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
Riotous celebration over the end of the war lasted until the late afternoon, leaving Duff depleted and nervous. His office was filled with revelers opening bottles of wine and drinking with elation. Duff was trying to slip from the room when Brooks caught up with him.
“Where are you going, sir? Everyone wants to toast your return.”
“War Department,” Duff replied.
“You look drained, Mr. Lincoln. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go for you.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Brooks.” Retreating hastily, Duff replied, “I’d rather go myself.”
Walking swiftly through the turnstile gate onto the War Department grounds, Duff went to the office of statistics and approached the front desk.
“Do you have fatality lists for Michigan from 1863?”
While he waited for the clerk to return, Duff breathed deeply, feeling his stomach tighten. On the U.S.S. Malvern returning from Richmond, a Union sailor had sneaked into his room as Duff slept, crouched by his bed and awakened him with a thump on the head.
“What are you doing pretending to be president, Duff Read?”
Duff’s mouth had gone dry, his heart pounding.
“Who are you?”
“Grover Kenton.”
Grover Kenton, Grover—then Duff had placed him; a boy from a neighboring farm who always liked to torment him.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. You’re already dead.”
“What?” Duff sat up. “What do you mean?”
“You’re dead.” Kenton rose, turning away. “It was in the local newspaper. You died in some battle. I don’t know which one.”
“My family, how did they take it?”
“I don’t know.”
Duff’s thoughts went to his elderly mother and father, and how they must have felt when they read his obituary. Perhaps his family was proud he had died a hero.
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”
“Why? You’re dead.” With that, Kenton left.
The clerk plopped the fatality file for Michigan on the front desk, rousing Duff from his thoughts. He quickly flipped through the pages until he found his hometown. Sliding down the page, his hand stopped at his own name: killed in action at the Second Battle of Manassas, August 1862.
“Did you find what you wanted, Mr. President?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Duff forced himself to smile, and then a thought crossed his mind. “Will you bring me the file for Ohio fatalities, please?”
As the clerk walked away, Duff wondered if from the beginning Stanton had planned to have him killed, and if Stanton also planted Adam’s obituary early on; if so, all of them were to die, including Alethia.
“Here it is, sir.” The clerk put the file in front of Duff.
Where was Adam from? Steubenville, he remembered. Duff thumbed through the pages until he came to Adam’s hometown, then stopped abruptly. Adam Christy had been killed in action, Second Battle of Manassas, August 1862.

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
Adam took the chamber pots out the service entrance to clean them. He kept thinking of Lincoln’s words, forgive and forget. How could he forgive himself? How could he forget? Cleaning the pots took longer each day, so that by the time he had finished and returned them to the billiards room, the breakfast tray was ready to return to the kitchen. He put them next to the sink where Phebe stood.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Her face hardened as she continued to look down.
“I’m sorry,” he added. This was not his first apology. He had lost count of the times he had tried to seek her forgiveness. Each time, stony silence met his offer.
After lunch, he left the Executive Mansion and walked down the street, where crowds were gathering to greet Duff upon his return from Richmond. Several men slapped Adam on the back and offered him mugs of beer, which he refused. Since October he had stopped drinking. Crossing the iron bridge over the slough, Adam headed for Armory Square Hospital. He had to apologize to Jessie again, hoping against hope she would finally forgive him. Standing just inside the door to the ward, he watched her wash a soldier’s brow. She was about to stand, and he was ready to intercept her, when a shout arose from Pennsylvania Avenue. He knew he had to go. Quickly looking back into the ward, Adam made eye contact with Jessie. He smiled and waved, but she stared blankly.
Back at the Executive Mansion, he watched Duff pass down the hall, surrounded by enthusiastic admirers. Alethia rushed to give him a long embrace.
“Private Christy!” Tad called out.
Adam looked down to see Tad jumping in front of him.
“It was great! The ship went adrift, then we spent the rest of way on a barge rowed by sailors and when we landed they shouted, ‘Glory hallelujah!’ and I got to play in Jeff Davis’s house and—”
“Come, Tad,” Alethia called out.
Tad bounded toward her as she smiled at Adam. Looking out the window, he noticed the sun was lower in the sky, a sign it was time for another meal in the basement. He walked down the service stairs, crunching the straw mats, vaguely remembering how once he had thought silence sounded like death. Now everything sounded like death. When he entered the kitchen, he saw Phebe putting the plates on the tray.
“Hello, Phebe,” he said, trying to put his hand on her shoulder. “Please say something. I’m so sorry.”
Phebe pulled away sharply, grabbing a knife from the sink and pointing it at Adam, her eyes ablaze with hatred. A tall, older black man, the new butler brought in the day after Neal’s death, entered the room. Cleotis was his name, and Adam found him affable, a quietly confident, educated, freeborn man from Rhode Island. He swept in between Adam and Phebe, taking the knife and putting his arm around her.
“The tray’s ready,” he said. “Here’s a War Department wire for Mr. Stanton. Do you know where he is?”
Nodding, Adam’s gaze remained fixed on Phebe, as he noticed for the first time, a slight swelling in her belly.

Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
“I want my breakfast!” Gabby insisted, pounding on the door.
Stopping with the key in the lock, Adam shuddered at the tone of Gabby’s voice, the same tone he had used in October to demand that Adam stop hurting people. It was now April, and Adam had stopped hurting people. He also had stopped having dreams, goals, love, pain, or anger. His spirit was dead; his body barely functioned. Steeling himself, he finished unlocking the door and entered.
“It’s about time,” Gabby said. “You’re starving people in here.”
“Be quiet,” Mrs. Lincoln snapped, looking at Gabby with loathing. “Mr. Lincoln didn’t sleep well last night. Nightmares.”
“I have nightmares.” Gabby took his plate and headed for his corner. “Every night I see Joe dead under that wagon. If Mr. Lincoln can’t take nightmares, he shouldn’t be president.”
“Crazy old man,” Mrs. Lincoln sneered.
“Liar,” Gabby retorted. He looked at Adam. “Next time you beat up somebody, beat her up, the old liar.” He continued to mumble as he rounded the corner of crates and barrels.
“My husband’s nightmares are more important because he’s still president, and still makes decisions.” Mrs. Lincoln sat at the billiards table and began eating. “For several weeks he’s dreamed that Tad and I were on a shopping trip to Philadelphia and Tad, for some reason, pulled out a gun and started shooting people. He kept mumbling, ‘I didn’t pay enough attention to the body.’ I know he’s worried about how those people have treated Tad.”
Tad was just fine, Adam thought, no longer running amok, tearing at things, and kicking people as he did before. Now he was kind and loving, respectful of everyone. Mrs. Lincoln will be pleased, he decided, if she can ever be pleased with anything again.
“Then last night he dreamed of being awakened by loud sobbing. He found a casket surrounded by soldiers in the East Room. He asked, ‘Who has died in the White House?’ The soldier replied, ‘The president.’”
Not wanting to consider what Stanton had in mind for the president, Adam gathered the chamber pots.
“Don’t walk away while I’m talking to you,” Mrs. Lincoln ordered. “What’s that man doing in Richmond? He went down the same day the city fell, and he hasn’t returned.”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” Adam hated answering her questions. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Stanton.”
“You always say that.” Mrs. Lincoln took a long sip of coffee. “The last drop of coffee was cold.” Putting down her cup, she turned to stare at him. “I want to know when this war will end. Since their capital fell, the rebels can’t go on.”
“Jefferson Davis said being relieved of defending a capital has left the army free to roam at large and stage preemptive attacks on the Union.”
“So he thinks he can still win the war?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“You don’t know,” she snidely replied. “Is there anything you do know?”
“Tad’s having fun in Richmond.”
“Tad’s in Richmond?”
Closing his eyes, Adam wished he had not told her.
“Who allowed my child into a war zone?”
“I don’t know.”
“That woman,” Mrs. Lincoln said. “She’s ruined everything.”
“The army made a thorough sweep of the city, making it safe for the president.”
“But that man’s not the president!” she blustered. She took a deep breath and returning her attention to the toast. “At least my other son is safe in law school.”
“Robert joined the army in January.” Adam did not know if he had slipped again, or if he had told her on purpose to hurt her and to allow her to hurt him. He wanted to be punished for his sins.
“Oh my God!”
“He’s on General Grant’s staff.”
“That butcher!” She put her head in her hands. “If I could only write him. If only he could write me.”
“I’m sure his fiancée has been writing him.”
“Fiancée!” Her face reddened. “When did this happen? And who?”
“February. She’s Mary Harlan, daughter of Senator James Harlan of Iowa.”
