Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton holds President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. Janitor Gabby Zook by accident must stay in the basement too. Guard Adam Christy tells the Lincoln Tad has become ill. Lincoln demands the boy be brought to them.
“Oh, I’m so excited,” Tad said with a bit of a giggle. “I bet Mama’s going to cry.”
“Of course she’ll cry.” Alethia hugged him. “I’m about to cry just thinking about it. Enjoy every minute of it.”
“You can come with me,” Tad offered as he sat up.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Alethia cast a worried glance toward Adam. “You see, um, the fewer people going downstairs, the better. We don’t want a grand parade to the basement, do we?”
“I guess not.” Tad lowered his head in disappointment. He looked up at Adam. “We better go now.”
Bending over to pick up Tad, Adam was surprised by how light the boy was. Hardly any meat on his bones, he thought, just like me when I was that age. He held the child close to him.
“I’ll open the door for you.” Alethia pulled on the knob. “Wait a minute.” She peeked out and looked both ways down the long, dark hallway, barely lit by flickering gas lamps. “Tom Pen makes his rounds soon to put out the lights.” She smiled at Adam. “It’s clear.”
Tad lifted his head, which he had snuggled into Adam’s shoulder, and smiled, waving his hand. “See you later.”
“Yes, see you later, my darling.”
Adam quickly crossed the hall to the service stairs, where he opened the door, looked back to see Alethia smiling through the crack of Tad’s bedroom door, and then shut it and started down the straw-matted steps with the sickly, perspiration-drenched boy, scented by medicines and faint traces of urine, who snuggled and moaned.
“You’re much nicer than I first thought,” Tad murmured, not lifting his face but nuzzling in deeper. “You don’t have to be a lieutenant.”
“Thank you.”
“Where did Papa find you?”
“Mr. Stanton recommended me,” Adam replied after an awkward pause. “He’s from my hometown.”
“Oh.” Tad wiped his running nose on Adam’s rumpled blue tunic. “I don’t like Mr. Stanton. He’s mean.”
“He’s…” Adam stumbled over his words, trying to find the right one to describe the secretary of war. “He’s professional.”
“I don’t know what that means.” He turned his nose into Adam’s armpit. “You smell like you ain’t had a bath in a week.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all right. I hate baths too.”
“Do you want me to tell you what professional means?” Adam stopped at the basement door.
“No. It probably means he’s mean but got a good reason to be.”
“Close enough.”
Adam opened the door and searched the vaulted basement hall. Finding no one around, he quickly entered, closed the door, and hastened his pace to the billiards room. Suddenly Phebe stepped from her room, fixed Adam in her gaze, and crossed her arms. Like a deer trapped by a poised hunter, he said nothing, did nothing, except to let his chin droop.
“Hello, Phebe,” Tad said, with a chirp as he lifted his head and smiled. “I gotta go puke.”
“You don’t get sick in your room?” Her eyes widened.
“Stinks up the place, Mama says,” he replied. “’Course, sometimes I don’t know it’s comin’ up until it’s too late. One time I got vomit over one of Mama’s fancy dresses. Boy, did she get mad.”
“I can imagine,” Phebe said.
“Vomit won’t hurt a uniform much,” Tad informed her.
“So, Private Christy. You’ve been given puke patrol.”
“Puke patrol.” Tad laughed. “That’s funny.”
“Yes,” Adam replied with a tight smile, “so if you’ll excuse us, we’ve serious regurgitation business to tend to.”
Phebe shook her head and waved them on, as she went back to her room.
“Reach down in my pocket and get the keys.”
“All right.” Tad retrieved them. “Here they are.”
As Adam opened the door and carried Tad through, he noticed Phebe’s door across the hall. It was slightly ajar. That might be a point of concern, but Adam dismissed it as he presented the boy to his parents.
“Oh, my Taddie! Oh, my baby! Oh, my baby!” Mrs. Lincoln grabbed her son from Adam, and immediately dropped to the floor, sobbing and clutching him to her bosom.
“See, I told you she’d cry,” Tad said, his voice muffled.
“Thank you.” Lincoln walked up and put a large hand on Adam’s shoulder.
“You’re welcome, Mr. President.”
“I’m sorry I grabbed you. I should have never lost control.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“Have you had subnitrate of bismuth?” Mrs. Lincoln held Tad’s face in her hands.
“It tastes awful.”
“But it made you feel better, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I suppose that woman isn’t completely incompetent.” Mrs. Lincoln held his head close to her breast.
“Oh no. She’s a nice lady,” Tad said, pulling away to look at his mother. “She looks just like you.” He smiled. “’Course, I knew the very first day.”
“You did? How bright of you,” Lincoln said, kneeling down to his wife and son. “And how did you figure that out so fast?”
“She doesn’t get mad like you do, Mama.”
“Tad!” Mrs. Lincoln’s mouth flew open. She looked at her husband. “Mr. Lincoln!”
Lincoln tried to be serious, but began to smile, which gave way to a chuckle. Mrs. Lincoln slapped at him, but could not help but join him. Tad, happy he had made his parents happy, giggled.
Adam smiled until he glanced over at the boxes and crates to see Gabby with his homemade quilt clutched tightly around his shoulders, and remembered this was not a happy ending, but merely a respite in their ordeal.