Previously in the book: President and Mrs. Lincoln are being held captive in the White House basement while lookalikes settle into their places upstairs.
As he began to climb the stairs, Private Adam Christy looked up to see Phebe, stepping lightly and smiling openly at him. Adam could not remember meeting a young, attractive black woman in Steubenville, Ohio. He recalled old black men who cut his hair at the local barbershop. He recalled old black women chasing little white children around the park. He saw strong young black men digging ditches along the road, but he had never encountered a young black woman who smelled of soap and freshly cut vegetables and whose eyes met his as though they were equals. Wondering why this particular black woman knew they were equals made his heart race.
“Did you get everything in the room fine?”
“Yes, fine. Thanks.” As Adam passed Phebe he felt breathless and feared his neighbors in Ohio would not understand or approve of his reaction. When he reached the second floor, Adam looked both ways before walking across the hall to Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom. As he opened the door and entered with a sigh of relief, he looked up and felt his heart jump into his throat as he saw Mrs. Keckley, hands on her hips, staring at him.
“Now why am I not surprised to see you here?” she said. “But I am curious why a private in the Army of the United States of America boldly walks into the boudoir of the wife of the president.”
His throat constricted, Adam coughed before words came through his lips. “I’m acting on orders from the president,” he said in a whisper.
“And what orders are those, young man?”
Before Adam could find an appropriate reply, Alethia stepped around the corner from Lincoln’s bedroom and spoke. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Keckley. Mr. Lincoln is waiting for him.”
“Mrs. Lincoln.” Mrs. Keckley’s mouth fell open as she spun around. “I didn’t think you were here. I came back because I didn’t feel right when you dismissed me, and then I saw this strange young man in the hall. There was something in the look of his eyes that—”
“Well, there’s nothing for you to fret about, dear,” Alethia interrupted, guiding her toward the door.
“But you never decided whether you wanted the blue material.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“You finally decided to come out of mourning?” Mrs. Keckley turned and beamed. “Praise the Lord.”
“Oh,” Alethia said, putting her hand to her breast. “I haven’t decided that—yet. What I said was that the blue material was lovely for when I do decide to move from black.”
“Talk to Mr. Lincoln about it, ma’am,” Mrs. Keckley said. “And the Lord. Pray about it. The Lord knows best.”
“Please don’t press me about this, Mrs. Keckley.” Alethia closed her eyes. “I think one of my headaches is coming on.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she replied. “Not another word.” She paused and looked at Alethia sympathetically. “You have your paregoric nearby, don’t you, ma’am?”
“Please go now,” Alethia said.
“If you say so, Mrs. Lincoln,” the black seamstress said with uncertainty as she was being pushed out of the room.
After she closed the door, Alethia turned to smile sweetly at Adam. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to blunder in like this, Mrs. Lincoln, but Mrs. Lincoln wanted some things.” He stopped and involuntarily moved his hand to his mouth. “I mean, Mrs. Lincoln in the basement, the real Mrs. Lincoln; I mean, not to say you’re fake—I guess you are, but I don’t mean to be disrespectful to you…”
“There’s no need to be flustered, young man.” Alethia patted his hand. “I know it’s going to be quite a curiosity to contend with two Mrs. Lincolns, but I feel we must deal with it, for I really don’t believe it’d be conducive to our enterprise for you to know my real name.”
“No, ma’am, you’re right. I mean, I don’t think it’d be right for me to know your name,” Adam said, fumbling his words.
“But I can know your name,” she said.
“Private Adam Christy from Steubenville, Ohio, ma’am.” He grinned.
“We’ll see this venture through, Private Christy,” Alethia said, “and soon our lives will return to normal.” She shook his hand.
“Molly,” Duff called out from Lincoln’s bedroom, “who’s that you’re talking to?”
“This is your new adjutant, dear, Private Adam Christy of Steubenville, Ohio.” Guiding Adam by the hand, Alethia walked into the other bedroom.
“Good to be working with you, Private.” Duff nodded as he finished putting his clothes in the dresser.
“Mrs. Lincoln—downstairs—wants a few things,” Adam said.
“That sounds reasonable.” Duff sat on the edge of the bed. “It seems to me, if we don’t treat those folks in the basement with the best of consideration, they surely will treat us with no consideration when they’re released.”
Alethia stepped toward Duff. “But Mr. Stanton promised…”
“Mr. Stanton’s promises could be empty if the real Mr. Lincoln decides he doesn’t take kindly to this.”
“He should be grateful,” Adam said.
“Well, I’ll be grateful if he’s grateful.” Duff smiled.
For a moment, Adam was taken by the similarities between the two Mr. Lincolns. Both were gaunt, tall, and innately sad. They talked almost the same, although Adam detected a rougher, less educated tone in this one. He did seem to share certain wisdom with the man in the basement, though he did not express it as cleverly. Adam also sensed the impersonator was younger, but older in his view that the world was a place to be feared.
“So.” Duff slapped his hands on his thighs. “What do they want?”
“Oh. Well, Mrs. Lincoln wanted her—well…” Adam paused as he glanced nervously at Alethia.
“I think I know what you mean.” Her eyes lowered, and she nodded. “Her…” Alethia’s voice softened, “…unmentionables.”

Previously in the book: Secretary of War Stanton places President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House basement. Feeble-minded janitor Gabby Zook is found in the corner of the room setting rat traps so he now has to remain. Stanton leaves Private Adam Christy to see to their needs as well as keeping them locked away.

For several moments Mary Lincoln lingered in her husband’s embrace, drying her tears. Finally, she looked up at him with a question in her eyes. “Do you think he’s just joking?”
“It’d require a surgical operation to get a joke into his head,” Lincoln said, giving her a loving hug. “No, I believe he’s quite serious.”
“Then he’s a damned fool,” she replied.
“On the contrary, Molly; it is he who believes me to be the damned fool, and if Mr. Stanton says I am a damned fool, then I must be one, for he’s nearly always right and generally means what he says.”
Adam cleared his throat. “I don’t think Secretary Stanton thinks you’re a fool, sir. I think he just disagrees with your policy.”
“My policy is to have no policy.”
“Well, I think that’s what he means.”
“And you, young man,” Mrs. Lincoln said as she looked at Adam with disdain, “are as big a fool as Mr. Stanton.”
“No, ma’am. I have to respectfully disagree. If we could only explain our position better, I’m sure you’d agree. Perhaps over the next few days I can describe Mr. Stanton’s vision.” Adam smiled broadly, confidently.
“Young man,” Lincoln said after his sad eyes considered the private for a long while, “it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt.”
Adam’s smile slowly faded as the impact of Lincoln’s words sank in. He stepped back in front of the door to stand guard.