“That little mouse.” She rubbed her eyes. “At least her parents are respectable.”
“I must go now, ma’am.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Lincoln sighed. “I’m not asking questions anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As Adam turned, he found himself confronted by Gabby, whose eyes were wide with anger and his mouth smeared with egg yolk.
“I want to know about Cordie,” he demanded. “I want to know how Cordie is.”
“She’s fine. I see her every day.”
“Liar!” Gabby slapped Adam hard across the face.
“Now, now, Mr. Gabby,” Lincoln said, walking through his curtain. “There’s no need to hit Private Christy.”
“He hit me!”
“That was last fall. It’s time to forgive and forget. Isn’t that right, Private Christy?”
“Yes, sir.” He hung his head.
“Go about your duties.” Lincoln looked at Gabby. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast?”
“My coffee’s cold.”
“The coffee’s always cold,” Mrs. Lincoln added.

Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
Jessie sat at a small table covered by a red-and-white checkered cloth in the back of a small, busy café. She tapped her fingers awaiting Adam. He broke their engagement last night, and she was not happy. Jessie was in love, but sensed something terrible had gone wrong. As much as she cared for Adam, his honesty about what was going on at the Executive Mansion disturbed her.
Her face lit when Adam first walked through the door, but it darkened as she watched him weave between the tables. He had not changed his clothes, shaved, or washed. When he plopped down in the chair next to her, Adam tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
“Ye stink and look terrible.”
“I’m a man, a soldier.” Adam leaned back in his chair and looked ahead.
The waiter came up.
“What do ye crave for supper?”
“Whiskey.”
After the waiter pulled out his pad, Jessie leaned to Adam and said, “I want a bowl of beef stew and a glass of milk.”
When Adam did not respond, she looked up at the waiter who nodded.
“And for the gentleman?”
“Whiskey,” Adam demanded.
“We don’t serve hard liquor.”
“Nothing, then.”
“Very well, sir,” the waiter said and turned away.
“Me darlin’, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been given the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s terrible to give a young man the awesome knowledge of life and death.” Adam said nothing more because the waiter arrived with Jessie’s bowl of soup and glass of milk.
“Ye need to talk to a priest.” Her voice was soft. “Somebody who can help ye.”
“It’s too late.” Avoiding Jessie’s eyes, he shook his head. “The awesome knowledge of life and death changes a man forever. A woman will never know the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“Will ye stop that ‘awesome knowledge of life and death’?” She pushed away her soup bowl. “I lost me hunger. Take me home.”
Adam bolted for the door. Jessie paid the waiter and scurried after him. He was already in his seat on the omnibus when she climbed on board and passed the fare slot.
“Sorry, miss, I need your coin,” the driver said.
“I’m with the gentleman,” she replied, motioning to Adam in the back.
“Oh. Him. He just paid for himself.”
Searching her reticule in frustration, Jessie finally found the right coin, deposited it, and walked to the back. She debated whether to sit next to Adam, who left her humiliated in his wake. The bus started with a jerk, causing her to fall into the seat by him.
“Where were ye last night?”
Adam stared into the night.
“I think your actions are despicable,” Jessie said in a low, intense voice. “And don’t give me any more of that knowledge of life and death foolishness. Ye are a better man than this, me laddie.”
Turning toward her, Adam smiled with a touch of the devil in its curl. Jessie shuddered. When her street came up, She stood to leave; Adam began to follow her.
“I don’t need an escort.”
Again he smiled like a devil’s slave, which caused her to hasten to the omnibus door, where she jumped to the road and trotted toward her boardinghouse. Not looking behind her, Jessie sensed Adam was staggering behind her. At the door, she rummaged through her reticule, trying to find the key, until she smelled foul breath over her shoulder.
“Adam, please go away before I tell ye to go away forever.” She did not look at him, but spoke in a soft yet solemn voice. “Now.”
Spinning her around, Adam planted a moist, open-mouthed kiss on her lips. His teeth smashed her lips against her own teeth, causing them to bleed. The taste of his tongue was acrid and repellent. His body odor crawled up her nostrils, making her gag. Finally her hand, still fumbling through her reticule, found the key. Grasping it tightly, she scraped the key on Adam’s temple. He moaned as his hand went to the bleeding gash. Jessie unlocked the door, rushed in, and locked it. Adam lunged forward, banging his hand on it.
“Jessie!” he screamed.