Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Eight

Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Six months later Richmond falls to the Union. The captives in the basement learn the war is over.
“Cordie will fix me a good supper once I get home tonight.”
“It’ll be end of the week before you can leave,” Stanton said.
“That’s fine.” Lincoln put his arm around his wife. “We’ll arise Easter Sunday.”
His mind a blank, Adam unlocked the door. Not knowing where his feet would take him, he did not care; this was the first happy day for many months and he was unable to deal with it. Out the door and in the hall, Adam looked both ways. When he focused on the kitchen, he thought of Phebe. Even though he knew she would never forgive him, Adam felt an obligation to let her and Cleotis know the good news. He found Phebe sitting and rubbing her feet while the butler swept the floor.
“The war’s over.”
Phebe dropped her feet and slipped on her shoes.
“Thank you, Private,” Cleotis replied in deep, solemn tones. “The struggle for freedom is at last over. Hallelujah.”
“We can go home,” Adam mumbled.
“You may be going home, but, the Good Lord willing, we are home. Free and where we should be.”
“Yes, sir.” Looking at Phebe, he saw her reach for Cleotis’s hand and smile. Adam left the kitchen, looked down at his clothes, and rubbed his chin. He needed to clean up, he decided, before he went to Jessie to beg for her forgiveness.
In his room, Adam removed his blue tunic, stained with bean soup and mustard. Looking in the mirror, he brushed his fingers through his unruly red hair. They would have beautiful red-haired children, and he would be a good father. Adam brushed lathered soap onto his stubbly face. Perhaps he could get a job at one of the pottery factories in Steubenville. He did not want to be in the army anymore. Next he searched his room for a spare tunic, finding it under the cot, stained with vomit. Deciding the first tunic was better, Adam put it back on and took a wet hand cloth to wipe away the worst of the stains. When that failed, he told himself it did not look all that bad.
Making his way through the crowded streets, Adam crossed the iron bridge and ran to the Armory Square Hospital. Inside the ward, he looked furtively around, hoping to find Jessie, but could not see her. He did notice the odd-looking man who had approached them on the street the night of the Gettysburg celebration. Adam walked over to the odd man who looked up from writing a letter for a soldier whose hands were covered with bandages.
“Where’s Jessie?”
“She’s in a back room with Miss Zook,” the man replied. “The dear old lady doesn’t felt well. I’m afraid the war has not been kind to her.”
“The war’s over.”
“I was expecting it.” The odd man looked down at the wounded soldier. “I have to finish this letter. He wants his mother to know he’s coming home.”
Adam walked down the long aisle, his stomach turning from the mixture of smells—liniment, incontinence, alcohol. Opening the door at the end of the hall, he saw Jessie sitting on the edge of Cordie’s cot, wiping the old lady’s moist cheeks. Jessie turned to look at him, her eyes blank.
“The war’s over,” he said.
Jessie turned her attention to Cordie, who was delirious.
“I’ve got to get it done,” she mumbled. “Gabby needs a quilt. I can’t get it done just lying here. I got—I got…”
“Of course, me dear, get your strength back,” Jessie said. “Be quiet, me love. Try to sleep now.”
“Did you hear me?” Adam fidgeted.
“Yes.”
“Gabby’s got to get a quilt,” Cordie insisted feverishly.
“Darlin’, I’ll finish the quilt meself.”
“So tired.” Cordie shook her head. “Can’t finish the Gabby quilt.” She looked up at Jessie and grabbed her arm. “Take care of Gabby. He used to be so smart, but he needs somebody to take care of him.” Her eyes searched Jessie’s face. “Take care of him.”
“Of course, me darlin’. Try to sleep.”
“Gabby’s leaving the White House soon,” Adam told her. “He can help you get well.”
“Gabby’s coming home?” Cordie’s eyes widened. “Good. Good.” She focused on Adam. “Bring him here as soon as you can.”
“I will.”
“Gabby’s coming home. That’s good. I feel better now. Gabby’s coming home.” Cordie coughed, gasped, and stopped breathing. Her eyes gazed blankly over Jessie’s shoulder.
“God bless ye, me darlin’.” Jessie closed Cordie’s eyes.
“You were good to her.” Adam put his hand on her shoulder. “We can take care of Gabby. He’ll like it in Steubenville. It’s a friendly little town.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you all right?” Adam realized how warm her body felt beneath his hand, and that her face was moist with perspiration. “You seem awfully hot.”
“I’m fine.” She coughed.
“How long have you been sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen the doctor?”
“The doctors are for the soldiers.”
“But you’re important too,” Adam insisted.
“I can take care of meself.”
“But I want to take care of you.” He could only whisper.
“Ye can’t take care of yourself.”
“You’re right.” Adam’s mind raced to form the precise words to win her back. “I’ve behaved terribly, but all that’s behind me. I’ve grown up.”
“I have to make funeral arrangements.” Jessie stood.
“What about Gabby?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“What about me?”
“You’re grown up. Take care of yourself.”
Adam followed her out the door, watching her cough as she disappeared into the crowded ward. The odd-looking man walked up.
“Miss Zook is dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“You love Miss Home, don’t you?”
“She hates me.”
“Love and hate are related; she could not be so deeply hurt if she did not love as deeply.”
“No, she hates me.”
“She loves you. Give her time.”
“We don’t have time.”

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