Lincoln turned to Gabby, whose mouth was still agape, his eyes filled with uncomprehending fear, and looked at him with sympathy. “Well, my dear friend, you must be frightened out of your wits. I know I am.”
Gabby nodded feebly.
“Now, don’t worry. We’ll all get through this just fine.”
“Cordie’s going to be awfully worried when I don’t make it home tonight.”
“Maybe this young man can do something ’bout that.” Lincoln looked at Adam. “Mr. Stanton did say you were to attend to our needs, did he not?”
“Sir, I already said I would speak to the gentlemen’s sister, sir,” he replied in his best, crisp, detached military voice.
“Cordie comes by Lafayette Park every evening to take me home.”
“Can’t you tell her something?” Lincoln asked.
“I’m not really good at lies,” Adam replied. “But I could make something up.”
“Well, don’t make up anything too fancy.” Lincoln smiled. “No man has a good enough memory to make a successful liar.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam said.
“And how are we to sleep?” Mrs. Lincoln demanded.
“Mr. Stanton said there were extra cots in the next room where I’ll be staying.”
“There’s not enough room for a cot back there, but that’s all right with me.” Gabby looked around at the space behind the crates and barrels. “I can sleep on the floor. It’ll be like camping out. I like camping out. Joe and me, we used to go camping all the time on Long Island. It’ll be just like all the good times camping, except Joe isn’t here.”
“He rambles,” Mrs. Lincoln said, clutching her husband. “I don’t think I can stand staying in a closed space with a man who rambles.”
“Remember Christmas with Billy Herndon?” Lincoln said with a laugh. “The stories that man told, and you couldn’t get him to shut up.”
“Comparing this man to that despicable Billy Herndon doesn’t help the situation.”
Adam cleared his throat. “I can get the cots now, if you please.”
“Yes,” Lincoln said. “That’d be good.”
“I have to lock the door.” He pulled the key from his baggy blue trousers.
“That’s quite all right, son.”
“And chairs, we need chairs,” Mrs. Lincoln said with a sniff. “And a chamber pot—three chamber pots—and a small chest for my clothes…”
“One thing at a time, Molly,” Lincoln interrupted.
“I’ll return shortly,” Adam said, slipping from the room. After locking the door he looked around before going to the next room, where two cots leaned against the wall. Bedding for each sat on the floor beside it. Bending, Adam tried to lift a cot with each arm but found the cast-iron beds too cumbersome. He carried a cot and a bedding bundle, deposited them outside the locked door, and returned for the rest. When he reappeared, Adam stopped abruptly at the sight of Phebe Bartlett leaving the kitchen.
“You need some help?” Phebe said, an open smile gracing her handsome, dark brown face.
“Yes.” Adam smiled, fumbling with the cot and bedding. “Oh.” Suddenly his eyes widened. “I mean, no. No, I don’t need any help.”
“It won’t be no bother.” Phebe turned to the kitchen door. “Neal, the soldier boy needs help with some cots.”
“No, really,” Adam said. “I don’t want any help.”
“Good,” Neal’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “I didn’t want to help no white boy do his work anyway.”
“He was just kidding.” Phebe frowned and looked at Adam. “He’s a big kidder.”
“That’s all right.” Adam paused, shifted from one foot to another. “Do you have someplace to go?”
“I was going upstairs to ask Mrs. Lincoln what soup she wants with supper.”
“Oh, she’s…” Adam glanced at the billiards room, stopped, then pointed to the stairs. “Yes, she’s in her room, I think.”
“For a new face, you sure know a caboodle about the Lincolns.”
“I’m on special assignment.” He coughed. “You better be on your way.”
Shrugging good-naturedly, Phebe turned the corner and disappeared. Adam waited until he heard the crackling of the straw mats under her feet as she climbed the service stars. Quickly unlocking the door and pushing the cots and bedding into the room, he looked at the Lincolns. “Here they are. Where do you want them set up?”
“In the corner, of course,” Mrs. Lincoln said. “And I insist on curtains. I don’t want this person”—she nodded toward Gabby—“coming around the corner of the crates to see me dressing. That’d be totally unacceptable.”
“Of course, madam.” Adam nodded.
“Bring me the curtains in my bedroom. They’re of French fabric with allows me to see out, but no one can see in.”
“But won’t that arouse suspicion, having the curtains removed from Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom?” Adam asked, furrowing his brow.
“Young man, I am Mrs. Lincoln.” Her voice rose. “And no one is allowed in my private quarters except Mr. Lincoln and Mrs. Keckley. And when it comes to Mrs. Keckley, you’ll have to explain more than the disappearance of mere curtains.”
“Be sure to bring her bottle of paregoric.” Lincoln put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “It’s in the top drawer of the chest in her room.”
“Also my underthings,” Mrs. Lincoln said, her eyes widening. “You must bring them down here immediately. I don’t think it’s proper to have a young ruffian such as you handling my delicate items, but I suppose there’s no way around it.”
“I’ll try to be respectful,” Adam said earnestly as he left the room. Locking the door, he sighed, hoping he would remember everything Mrs. Lincoln had requested. This project was becoming more complicated than originally planned. Stanton had made it seem like such a noble endeavor, upholding the ideals of Union and abolition. Adam had not imagined wrestling with the logistics of chamber pots, paregoric, and French lace curtains.

Previously in the book: President and Mrs. Lincoln, plus a slow-witted janitor, haven been placed under guard in a room in the basement of the White House. Upstairs, Alethia Haliday unpacks her bags, ready to begin her role as Mary Lincoln.
“Oh, dear me, no.” Rose laughed. “This is my dear old friend Alethia Haliday. Her imprisonment is a farce, a perfect farce. Some scoundrel talked the simple country mouse into presenting me with a cake which contained a packet of scandalous papers meant to incriminate us both, the poor, little innocent lambs we are. She’ll be released any time now, I’m sure.”
“Is that true, madam?” Stanton studied Alethia’s clear, plain, twitching face.
“Yes, sir.” She averted her eyes.
“Would you elaborate?” Stanton said, leaning in.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Where are you from?”
“She’s from my hometown of Bladensburg, Maryland.” Rose stepped between them.
“Let her speak.”
“Rose is correct. We grew up in Bladensburg. I still live there—until recently.”
“I swear I detect a hint of a Kentucky lilt.” A smile slashed across Stanton’s Cupid’s bow lips.
“Mother was from Kentucky,” Alethia said, becoming disarmed. “Her accent was quite thick, and I succumbed to its influence from the cradle.”
“In these war times,” Rose said after clearing her throat, “you ought to be involved in some more important business than holding an inquisition of women.”
Stanton bowed and left. A week later, prison superintendent Woods visited Alethia’s cell after midnight. After shaking her awake, Woods pulled down his trousers, exposing skinny, hairy legs.
“I was told you were a good-looking woman,” he murmured as he pinned her body to the metal cot with his arms and legs.
“You’re mistaken,” Alethia said in a small voice. She attempted to push him away but finally failed, her arms being pressed against her ample bosom. “Mrs. Greenhow is in the next room.”
“I don’t want a woman with a fresh mouth on her,” he said, continuing to force his body on her. “I want you. You got meat on your bones. My wife is too skinny.” Forcing his mouth on hers, Woods pulled up her nightgown and spread her legs apart. “I like women who know their place—bound for the gallows.”
Numb, Alethia was fixated on the irony: forty years’ of virginity ended by a vulgar, frenetic little man who, even though she did not know from experience, Alethia was certain did not do it right. Every midnight, Superintendent Woods appeared, said she was doomed to hang, and raped her. When she told Rose, Alethia expected sympathy and compassion; instead, she received a hard glint and a wagging finger of instruction.
“Tell him he’s wonderful,” Rose said, taking both of Alethia’s hands into her lap. “I know he must be dreadful—he looks like he’d be dreadful—but lie. Tell him you love him.”
“But I couldn’t lie.” Alethia’s eyes fluttered.
“Do you want to die?” Rose snapped. “Don’t be foolish. Lead him on until you can report him and gain your freedom.” Rose smiled and gently brushed her friend’s hair. “Please don’t crumble like you usually do. I could have hugged you and said, oh, you poor baby, but what good would that have done? Understand?”
“I think.”
“Alethia, darling, you can be delicate in Bladensburg, but in Washington you must be tough.”
Nodding, she forced a smile even though she did not really understand what her friend was saying. Or rather, she did not think Rose understood her. What came naturally for Rose was impossible for her. As it turned out, Alethia did not have to follow her friend’s advice. The next morning she was to be taken to the reception room of the War Department for a hearing before Secretary Stanton himself.
“Tell him you’re a poor delicate woman who has been violated,” was Rose’s quickly whispered advice in her ear as she walked to a carriage.
Alethia remember standing in the back of the room watching Stanton at a high writing desk, looking over the rim of his pebble glasses with impatience at men wanting contract bids, jobs, and political favors. Most of them, greeted gruffly with monosyllabic replies, were escorted from the room efficiently. After all the petitioners left, Stanton lifted his gnome-like hand and waved her forward, his glare withering Alethia.
I’m a fragile, delicate woman. I’m a fragile, delicate woman…
Stanton motioned to the guard at the door to leave. As soon as the door had shut and they were alone, his eyes darted Alethia’s way. “Do you know who you look like?”
“I’m a fragile, delicate woman,” she mumbled.
“What?” Stanton’s brows rose. “That made absolutely no sense. If you’re going mad, then I’ll send you to the insane asylum across the river.”
“I’m not insane, just flustered.” Alethia blushed.
“Then answer my question. Do you know who you look like?”
“I’ve always been told I look like my mother.”
“An insipid answer, but at least not insane,” Stanton said. “No, you look like the president’s wife. Mary Todd Lincoln.”
“Is that good?” Alethia fluttered her eyes.
“Very good for you.” Stanton smiled. “No one has ever pointed this out to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Come with me.”
“Come with you?” She furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand—and—and I have a complaint about Mr. Woods.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that,” Stanton said.
“You know?” Alethia’s mouth fell open. “You allowed him?”
“Wouldn’t you rather come with me than be bothered with Mr. Woods anymore?”
For the next few weeks, Alethia stayed in a comfortable room, enlarging on her Kentucky accent, poring over minutiae on the life of Mary Todd Lincoln and memorizing everything about the Executive Mansion, Anderson Cottage, and the staff. For instance, she knew Anderson Cottage was the Lincolns’ summer home in the Maryland foothills. She also knew her closest friend in Washington was Elizabeth Keckley, a freed black seamstress. Alethia knew she must not like Lincoln’s secretaries, John Hay, who enjoyed partying with the Lincolns’ son Robert, and John Nicolay, who was a native of Bavaria. Details stuck with Alethia easily, until she knew Mary Todd Lincoln as well as herself. She longed to hold Tad in her arms and make him believe she was his mother.
Storing the last of her personal items in the dark oak chest of drawers upstairs in the Executive Mansion, Alethia thought of her job, that of an actress, her stage the grandest house in America, and her audience the most important people in America, who must not know they are an audience.
“Excuse me,” the tall, angular man from the next room said shyly as he stood in the doorway.
Alethia jumped slightly as she turned to smile brightly at him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t. I tend to lose myself in thought.”
He smiled. “I thought we might want to get to know each other before folks start popping up all over the place.”
“Of course.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Alethia Haliday from Bladensburg, Maryland.”
“Duff Read, Michigan. Nice to meet you, Miss Haliday.”
He took her hand in his, and Alethia was unsettled by the huge, hammy rough paw that tenderly engulfed her fingers. His touch was different from Woods’s touch. Funny, she thought, she never paid much attention to a man’s touch before, and now it was all consuming. Duff chuckled awkwardly as he tried to pull his hand away.
“Alethia. Please call me Alethia.”
“As much as I’d like to do that, Miss Alethia,” Duff said in a distinct Midwestern twang, “don’t you think it’d be best if we start calling each other by the Lincoln names? It wouldn’t do if I called you Alethia in front of Mr. Seward or some other important person.”
“I suppose so.”
“So you can call me Abe—“
“Oh no,” Alethia quickly corrected him. “Mrs. Lincoln always calls him Father or Mr. Lincoln.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
“And you call me Molly or Mother.”
“I’m glad you’re smart about things like this,” Duff said. “I used to have a pretty good memory until I spent time in a rebel prison down in Virginia.”
“How terrible for you.” Alethia impulsively touched his long arm, ill-fitted in the dark suit coat—unfortunately, the same way Lincoln’s arms dangled unfashionably from his sleeve. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, ma’am, I can’t.” He ducked his head. “I was a spy.”
“So was I,” she sadly said, “or at least that’s what I am told.” Glancing away, she added, “For the South.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m not really. While I may have some Southern sympathies, I’d never—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I see you made your introductions.” Secretary of War Stanton entered, his Cupid’s bow mouth turned up in a form of a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Duff said.
“Very good. Work closely together. Get your stories straight. Don’t contradict each other. Play your parts.” Stanton pulled out his watch to look at the time. “You should prepare for a cozy dinner soon with Tad. He is a holy terror.” He glanced at the unpacked bags. “You go to Anderson Cottage tomorrow.” He looked at Duff. “I leave you to call a Cabinet meeting tonight so you, Mr. President, can dismiss General George McClellan as commander of the Army of the Potomac.”

Previously in the novel: Secretary of War Edwin Stanton takes President and Mrs. Lincoln to a room in the White House basement where they will stay until the end of the war. Their guard Pvt. Adam Christy thinks he’s saving his country.

“Don’t you think I might be missed at the Cabinet meetings?”
“You’ll be there.” Stanton smiled, pausing to chuckle at the look of puzzlement on Lincoln’s face. “Or at least, a man who looks remarkably similar to you.”
“Poor fellow,” Lincoln said with a trace of a grin. “I didn’t think any man on earth was as ugly as I am.”
“This is no time for your silly jokes.” Mrs. Lincoln did not lift her head from his shoulder, but slapped him on the chest.
“Details aren’t necessary,” Stanton continued, “but needless to say, I found a gentleman who, for the appropriate compensation, will dress like Lincoln, talk like Lincoln, and look like Lincoln, but say exactly what I tell him.”
“And that one fact makes him nothing at all like Mr. Lincoln.” Pulling her head up and daubing her eyes, Mrs. Lincoln pursed her lips as she looked at Stanton. “He’s enough like Mr. Lincoln to convince the Cabinet members?”
“And Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay?” Lincoln asked.
The mention of the two elegant men serving as personal secretaries of President Lincoln caused Adam to frown. He secretly hoped they would not be fooled and would need some forceful encouragement—and Adam gladly would provide that force.
“They’ll be no problem.” Stanton addressed Mrs. Lincoln. “I even found a suitable replacement for you, madam.”
“For me?” Her eyes widened.
“There’s only one person in Washington I couldn’t fool or intimidate into believing my impostor is the president, and that person is his wife.”
“Of course I could tell the difference.”
“I know,” Stanton said.
“And I’d scream to high heaven about it, too.”
“That’s why you’re joining the president in the basement.”
“You’ll fail.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled. “This plan is ludicrous.”
“You’re wrong, Mrs. Lincoln,” Stanton said.
“Why, Mrs. Keckley knows the shape of my body…”
“A colored woman,” Stanton said dismissively. “It’ll be no problem to convince her she doesn’t see what she sees.”
Adam furrowed his brow, uncomfortable to hear this attitude being expressed by Stanton, the man who had brought him to Washington and taught him of holy crusades. They were supposed to be fighting to end slavery because black men and women were equal to white people. A belief in that equality was not detectable in Stanton’s tone of voice. That tone, Adam had always been told, was characteristic of Southerners using black muscle to till their fields.
“And Taddie,” Mrs. Lincoln continued. “Taddie’ll know that woman isn’t his mother.”
“A child will believe whatever it’s told,” Stanton pronounced.
Again Adam shifted uneasily at Stanton’s remarks. Children did not believe everything they were told. As wise as the secretary of war was, he should know that. Adam certainly knew it; he was closer to childhood than Stanton was, and therefore had a clearer memory of what it was like to be a boy than did the man with the pharaoh beard. Adam remembered exactly the emotions coursing through a boy’s heart when an adult preached sermons his guts told him were wrong. He knew to bite his tongue, nod his head, and allow the adult to think he was having his way, while all along the child comforted himself in the knowledge that, in his own brain, he knew the truth.
“Now, let me see if I got this straight.” Lincoln cleared his throat. “You got a fellow upstairs right now—”
“He’s probably unpacking at this moment,” Stanton interjected.
“And you’re going to have him stand before the Cabinet and tell them General McClellan will no longer command the Army of the Potomac and replace him with…”
“General Burnsides,” Stanton supplied.
“A good man,” Lincoln said. “A bit of a dandy, but a good man.”
“He’s not afraid to fight.”
“But can he win?”
“If he fights, he’ll win.”
“You do wrong to underestimate Bobby Lee.” Lincoln raised an eyebrow.
“Fear never won battles,” Stanton said. “That’s McClellan’s weakness. He overestimates the power of General Lee.”
“Don’t waste your words on him, Father,” Mrs. Lincoln said with a sniff.
“You may be right, my dear.” Lincoln patted his wife.
“He’s a fool. Don’t waste your wisdom on a fool.”
“I do have just one other question. How long do you think it’ll take General Burnsides to win the war?”
“I expect you’ll be able to celebrate Christmas upstairs.”
“And you expect us to be jolly for Christmas?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“You’ll thank me—as Private Christy said earlier—for saving lives, the Union, and your place in history.” Stanton smiled. “Oh, you’re a bit peeved now, but that’ll pass when you bask in the accolades justly earned by me.”
“‘A bit peeved’? ‘Justly earned’?” Mrs. Lincoln rolled her eyes. “I swear to God, that man’s a fool.”
“Who else is part of this grand scheme?” Lincoln asked. “Mr. Seward, I presume?”
“No.” Stanton shook his head. “Very few are involved. I decided it’d be better that way. And it’d be better for you to ask no more questions.” He nodded to the young soldier. “Private Christy will be in the next room and will attend to your every need.”
“I need to be with my son,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Well, perhaps not every need.”
“But his main duty will be to keep us locked away,” Lincoln said, “while you run the country upstairs through this man who’s unfortunate enough to look like me.”
“Good; as long as we all understand the situation.” Stanton pulled out his watch and squinted at it. “I’ll be calling an emergency Cabinet meeting tonight.”
A slight metallic jangling from behind the barrels and crates in the far corner caught Stanton’s attention.
“What was that?”
“Who goes there?” Adam pulled his Remington revolver.
“Don’t shoot.” Gabby Zook stood, raising his hands.
“Who the hell are you?” Stanton asked, fuming.
“Father! That man cursed in front of me!”
“Molly, Mr. Stanton’s language is the least of our problems.” He patted her reassuringly.
“Come out slowly,” Adam ordered.
“Rat traps.” Gabby came forward, shuffling his feet and lowering his head. “Rats in the basement. Rats in the basement, and we can’t have rats in the White House basement. I put out rat traps. Then you came in, and I was trapped. Like the rats in the basement, but I don’t want to get trapped.
“Who the hell is this?” Stanton repeated, his face reddening.
“If I recall properly, this is the nephew of General Samuel Zook. He put in a good word for his dead brother’s son.”
“You know Uncle Sammy?” Gabby walked toward Lincoln. Mrs. Lincoln cringed and hid her face in her husband’s shoulder. “I like Uncle Sammy. He was always the smart one in the family. Everyone said he’d be the successful one. Being a general is pretty good, so I guess he’s the successful one in the family.”
“General Zook said he had a few problems,” Lincoln said.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Setting rat traps,” Lincoln replied. “Weren’t you listening?”
“Can I go now?” Gabby inched his way toward the door.
“No,” Stanton said. “You know too much. You heard too much.”
“How can I know too much?” Gabby’s eyes filled with confusion. “They kicked me out of West Point before I could learn much.”
