washington. A large crowd followed them through the streets, yelling and hooting at them, and heaping upon them all manner of abuse. The troops passed rapidly through the city, protected by a strong escort of the City Police. Before the departure of the trains for Washington, the troops informed the crowd that there would be a body of men through the city the next day, who would make them “see sights” if they interfered with them. As soon as it was known that more troops were to be sent through the city, it was determined by the crowd to dispute their passage. About half past ten o'clock, on the morning of the 19th of April, Marshall was standing in his office door, when a man rushed by pale and breathless. Marshall stopped him and asked: