Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Two

Previously in the book, Secretary of Stanton has ordered President Lincoln to the Executive Mansion basement.

Before Stanton could reply, a tousle-headed boy of ten with a strangely impish round face slammed a bedroom door on the right and ran through the glass doors, but stopped short when he saw Stanton and the private. His dark eyes appraised the soldier.
“I know a boodle of soldiers,” the boy said. “You’re only a private, ain’t you?”
“I haven’t been in the army long.” Adam shuffled his feet.
Stanton cleared his throat. “We don’t have much time, Mr. Lincoln.”
“I used to play with a lieutenant,” the boy said. “Lieutenant Elmer Ellsworth. Of course, he got killed.”
Grabbing the boy’s shoulders, Stanton turned the boy toward the president.
“You can’t push me around!” Wrestling away from Stanton’s grip, the boy spun around, yanked the pharaoh beard, and stuck out his tongue. “I’m the president’s son!”
“Now, Tad,” Lincoln said soothingly as he enveloped the boy in his arms, “you know we taught you better manners than that.”
“I say some people get what they deserve,” Mrs. Lincoln said with a sniff.
“Molly,” Lincoln said, looking at his wife, “don’t make this more difficult.”
“Take the boy to Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay.” Stanton leaned into Lincoln. “Tell them to take Tad out to supper and don’t return for two hours.” He nodded at Adam. “Private Christy will be just out of sight behind the door, so don’t say anything more.”
Tad looked up inquisitively at his father. “Papa, why do you let him talk to you like that?”
“Hush, Tad.” Lincoln smiled. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay.” Taking him by the hand, Lincoln went into the waiting room.
Following, Adam watched as Lincoln first glanced to the last door on the left, the secretaries’ bedroom, and found it empty. He then turned to the last door on the right, where both young men hovered around the desk. The private stole a quick look the president’s two secretaries before stepping behind the door. He was not impressed. One was about his age, twenty-two, and the other was somewhat older, perhaps thirty. But they were probably Nancy-boys in their French zouave baggy and pegged pants, their dark hair neatly trimmed and contrasting starkly with their smooth, alabaster faces. Women were drawn to pretty men in high-fashion clothes with clear, bland complexions, but it was Adam’s experience that the ladies were disappointed when the dandies were more interested in themselves.
“Mr. Nicolay, Mr. Hay,” Lincoln announced as he presented his son to them, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Yes, sir?” Nicolay replied with a slight Bavarian accent.
Not even American, but some intruder from Germany—a suspect nation at best, Adam thought as he listened to Lincoln explain his supper request for the boy. Absently he stroked his rough cheek, mottled by a minor case of small pox when he was twelve years old. His brow furrowed as he remembered how women rarely were drawn to his ruddy, irregular face, his thick, unruly red hair, and his homespun clothes.
“Take him to the Willard,” Lincoln said. “I’ve an account there. Let him have anything he wants for supper.”
“Even pie and cake and ice cream?” Tad asked. “No vegetables?”
“If you wish.”
“Are you sure Madame will approve?” Hay asked, uncertainty tingeing his voice, which was moderately higher pitched than Nicolay’s baritone.
“Mrs. Lincoln won’t mind, I assure you.”
Adam could not resist the temptation of seeing the young men’s faces to judge their response to this unusual presidential request. If they seemed too concerned, the secretaries might prove to be trouble later. He slightly cocked his head to peer through the door. Tad was giving Lincoln a bear hug.
“I love you, Papa.”
“And I love you, Tad.” Lincoln wrapped his long arms around the boy, tangling his fingers in the curly brown locks. “Don’t forget. Your papa loves you very much.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t breathe.”
Laughing, Lincoln released Tad, turned him around, and pushed him toward the two secretaries who looked, in the private’s estimation, less than enthusiastic with their chore of supervising the rambunctious child, now jumping up and down, giggling, and pulling at their silk cravats. Lincoln quickly excused himself and walked through the waiting room. He looked over his shoulder and smiled slightly. “Come, Private Christy, for I fear the daggers shooting from Mrs. Lincoln’s eyes may have dealt a fatal blow in Mr. Stanton’s breast.”
When they entered the vestibule, Stanton sighed deeply and headed for the glass door to the hallway. “Finally. This has taken entirely too long.”
The small group walked down the hall to a door on the right leading to the service stairs. As they descended the narrow stairs, Mrs. Lincoln leaned into her husband.
“I still don’t know what this is about.”
“I’m not certain myself.” Lincoln placed his massive, bony hand on her rounded shoulder and said, “I think it has to do with General McClellan’s reinstatement as Army of the Potomac commander.”
“The stairs aren’t a proper place to discuss national policy,” Stanton said before directing his attention to the descending steps.
“Are they a proper place to carry out the abduction of an American president?” Mrs. Lincoln asked, her voice barely under control.
“Molly, I don’t think it’s proper to discuss anything on the back stairs.”
As they reached the first floor landing, all conversation ended; the only noise was the crackling of their footsteps on the straw mats covering the stairwell steps. Adam, hating a void, had a violent urge to speak but, with a will he was unaware he possessed, remained silent. His mind went back ten years to when he was twelve, to his family’s dark, cramped dining room in Steubenville, Ohio. Slowly the sensations came back to him. He remembered feeling warm, almost uncomfortable, with small beads of perspiration forming on his brow. School was out, it struck him, because he was relieved he would not have to tell his friends at school why he was crying. It was June. Of course.
“Wait until the newspapers hear this,” Mrs. Lincoln hissed.
“Hush,” Lincoln whispered.
How could Adam have forgotten that? Two days after classes ended his mother had died of smallpox. Family members from Ohio and nearby areas of Indiana and Pennsylvania had gathered for a large breakfast before a noon funeral. Adam remembered not being hungry at all as he had stared at a full plate of fried eggs, pork sausage, and blueberry muffins.
“Mother’s favorite,” he had mumbled.
“What?” Cora, his mother’s oldest sister, said.
“Blueberry muffins. Mother always said she could make a meal of blueberry muffins and fresh-churned butter.”
His father had coughed nervously, Adam remembered.
Aunt Cora, much stouter than his fragile mother, sniffed and spoke in a loud, bold voice. “I think we should just eat our breakfast and not speak.”
Adam felt his neck burn with embarrassment and guilt. After all, if he had not come down with smallpox, his mother would not have died. He looked around the table, first at his father, hoping he would tell Aunt Cora to be quiet, then at the others around the table, but found no comforting eyes meeting his. During the next half hour, he was intensely aware of muffled chewing, the soft slurping of coffee, and the muted clicking of cups and scratching of knives and forks against china plates. All of this now flooded his mind as the crackling of the straw mats broke the stillness. Adam’s back muscles flexed in agony.
For, ever since he was twelve years old, silence had sounded like death.

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