“You must stay in this room with the Lincolns.”
Mrs. Lincoln’s mouth fell open. “First, you stick a gun in my face. You tell me I have to live in the basement. You use foul language in my presence, and now you tell me I must live with this person?”
“It wasn’t planned,” Stanton said.
“Most of life isn’t what we plan, Mr. Stanton.” Lincoln took two small steps toward the secretary. “Stop this now, before it’s too late. This man has shown up. Who knows what other complications await you? You’ve good intentions. I know that. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“The rat trapper can set up house behind the crates.” Stanton’s eyes dismissed Lincoln’s plea. “You won’t even know he’s there, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“No!” As Stanton left the room, Gabby rushed the door. “I got to get back to Cordie! Cordie needs me!”
“Please, sir, everything will be all right.” Adam grabbed him. “Please calm down.”
“But Cordie! What’s going to happen to Cordie?”
“She’ll be fine. I’ll tell her.” Adam paused. “I’ll tell her something.”

Previously in book: Private Adam Christy escorts President and Mrs. Lincoln to the billiards room in the White House basement where they will stay until Secretary of War Stanton can win the war.

Opening the door, Adam deferentially stepped aside to allow President Lincoln, his wife, and Secretary of War Stanton to enter the room. Lincoln stopped by the billiards table and placed his hands on the edge, his head hanging. Mrs. Lincoln ran a finger across the table and looked at it with disdain. “What a filthy mess,” she announced. “If I’d known matters had come to this, heads would’ve rolled.”
“Dust is the least of our problems, Mother.” Lincoln turned to Stanton. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Secretary?”
“Shut the door.” Stanton nodded to Adam.
He obeyed and stood guard in front of the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his thoughts going to the revolver in his tunic: whether he might use it, and what circumstances would warrant using it against the president of the United States.
“Mr. Stanton, will you finally explain this ultimate insult to my husband?” Mrs. Lincoln’s eyes glistened with anger.
“Certainly.” Stanton removed his small pebble glasses, placed them in an inside pocket of his gray suit, and looked directly at the president. “Simply put, your lack of understanding of military strategy has imperiled the lives of thousands of soldiers and has threatened to lengthen, unnecessarily, this war.”
“Imperiled lives?” Mrs. Lincoln’s plump jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “Why, sir, that’s the most—”
“Mother, please.” Lincoln raised a large hand and returned his attention to Stanton. “I assume, Mr. Secretary, you’re referring to my reinstatement of General McClellan to command the Army of the Potomac.”
“I thought after your visit with the general in July outside Richmond after the Seven-Day Battle you’d come to grips with this problem with McClellan. He will not fight.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t told you,” Lincoln replied. “As I recall, you were one of the original supporters of Little Mac. In fact, I had quite a task convincing you of the general’s shortcomings.”
Stanton stiffened. “That was last year. This is 1862. A year of slaughter, lost opportunities, endless drills, gourmet dining on the field, waste of—”
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Lincoln’s voice was shrill.
Adam shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with the display of emotions erupting before him. After all, in his small Ohio community, such outbursts were unpardonable, as evidenced by the reproach given a boy’s comment of the favorite breakfast of his deceased mother.
“Not to mention the fate of the slaves,” Stanton continued. “You’ve created the Emancipation Proclamation, but you can’t release it until a military victory, which is impossible with General McClellan in command.”
“And I agree,” Lincoln said. “I’m a slow walker, but I never walk backwards. That’s why I ordered McClellan’s troops to reinforce the troops of General John Pope.”
“An admirable choice,” Stanton asserted.
“General Pope is a liar and a braggart,” Mrs. Lincoln interjected. “I knew the family in Illinois. The father was a judge known to take bribes, and his mother put on such airs as to make her insufferable.”
“A mother’s lack of social skills shouldn’t disqualify the son from being a proper general,” Stanton replied.
“Losing two major battles in less than two months would disqualify him, however,” Lincoln said, putting his arm around his wife.
“Cedar Mountain and a second debacle at Manassas,” she said, trying to maintain her dignity.
Adam felt sorry for them. Lincoln may be incompetent, but he was still president, and as such deserved respect.
“Anyone deserves more time than was accorded General Pope,” Stanton said.
“Perhaps some would,” Lincoln replied, “but General Pope didn’t. You may not want to believe it, Mr. Stanton, but I too want to end the carnage. It’s just that at this moment, I’m afraid that General McClellan is our best hope.” He smiled. “General Pope is a fool. Even I, with just the friendly Black Hawk War as my only experience, knew Stonewall Jackson wouldn’t retreat. Jackson advances, always advances, but Pope recklessly followed Jackson’s retreat, only to be attacked by reinforcements by Lee and Longstreet. I couldn’t allow Pope to commit another costly mistake.”
“Well, there are other generals than McClellan,” Stanton blustered.
“And I’m sure each one will have his chance before this mess ends,” Lincoln said.
“We don’t have time,” Stanton replied. “That’s why I must insist you and Mrs. Lincoln stay in the basement until I’m able to end the war.”
“Stay in the basement! You must be insane!” Mrs. Lincoln turned to her husband. “This man is insane! They’re expecting us at Anderson Cottage tonight!”
“A message is being delivered now saying you’re spending the night in town.”
She stormed toward Adam, furiously wagging a finger. “And you, young man, how dare you betray your country!”
“I’m trying to save my country, not betray it.” Adam’s eyes fluttered as he looked to Stanton for assurance.
“Any man who can’t control his wife can’t control a war,” Stanton said in a pious tone, his eyebrows raised.
“Please, Molly, don’t do this to yourself,” Lincoln whispered, reaching out and holding her.
“I’m not doing this,” she said, spittle flying. She twisted to escape his grip and, when she realized she was completely restrained, her face went bright red and her eyes filled with tears. “He’s the one doing this to us—not just to us, but to the entire nation!” Looking from face to face, she finally dissolved into sobs, her head buried in Lincoln’s shoulder.

Previously in the book: Private Adam Christy, under orders from Secretary of War Stanton, led the Lincolns to the basement of the White House where they would spend the duration of the war. Placing rat traps in a corner of the basement room was the janitor Gabby Zook, ill-equipped for the emotional turmoil about to be thrust upon him.

“That old man gives me the willies,” Neal said to Phebe in a soft voice, but Gabby, across the hall in the furnace room, heard him. He prided himself on his keen sense of hearing almost as much as he prided himself on his intuitive discernment of the human condition.
“He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Phebe said as she continued to chop vegetables.
