Phebe and her family were sold at auction
Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns captive under guard in the White House basement. Janitor Gabby Zook by accident must stay in the basement too. Cook Phebe sees all and tries to tell butler Neal what she thinks.
“Why would I get mad?” Neal demanded of Phebe.
“Because you’re always mad, especially at the white folks,” Phebe said. “I see it in your eyes. You really hate them, and I don’t get it. I mean, you’re born free—”
“Yes, I’m free, for what good that does me,” he interrupted her angrily, spitting on the floor.
“I—I don’t understand…”
“I was born the son of a freeman in the city of Boston. He was the son of a freeman, all in a long line of tutors, teaching French to Boston merchants who traded with Haiti and other points in the Caribbean.”
“You speak French?”
“Yes. So what?” He paused. “My mother, as a child, came to Boston in the middle of the night in her mother’s arms, a slave from a Virginia tobacco plantation.”
“A runaway slave,” Phebe murmured.
“She grew up cooking and sewing in wealthy New England homes. That’s where she met my father, who tutored the master of the house. They married, found a comfortable apartment, and had me. I was supposed to be the one to climb the next rung on the racial equality ladder, perhaps the ministry, law, or medicine. But it was not to be. Ever heard of the Fugitive Slave Law?”
“Yes.”
“Slave owners tracked down runaways in Free states, and local authorities and ordinary citizens had to help.”
“So they came for your grandmother?” Phebe asked.
“No. She was dead. They came for my mother. My grandmother stole my mother from the farmer, who wanted her back.” Neal paused. “And her offspring. Any child from her womb was his property too.”
Phebe jumped when she realized he was talking about himself.
“I remember when they took my mother. Her cries woke me up. At first my father was angry, shouting at her. He didn’t know he’d married a runaway. He stopped yelling when she said she didn’t remember anything before life in Boston kitchens. White men banged at the door, demanding they come out. My father took me from my bed and pulled down the attic ladder. He told me to be quiet, and my mother kissed me, her lips still moist from her tears. He had just closed the attic ladder when the slave catchers broke through. I cried as I heard them drag her away. I never saw her again. ”
“I haven’t seen my mother in a long time either, but I still have hope.” Immediately Phebe wished she had not spoken.
“You’ve been bought and freed, all legal. You got hope because you don’t know no better. No, I don’t have to worry about being taken South anymore. But I don’t have a chance for a profession now.” Neal sighed and mellowed. “When my father told me he’d arranged a job for me in Washington, I thought it might lead to something, but when I arrived at the White House, they sent me to the basement to be a butler.”
“Butler is a good job,” Phebe said, trying to be encouraging. “Why, on the plantation the butler was—”
“This ain’t the plantation, girl,” he interrupted. “This is the world. This is life. We may be free, but we ain’t white.”
“I know.”
“Well, tell me,” he said. “Who do you think the woman in the billiards room is?”
“I was talking to Mrs. Keckley. She’s the lady who sews the Mrs. Lincoln’s clothes. I said to her things had been odd for the last few months. She got real quiet, looked around, then pulled me closer and made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“Not to tell what?”
“She said when she went to fit the Mrs. Lincoln for a new dress the middle of September she saw right off something was different. The Mrs. Lincoln was bigger, across her chest. The missus looked real flustered, Mrs. Keckley said, laughing and rambling on about gaining too much weight. When a woman gets fat, it goes on her butt or hips or belly first.”
“Just what are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m still scared how you’ll take it.”
“You still think like a slave.” Neal snorted.
“Well,” Phebe said softly. “It’s all I know.”
Her owner was Pierce Butler, whose grandfather authored the fugitive slave clause in the United States Constitution. Her earliest memories were of being held by his beautiful wife, who was rumored to be a fancy actress from England. Then the master’s wife had gone away. When Phebe asked about her, she was told to hush and mind her own business. The rest of her childhood was uneventful, though filled with hard work, until all the slaves on the plantation were loaded on a ship and taken down the Altama River to Savannah, where they were taken to the Kimbrough Race Track during a torrential downpour. Men prodded them, looked in their mouths, tested their muscles, and stood back, cocking their heads in judgment.
Earlier in the day she had watched her father being led away, and later her mother, her eyes filled with tears. Feeling all was lost, Phebe used all her willpower to keep from crying. Soon it was her turn to stand on the block, and a miracle happened. When the bidding was over, Phebe met her new owner, Mortimer Thompson, a reported for the New York Tribune, who said she would be freed as soon as they arrived in New York City. But what will I do? Phebe had asked him; How will I support myself? He had taken her hand.
“I know an old friend of yours,” he said.
Her old friend was Mrs. Butler, whose stage name, Fanny Kemble, was in large letters across a theater marquee.
“What a pretty face,” Mrs. Butler said with a gush as she patted Phebe’s cheeks.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Phebe said shyly.
“I wish I could afford to employ another maid, but I can’t.” When Phebe’s face fell, she added, “But don’t give up hope. I’ve friends all over, here in New York, in London, and in Washington.” She smiled at Phebe. “How would you like a job in the Republican administration? I’ve many contacts with abolitionists.”
