Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting even though there were some complications. Then he skillfully maneuvered Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything.

Gabby Zook awoke to disappointment again. Every morning for the last two months he had come from his night’s sleep, forgetting he was on the floor in the basement of the Executive Mansion; he needed the comfort of his sister Cordie, who kept his world intact. With his head aching, Gabby wrestled with his identity, and longed for more mornings when he knew exactly who he was. Thinking back to his days at West Point, he tried to take comfort in memories of some of the courses in which he had excelled. He thought of his logic class, in which his teacher always said he was the best—and if Gabby ever needed logic it was now. Furrowing his brow Gabby fetched scattered bits and pieces from his fragmented brain: let’s see, he mumbled, if a = b and b = c, then a = c.
“That young man is late with our breakfast again, Father,” Mrs. Lincoln said, just loud enough for Gabby to hear from his corner.
He shuddered, for this woman scared him with all her tantrums and orders. Gabby did not like being locked in the basement either, but common sense told him yelling, screaming, and throwing things would not change the situation—at least on those days he had common sense. While it was an elusive quality for him, he was certain he captured its essence more often than she did.
“The scandal of all this will rock the nation, Mr. Lincoln,” she continued with her Southern lilt. “The audacity of holding the president of the United States captive in the White House basement…”
“Yes, I know, Molly,” Lincoln said. Gabby smiled; he liked him. “I’ve heard your scenarios of trials before the Supreme Court every day for two months.”
The president of the United States is being held in the basement. Gabby began using his pattern of logic. That was a = b. I am being held in the basement. That was b = c; so, he hypothesized, I am president of the United States. Gabby shook his head. That could not be right; he never remembered running for election. Jangling keys at the locked door started Gabby’s salivary glands flowing. Breakfast had arrived. He stood to look around the stacks of crates and barrels to see Adam put a tray of breakfast foods on the billiards table.
“You’re later and later every morning, young man,” Mrs. Lincoln chided.
“Yes, ma’am,” Adam mumbled. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Lincoln ambled over. “Were you able to get me a pear?”
“Yes, sir. Right here, sir.”
“I hope the coffee is still warm,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Yes, ma’am. Just brewed, ma’am.”
“Got some fried eggs?” Gabby ventured to the billiards table.
“Right here.”
“And the morning newspaper,” Lincoln added.
“Sorry, sir.” Adam hung his head. “I’ll get your newspaper right away.”
Gabby watched the private go to the door. He did not have the same spring in his step as he had in September. Now, in November, Adam shuffled his feet and rarely made eye contact with anyone. On the off chance Gabby’s exercise in logic was correct and he was, indeed, president of the United States, he decided he should do something presidential and comfort the downcast soldier. He walked up behind Adam as he unlocked the door to leave and patted him on the back.
“Everything is going to be fine, Private,” he said.
“What?” Adam frowned at him.
“All this will be over soon,” Gabby said.
“Oh.”
“Things will get better.”
Adam sadly smiled and left the room. Feeling satisfied that he had acted presidential, Gabby went back to the billiards table, took a plate, and proceeded to scoop two fried eggs on to it.
“He’s a good boy,” Gabby said.
“What?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“He said, Private Christy is a good boy,” Lincoln said. “And Mr. Gabby’s right. He’s a good boy.”
“He is not!” Mrs. Lincoln sputtered, almost choking on a blueberry muffin. “He’s holding us here against our will! How on earth can you say that young man is a good boy?”