Previously in the book: War Secretary Edwin Stanton kidnaps President and Mrs. Lincoln and holds them captive under guard in the White House basement. Caught in the basement with them is janitor Gabby Zook who is emotionally unstable and unsure of what is happening.
Gabby Zook, huddling behind the crates and boxes in the billiards room in the basement of the Executive Mansion, fought the hysteria growing inside him. He felt his reason, which was with him so little, fleeing him at this very moment. What was right became irrelevant since the strange, round man with the pharaoh beard and the young soldier had told him he could not go home to his sister Cordie. What was wrong with going home to Cordie? What was right about being forced at gunpoint to stay in the basement of the president’s house? Of all the years he had spent fighting the confusion in his brain, this was the worst. No, he corrected himself: the worst was the time the confusion had begun, many years ago at West Point. What had happened that day was not logical, and Gabby knew logic. He was at the head of the class when it came to logic. If a = b, and b = c, then a = c. It was simple. But he had learned the world was not simple.
Keys jangling at the door caused Gabby to look up and remember he had not yet had his supper, and his stomach was rumbling.
“It’s about time he arrived with our meal,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Yes,” Lincoln replied, “we must thank him for it.”
“Thank him?” Her voice rose indignantly.
Before she could continue, the door opened and Adam entered with a large tray carrying soup bowls and plates of food. With his foot he shut the door and quickly went to the billiards table, put it down, and hurried back to the door to lock it.
“There’s no need to rush to lock us in,” Lincoln said. “We won’t try to escape.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure you won’t, sir. Mr. Stanton was very specific in his orders.”
“He’s cranky,” Gabby offered as he walked to the billiards table to see what there was for him to eat. Tomato soup, a pork chop, and some potatoes. Not bad. “It’s the beard. Beards make men cranky.”
“Well, Mr. Gabby,” Lincoln smiled, stroking his own whiskers as he replied, “I don’t know about that.”
“Can I take a bowl of soup?” Gabby asked.
“Of course,” Adam said.
Gabby knew he was right, but he was not going to argue with the tall man with the black whiskers, because, after all, he had a beard and could become cranky, like the colonel at West Point.
He had needed a carriage driver to take him out to the field to observe artillery practice. Gabby had tried to tell him he was from New York City and had never learned to control a team of horses, but the bearded colonel would hear none of it.
“This is the army, Private,” the colonel had said, scolding him. “I’m a colonel, and if I say you’ll drive a carriage, you’ll drive a carriage. No arguments.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he interrupted. “Do you want to receive your commission?”
“Yes, sir. Can I bring along my friend?”
“We have to go now,” the colonel said.
“He’s right here,” Gabby replied, waving Joe over.
Gabby remembered his life perfectly to that point. He remembered his father’s last words to him. He remembered swimming off Long Island with Joe. But after that day at West Point, Gabby could not remember anything. Confusion clouded his past and his present. He dared not consider the future.
“This soup is cold,” Mrs. Lincoln said after sipping a spoonful.
Gabby admired her superior attitude, considering she looked like a child sitting at the adults’ table as she tried eating at the high billiards table which almost came to her chest.
“Better cold soup than none at all,” Lincoln interceded. He smiled at Adam. “Thank you, Private. You may retire. I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”
“You will not,” Mrs. Lincoln asserted. “You’ll return in half an hour to retrieve the dishes. I’ll not sleep in a room with filthy dishes. An hour later you’ll remove the chamber pots, clean them thoroughly, then return them.”
“That’ll be awful late,” Adam said, his eyes looking to Lincoln.
“I won’t sleep in a room with filthy chamber pots!”
Lincoln nodded slightly, his eyes blinking apologetically.
“Yes, ma’am.” Adam bowed his head.
“And what’s in the pitcher?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“Water, ma’am,” he replied.
She sniffed. “Very well.”
“Private, sir?” Gabby said, his voice quavering. “Could you pour me a glass of water and carry it to my corner? My hands are full with this soup bowl.”
“Of course.” Adam smiled.
As Gabby settled on the floor behind the crates and barrels, crossing his legs and placing the soup bowl in his lap, Adam handed him the glass of water.
“Thank you,” Gabby whispered. “I didn’t want to eat at the billiards table with that woman. I’m afraid she’d have yelled at me if I spilled tomato soup on my shirt.”
“She probably would have,” Adam said.
“Did you see Cordie?” Gabby asked, looking up at Adam as he slurped a spoonful of soup.
Adam nodded. “Everything’s fine. She’s going to meet me every day at Lafayette Park to see how you’re doing. I think she said she was making you a quilt.”
“This soup isn’t too hot.” Gabby slurped again.
“Did you hear me? She’s fine. She’s making you a quilt.”
“Cordie makes good quilts. She can make a quilt for you.” He took another spoonful, dripping on his shirt. “It’s got chunks of stuff in it. But it’s still good.”
“Well, good night.” Adam turned to leave.
“You want to be an officer?”
“Yes.”
“You going to West Point?”
“No, I’m earning my commission now. Mr. Stanton promised it.”
“Don’t go to West Point,” Gabby said. “You can get confused at West Point.”
“Oh. Good night.”
“These chops are not the right size,” Mrs. Lincoln piped up.
“They’re fine, Private,” Lincoln said.
“Thank you, sir.”