By the time the whirlwind had ended, Phebe lived in the basement of the Executive Mansion, cooking meals and witnessing the nation’s business first hand. Which brought her back to Neal’s question about who she thought was in the billiards room. Before she spoke, Phebe realized she risked not only Neal’s ridicule, but also the loss of her job—a step backward toward slavery she did not want to take.
“I don’t know.” She walked to the door and opened it. “Now that I think about it, there’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all.”

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns captive under guard in the White House basement. 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. Cook Phebe sees Adam take Tad in the room.
For an hour, Phebe kept an eye to her slightly ajar door, watching comings and goings of the white people. At times she could swear she heard a woman screaming something about my baby, my baby, and other times she thought she heard laughter. When Adam reappeared in the hall carrying Tad she felt an impulse to confront them again, but decided to stay prudently hidden. After they entered the service stairs, Phebe went to the next door and knocked.
“Neal?”
She heard a soft moan, followed by grumbling and padding of stocking feet across the room. Phebe stepped back when she saw Neal’s light coffee face speckled with nutmeg jut out the door and scowl.
“What do the white folk want now?” He paused before adding, “Tell them to get it for themselves. I’m off duty.”
“It ain’t the white folk.”
A smile, slightly soured by the hint of a smirk, crossed his lips.
“It’s about the white folks,” Phebe said in clarification.
“Oh.” The smile faded, replaced by a quizzical furrowing of his brow.
“Let me in.”
Opening the door wide, Neal stepped aside, absently buttoning the top of his woolen long underwear.
“I hope you don’t think this is anything improper, nothing romantic.” Phebe stepped inside, turned sharply, her eyes widening.
“I know.” Neal smiled and softened his gaze as he went to a small table to light a kerosene lamp.
“No,” Phebe said. “Don’t light the lamp.”
“Well,” Neal replied, “This room’s pretty black without light.”
“I don’t want anyone to know we’re talking.”
“Oh.”
“Shut the door.”
“We won’t be able to see each other.”
“Shut the door.”
He shrugged and closed the door, leaving them in complete darkness. “I feel foolish,” he said after a moment.
“I do too,” Phebe replied. “That’s why I don’t want you to see me.” She paused and added timidly, “And I don’t want to see the scorn in your eyes.”
“I never look at you with scorn.” A hurt tone clouded his voice.
“Yes, you have. But we don’t have time to fight over it.” She sucked in air. “There’s something strange going on.”
“Phebe…”
“And I don’t want to hear no scorn in your voice neither,” she said, interrupting him. “Please listen.”
“All right.”
Phebe closed her eyes to compose her thoughts. So many images raced through her mind that she had trouble deciding where to begin.
“The soldier boy—that Private Christy—carried Tad down here. They went into the billiards room. After a while they came back out, Private Christy looking around like he didn’t want to be seen.”
“So he didn’t see you?”
“Coming down they did,” Phebe said. “Tad said hello. The private turned red and looked away. On their way out, I just cracked the door.”
“What do you think it means?”
“If I tell you, you’ll laugh at me.”
“I’ve laughed at you before.”
“But those times you laughed because you thought I was funny. This time you’ll laugh because you think I’m crazy.”
“All right.” Neal paused. “No laughing at you. Tell me what you think is going on.”
“Well, I fixed the same meals for the Lincolns upstairs as I do for those important, secret people who stay locked away in the basement. Mr. Lincoln has peculiar eating habits, an apple and milk for lunch, just picking at a decent supper. Ever since September, when those mysterious important folks arrived, I never saw nobody go into that room.”
“Sure, a whole mess of folks go in there,” Neal said, “that soldier boy and Secretary Stanton.”
“You see? Don’t you think that’s queer, only two visitors, ever?”
“I don’t make it a practice to keep up with what the white folks do.”
“The lunch being sent downstairs now comes back with nothing eaten but the apple and milk.”
Neal remained silent. Phebe heard the cot creak as he sat. She had him interested, so she continued.
“About a month ago, the private came out of the billiards room with a laundry basket balanced on his hip as he tried to lock the door. Well, he lost his grip and dropped the basket.”
Neal snorted. “I always thought he was clumsy.”
“There was women’s underthings in the basket—I mean, all over the floor. I came out to help him pick everything up. When it dawned on me what I held in my hand, he snatched it from me and gave me this look like he wished I’d never seen those panties. But I did see them and that meant only one thing.”
“Which was?”
“There’s a woman in that room.”
“So?”
“So whoever heard of a woman advising men-folk about war?”
“Maybe she’s the wife of some diplomat,” he offered.
“No woman would stay in a locked basement room just to be with her husband, under her own free will, that is.”
“So who do you think the woman is?”
Phebe hesitated.
“Stop playing games with me.” Neal’s voice sounded impatient.
“If you don’t believe me, you’ll laugh. If you do believe me, you’ll get mad.”

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.