Gabby smiled as he bent over to place a rat trap near the furnace. He always knew Phebe was a kind soul. Mama, before she died, had told Gabby it was a sin to assume a black person was bad or mean or stupid. No, Gabby had decided soon after he arrived at the Executive Mansion that Phebe was not bad, mean, or stupid. Now as for Neal, on the other hand, Gabby had not made up his mind.
“Think he’s always been like this?” he heard Neal ask Phebe.
“Most likely so,” Phebe replied with a sigh, her chopping more intense.
Gabby hung his head as he retreated further into the furnace room, placing his rat traps along the way. Phebe’s acceptance of Gabby’s current condition as being congenital weighted his soul, because even now he knew things other people did not. For example, he knew the official name of this building was the Executive Mansion; White House was kind of a nickname. Because Phebe did not realize he knew things did not lessen her kindness or intelligence. It only made her, Gabby decided as he coughed back tears, like all the others who thought so lowly of him—and they were all wrong, oh, so very wrong.
As he walked out of the furnace room and entered the next door down the hall, Gabby recalled how his life had been different in Brooklyn, New York, where he had lived with his father, his mother, and his older sister Cordie in a modest brownstone. His early years were filled with happy days of hiding in the corner of his father’s law office on the first floor of their home. The clients were always common workers and immigrants who ill could afford a lawyer when circumstances found them up against local authorities. The Zooks were not wealthy, but they were held in high esteem by their lowly neighbors whose husbands and fathers Zook had saved from prison or financial disaster. It was then Gabby had developed his ability to be still, to fade into the woodwork and take in all that was being said, digesting it so that the information was his own. Gabby also liked to reach up to his father’s bookshelves and randomly select thick texts on subjects ranging from the law to Romantic poetry to integral calculus. The calculus ran a little deep for the boy, but he always enjoyed the challenge. And it was a good thing Gabby did indeed like challenges, because it turned out his life was going to be one challenge after another.
His first came just before his thirteenth birthday, when his father died of influenza. He had contracted it from a family of Irish textile workers whose landlord had sued them to remove their loom from the parlor in which they eked out a living, creating elegant lace much sought after by the wealthy ladies whose estates lined the banks of the Hudson River north of the city. Before he died, however, father Zook won the Irish family’s right to their livelihood. In gratitude, they created a lovely lace pillowcase on which Gabby’s father’s head was laid. Gabby’s keenest memory of that day was the embrace of his father’s brother Samuel, the true success of the Zook family, a top member of his graduating class from the United States Military Academy at West Point. Samuel Zook was already a major, and the family expected him to become a general. He was tall, straight, and very impressive in his pressed blue uniform, Gabby thought, as he looked up at his uncle and felt proud. His eyes scanned the room to see many poorly dressed men and women, including the Irish people, crying softly. Gabby was at once sad to see the tears and pleased his father had had so many friends. He was further saddened to see his mother collapsed on the divan, life seemingly drained from her haggard body. His sister Cordie, seventeen, sturdily built and plain to the eye, enveloped their mother in her strong arms. Gabby remembered smiling when his best friend Joe VanderPyle slowly entered the room, wary of seeing his first corpse in a coffin displayed in a family’s parlor, but determined to comfort his chum.
Walking to Joe, Gabby tentatively stuck out his hand to shake with his friend, since that was what Uncle Sammy had been doing all afternoon, and with his left hand patted Joe’s shoulder, replicating Uncle Sammy’s other gesture.
“Hi,” Gabby said, his eyes staring at the floor.
“Hi,” Joe replied.
“Yeah.”
After a moment of silence, Gabby said, “He’s over there.”
“Who? Your uncle?”
“No—I mean, yeah, he’s here. In his uniform. He looks like a huckleberry above a persimmon. See?” Gabby stepped aside and pointed to Samuel.
“Yeah. I wish my uncle was a major.”
“Yeah.” Gabby looked down and then chose his words carefully. “No; what I meant was, my pa is over there.” He nodded toward the plain coffin.
“Oh.” Joe stiffened. “Have you looked at him?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t look different than before. He just looks like he’s asleep.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“All right.”
Gabby led his friend through the crowd. Just before reaching the casket, Joe stopped and gripped his sleeve.
“Gabby?”
“Yeah?”
“Were you scared? To look at him, I mean?”
“No. It’s just pa.”
“You’re braver than me.” Joe shook his head. “I ain’t seen a dead body.”
“You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”
“I’m your friend.” Joe straightened his shoulders. “I should look because that’s what friends do.”
“Then you’re braver than me.”
“What?”
“To do something you’re not afraid of isn’t brave. Doing something that scares you, that’s brave.”
“Oh.” Joe smiled. “Thanks.” He glanced at the coffin again. “I want to look now.”
Standing in the billiards room, gray-haired Gabby shook his head and laughed. He knew he had lied that day to his friend about being afraid. When the casket first arrived at the house that morning, Gabby’s mother gently pushed him toward it to make him look at his father’s corpse. It was only after an hour of gazing at the cold countenance that Gabby had become comfortable, but he did not want to tell Joe that. He wanted his friend to feel braver than him, and that helped him feel brave.
Looking around him, Gabby sighed. He bemoaned the fact that he had no need to be brave now, and no need to be brave when catching rats. Counting the traps thrown across his arm, Gabby saw he had three left, and placed one under the worn but elaborate billiards table and another in the fireplace before deciding to place the last behind a stack of barrels and crates in the far corner.
Bending over behind the barrels and crates, Gabby thought how his new life, living in a boardinghouse in the nation’s capital with sister Cordie, was pleasant enough.
He heard, or thought he heard, a hushed voice out in the hall say, “Quickly.”
Life was not as good as in New York, but not as bad as he had feared when Cordie said their father’s money was gone, and they had had to sell the brownstone and move. Uncle Samuel, now a general, arranged a job for Gabby in the Executive Mansion. Cordie mended clothes at their boardinghouse and volunteered at the hospital. His teen-aged years had been good in Brooklyn, where he and Joe VanderPyle had laughed and played through their school years. Both enjoyed everything from mathematics and science to literature and music, but exulted in running, jumping, climbing, and swimming. Each was hoping to receive an appointment to West Point, each secretly confident both would make it.
On his knees, looking down at the trap and at his spreading belly, Gabby touched his cheeks, now sagging, his eyes now surrounded by wrinkles, and his mouth now jerking in constant, silent conversations, and wondered what had happened to his dreams. No, he knew what had happened to his dreams, but he did not want to think about those tragedies, for they had destroyed him and cast him into a frightening world of brief, precious moments of clarity and long, disturbing periods of confusion, anxiety, and fantasy.
Gabby was on the verge of tears, which he often was when he allowed himself to dwell upon what was and what could have been, when the billiards room door opened, causing him to jump and hover behind the barrels and crates, shivering over the iron trap, as though he were a rat himself.

(Previously in the novel: Private Adam Christy guides President and Mrs. Lincoln down the backstairs to the basement where they will spend the rest of the war. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton claims he can end the war faster that way.)

Large, rusty iron traps clanged against each other in Gabby Zook’s big rough hands as he lumbered down the hall of the Executive Mansion basement, muttering to himself.
“Got to find the rats; can’t have rats in the White House. Not around the president and his lady. No, that wouldn’t be proper. No, it wouldn’t be right to have rats in the White House, not when there’s a war going on; not when no war’s going on, either. Rats in the White House aren’t proper any time.”
Sticking his gray-haired head in the door of the main kitchen, Gabby asked, “Seen any rats in here, Miss Phebe?”
“No, sir, Mr. Gabby.” A tall, dark brown young woman looked up from the massive cast-iron stove set into the left wall.” She flashed a toothy, friendly grin. “We keep those critters chased out of here.”
“Yeah, we chop them up and feed them to the white folks upstairs,” said a short, slender, caramel-colored man in his thirties as he walked up with a basket of carrots, tomatoes, and onions.
“The president eats rats?” Gabby’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Neal, don’t tease Mr. Gabby.” Phebe lightly slapped the shoulder of her companion in the kitchen and laughed.
“What does rat taste like?” Gabby said, his eyes squinted in curiosity.
“Chicken.” Neal smiled broadly.
“Mr. Gabby, Neal is pulling your leg.” Phebe shook her head in amusement. “Now, you pay him no mind. No white folks eat rat in the White House, or any other house.” She glanced at Neal. “Tell him straight that folks don’t eat rat.”
“That’s right, Mr. Gabby,” Neal said. “Nobody eats rats, unless they’re real hungry and don’t have nothing else to eat.”
“And there’s plenty of good stuff to eat in the White House.” Gabby nodded.
“Plenty of good stuff here, Mr. Gabby,” Neal said, putting the basket filled with vegetables on a rough chopping block table next to the stove. He looked at Phebe. “Are they eating here before they return to the Soldiers’ Home tonight?”
“Nope,” she replied, pulling the bunch of carrots from the basket. “So we’re just cooking for the staff. Mr. McManus has a taste for pork chops.”
Neal is in love, Gabby told himself as he watched the black man look at Phebe. Yep, he had seen people fall in love many times in the close to fifty years he had been on this earth, and it was easy to tell when a man was smitten. Gabby prided himself on observing people’s eyes, which told him much, and he recognized the extra attention Neal paid to Phebe’s form, her hair, the way her slender hands moved quickly and efficiently to peel and dice the carrots. He knew the young man was trying to hide his infatuation, but the eyes never lie, especially when there was a smart brain behind them. Yes, young Neal was smart. Gabby could always tell a smart person because he himself was smart. Not too many people knew that, but deep in his heart, Gabby knew he was smart.
“Aw, don’t I have time for a nice cup of hot, black coffee before I go get the white folks’ chops?” Neal sat on the edge of the chopping block table.
“You keep talking like that, and Mrs. Lincoln’s likely to chop your head off.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want the queen to order a beheading.” Neal stood.
“Mrs. Lincoln is a queen?” Gabby’s face scrunched up in befuddlement.
“She thinks she is,” Neal said with a snigger.
“How can she be a queen if Mr. Lincoln is president?” Gabby tried to sort this out. “For Mrs. Lincoln to be a queen, Mr. Lincoln would have to be a king, and he’s not a king because he was elected, and kings aren’t elected, they’re just born that way.”
“That’s right, Mr. Gabby,” Neal agreed, “just like you’re just born the way you are.”
“Neal,” Phebe said, shaking her head in mild rebuke.
“But you called her a queen…”
“Neal was joking.” Phebe stopped chopping and turned to Gabby. “Mrs. Lincoln is not a queen. Nobody thinks she’s a queen. And Mrs. Lincoln would be hopping mad if anybody was fool enough to call her a queen to her face.”
“Oh,” Gabby said, subdued because he felt he may have made her mad at him. He liked Phebe very much and would not do anything to keep her from being his friend.
“Neal likes to joke. He’s a big joker. If he says something that doesn’t sound right, like folks eating rats or Mrs. Lincoln being a queen, you have to tell yourself, why, that joker Neal is telling another one of his tales, and you just laugh at it.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Phebe,” Gabby said. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything to be sorry for,” Neal offered.
“And, land of Goshen, don’t call me ma’am,” Phebe said, a bit irritated. “I’m just a n****r who works in the kitchen.”
“You’re not on a plantation anymore.” Neal wrinkled his brow. “You don’t have to call yourself that name anymore.”
“That’s what I am.” Phebe resumed her chopping, concentrating her gaze on the rough wood table.
“Mr. Gabby,” Neal said with a smile. “You and me got to teach this young lady a lesson about herself, don’t you think?”
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Gabby eyed him carefully. “You really want me to help?”
“No joke. I want your help.”
“Well, I’ve done a lot of thinking about this all my life.” Gabby cleared his throat and stepped forward hesitantly. “I think it’s all kind of silly.”
“What’s kind of silly, Mr. Gabby?” Phebe looked up and forced a smile.
“That name. N****r.” Gabby spoke the dreaded epithet with so much innocence that the two young African-Americans standing before him relaxed, their eyes widening slightly, willing to take in what the man with the rat traps was about to say.
“It’s a lazy way of saying Negro, which means black. I don’t know why people have to be lazy in the way they say words, but they are, and there’s nothing we can do about it, but it still doesn’t make it right.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Neal interjected.
“Even if they did say it right, it still wouldn’t be right. No, it still wouldn’t be right; do you want to know why it wouldn’t be right? Well, I’ll tell you why it still wouldn’t be right. It still wouldn’t be right because you’re not black.”
“Not black,” Neal blankly repeated.
“Black is absence of all color, of all light. And you have color in your skin, so you can’t be black.” Gabby extended his hand to touch Neal’s face. “Now you, Neal, you’re more of—of coffee with a whole caboodle of milk in it.” He squinted as he lightly poked the freckles on the young man’s cheeks. “With little speckles of nutmeg floating on top. Although I don’t know why there’d be speckles of nutmeg in coffee. You put nutmeg on eggnog, and you’re definitely not eggnog.”
“Yeah, I’d rather be coffee than eggnog any day of the week.”
Gabby turned his attention to Phebe, who took a small step back, but that did not stop him from laying his full palm against her tender, smooth cheek.
“And you’re deep, rich coffee without a drop of anything else in it. No milk, no nutmeg, nothing but pure, dark coffee.” He slowly pulled his hand away, his eyes filled with child-like curiosity. “Your family doesn’t have any white people in it, does it?”
“What?” Phebe shook her head.
“Oh, Mama told me and Cordie all about slavery. Cordie’s my sister. Mama told us how bad slavery is.”
“So you think you know all about it?” Cynicism licked the edges of Neal’s question.
“Oh no.” Gabby vigorously wagged his head. “I don’t know everything about anything. Nobody knows everything about anything. The smart man is the man who knows he doesn’t know everything. Socrates said that. Or was it Plato?”
“So what do you know about slavery?” Neal crossed his arms over his chest.
“Mama said plantation white people would make babies with slaves anytime they wanted, because they were the white people, and they thought they could make the black slaves do anything they want.” Gabby looked at Phebe again. “It looks like no white people came into your family’s cabin.” He then studied Neal. “You got a whole bunch of white people in you.”
“Now, there’s no need to be nasty.” Neal laughed.
“You’re joking now, aren’t you?” Gabby asked.
“Yeah, I’m joking.”
“Mr. Gabby,” Phebe said as she cleared her throat. “I think I saw some rats this morning across the hall in the furnace room.”
“And there’s rat shit in the billiards room,” Neal added.
“That’s very funny.” Gabby laughed.
“What’s funny about rat shit?” Neal asked.
“What a joker you are.” Gabby laughed again.
“Mr. Gabby, Neal isn’t joking this time. There really are rat droppings in the billiards room. That means there are rats in there.”
“Oh.” Gabby stopped laughing, turned abruptly, and left the kitchen, going directly to the furnace room.

Lifting his Remington revolver, its deep blue finish catching the late afternoon sun over the Potomac River, the young man smiled confidently as he looked down the wide sight groove at the coarse, unruly black hair of Abraham Lincoln, convinced his actions would save his country.
“Mr. Lincoln,” said Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, causing the president to glance up from a file of Justice Department papers.
A quick smile flickered across Lincoln’s broad lips when he first focused on the short, thickset man with the pharaoh-like beard, but it faded when his shadowed, hollowed eyes noticed the slender, rusty-haired army private holding his .44 caliber cap-and-ball pistol.
“Mr. Stanton, I see you brought company with you today,” Lincoln said.
“Please come with us, Mr. President,” Stanton said.
“It’s for the best, sir. You’ll thank us eventually. Trust me.” The young man grinned broadly.
“Please come with us, Mr. President.” Stanton turned sharply. “Private Christy, shut up.”
“Yes, sir.” He quickly looked down at the worn carpet and shuffled his shiny new boots, which were partially covered by baggy dark trousers.
Putting a long, bony finger to his forehead, Lincoln surveyed the secretary of war. “For what will I thank you, eventually?”
“The boy spoke out of turn, sir.”
“Well, then, Mr. Stanton, may I inquire as to where you are taking me?”
Stanton removed his glasses, squinted, and took a deep breath, but before he could speak, Mary Todd Lincoln, wearing a flowing black brocaded silk dress over a rustling crinoline, swept into the room, waving a swatch of blue flowered-print cotton. The private concealed his revolver in his tunic.
“Father, Mrs. Keckley says I should move to a blue print from black but—” She stopped abruptly when she saw Stanton. Her eyebrows arched, and her lips pursed. “Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t know you were here.”
Stanton bowed.
“I suppose we can make Mrs. Keckley wait.” Mrs. Lincoln focused strictly on her husband, who was putting his personal effects aside, ready to rise.
“Please inform your dressmaker, Mrs. Lincoln, that she must return tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I go to Anderson Cottage tomorrow,” Mrs. Lincoln said, slapping the billowing folds of her dress with the blue cotton swatch. “This is totally unacceptable!”
“Now, Molly,” Lincoln said, finally making it to his feet and going to his wife’s side, his long, gangling arms around her soft shoulders. “I think it’d be best if you kindly suggest to Mrs. Keckley that it’d be more convenient for us if she visited you at the Soldiers’ Home tomorrow.”
“But, Mr. Lincoln—”
“Blame it on me, if you wish, Molly.”
“I certainly will!”
“Tell her it’s a matter of state, dear.”
“It’s a matter of foolishness.” Mrs. Lincoln sniffed and nodded curtly.
After his wife swirled from the room and down the private hallway to the oval family room, Lincoln returned his gaze to Stanton. “As you were saying?”
“Oh yes.” The secretary of war put his small pebble glasses back on his pocked nose. “The basement.”
“Not to review the kitchen staff, I presume.”
Stanton smiled and shook his head. “The billiards room.”
“These are desperate measures to round up competition for a game of billiards,” Lincoln said laconically.
Their eyes were drawn to the door as the sound of stomping female feet echoed through the hallway. Eventually Mrs. Lincoln emerged and placed her hands on her ample hips.
“Now Mr. Stanton,” Mrs. Lincoln said, “will you explain yourself?”
Private Adam Christy noticed Lincoln stepping back, glancing up at two cords over his desk, and slowly moving his hand up to the cord on the left.
Lincoln asked Stanton, “What are those cords?”
Stanton turned. “Don’t involve Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay.”
“Well,” Lincoln replied with a shrug, “I thought they’d enjoy a nice game of billiards.”
“Billiards!” Mrs. Lincoln shook her head and moaned in exasperation. “What depths of insanity is this?”
This is not insanity, Adam thought. Ending the war is not insanity. The good of the nation called for Lincoln’s temporary removal, Stanton had told him, so the correct decisions could be made to win the war.
“It’s time to go,” Stanton announced.
“Go where?” Mrs. Lincoln asked, edging toward hysteria. “Will someone please explain what’s happening?”
“To the basement, Molly.” Lincoln put his arm around her shoulder again and whispered, “Mr. Stanton wants to talk to us in the billiards room.”
“Why?” Mrs. Lincoln looked at the secretary with bemusement.
“Lack of interruptions, I assume,” her husband said. “The office is hectic.”
No talk, Adam thought, just sit down there until Stanton wins the war. He would have informed the president of that, but he did not want another withering rebuke.
“Mr. President, we must go,” the war secretary said.
Lincoln nodded as he eyed Stanton, then guided his wife through the door into the office waiting room. When they entered the president’s office vestibule, Stanton raised his hand.
“Wait.” He motioned to Adam. “Check the hallway and grand staircase landing.”
Adam hurried down the hall, noting every door was shut on each side of the board corridor. He stopped in his tracks as a tall, dignified black woman, modestly well-dressed, came from a door on the left, carrying a large carpetbag. Making eye contact with the woman, Adam dropped his jaw before composing himself and nodding to her. She examined the young man and crossed the hall to the door leading to the service stairs. Continuing to the end of the hall, Adam looked down on the landing covered with Brussels carpeting. He saw no one and hurried back through the ground-glass doors to the office vestibule.
“The way is clear,” he said, huffing with excitement.