He puts his head in her lap. “?‘I dare do all that may become a man,’?” he says. “?‘Who dares do more is none.’?”
She strokes his hair. “I’m going to name the baby after you if it’s a boy. Then I’ll have my very own Edwin and John all over again. Promise me you’re being careful. I need you to teach the children to ride. To sword fight. Recite a poem.”
“Make it a boy then,” he says.
* * *
—
Some things last. There will always be a place on her cheek, her forehead, her hand where he kissed her. She will always be able to conjure the feel of his black hair under her fingers. “Be patient. This war will end,” she tells him.
The country is burning, the dead and the grief, the terror and the bloodshed piling higher every day, unfathomable numbers, immeasurable sorrow. General Lee will surrender on April 9th at the Appomattox Court House. Church bells will ring and a dizzying joy will spread through the North. Winged victory will arrive.
None of this will end the war. Some things last.
“Keep yourself happy, my dear,” he says.
“Not until I see your face again.”
And then he’s gone.
Lincoln and the Final Act
This war is eating my life out; I have a strong impression that I shall not live to see the end.
—Abraham Lincoln to his friend Owen Lovejoy, 1864
But also:
I expect to go back and make my home in Springfield for the rest of my life.
—Abraham Lincoln to Mary’s cousin John Todd Stuart, 1865
Lincoln wakes from a familiar dream to an unfamiliar emotion. The dream is of being on board a ship, moving rapidly towards a distantly glimpsed shore. The emotion takes him a moment to identify. If not happiness, at least the absence of unhappiness. Five days have passed since General Lee surrendered.
He breakfasts with his oldest son and they talk about what Robert might do now his military career is ending. Perhaps the law? To speak hopefully with Robert about his future, to know that he’ll have one, is a great joy. He imagines the same conversation over breakfast tables all across the country.
* * *
—
At eleven a.m., General Grant arrives for the weekly cabinet meeting. Grant is worried about Joseph E. Johnston’s army in North Carolina. Lincoln can’t share his concerns. He tells Grant about his dream, the same dream he had before Sumter, Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Wilmington—almost all of the great battles. The dream portends a momentous occurrence. It portends good news. “Those were not all victories,” Grant reminds him.
The problem of what to do with the rebel leaders is discussed.
Lincoln hopes they’ll all flee the country, removing the need to do anything. He wants no more violence, no trials, no retributions to add fuel to the fires of resentment. Later in the day, he receives the news that the rabid secessionist Jacob Thompson has been spotted en route to Maine and from there to England. Edwin Stanton, the Secretary of War, is preparing to arrest him, but Lincoln says no. “When you have got an elephant by the hind leg, and he’s trying to run away, it’s best to let him run,” Lincoln says.
* * *
—
Around three p.m., he and Mary ride to the Navy Yard to tour the USS Montauk. Mary expresses surprise on finding just the two of them in the carriage, but he tells her he wanted it that way. He takes her hand, so much smaller than his own.
“You almost startle me by your great cheerfulness,” Mary says. They are driving through the springtime, dogwoods and redbuds blooming in the streets beyond the carriage windows, the sun bright, the air warm.
“And well I may feel so, Mary,” he answers, “for I consider this day the war has come to a close. We must both be more cheerful in the future. Between the war and the loss of our darling Willie we have been very miserable.”
On their return a few hours later, he spies a group of old friends from Illinois just leaving the White House. He insists they come back inside; he has time for a comfortable chat. He’s been reading the comic letters of Petroleum V. Nasby, now he shares some of these aloud. He’s enjoying this so much, he ignores the first two calls to an early dinner. Lincoln has never been much interested in food though he does like a chicken fricassee.
Around seven-thirty, he meets with Schuyler Colfax, the Speaker of the House. Colfax has plans to travel West. They discuss the rich mineral lodes of the western mountains and Lincoln feels a wild desire to go to California himself. When his term is over, why not? Anything is possible in these wondrous days of peace.
* * *
—
He would rather skip the theater that night, but John T. Ford had invited Mary personally and Lincoln’s attendance has been advertised. Grant, also advertised, has already begged off, Mrs. Grant unwilling to endure a night with Mary. The Stantons have likewise declined. Stanton feels it’s dangerous for Lincoln to go about in public and he won’t condone it by accompanying him. Lincoln’s usual bodyguard is away on business in Richmond. His replacement, John Parker, a large man with enormous whiskers, is famously fond of drink.
Lincoln invites Clara Harris and Major Henry Reed Rathbone. Clara is a particular friend of Mary’s, the daughter of a New York senator. Rathbone is a survivor of Antietam and Clara’s fiancé. Her father is married to his mother so they are also, technically, brother and sister.
Mary is wearing her black and white silk with the embroidered flowers. Lincoln rarely notices her clothes, but Clara is full of compliments he wishes he’d thought to give. They arrive at the theater late by half an hour, enter the hushed and darkened auditorium. The performance stops so the orchestra can play “Hail to the Chief” while the audience claps and cheers. Lincoln is glad he overruled his reluctance and came.
John Parker leads them to a box stage left, decorated especially for them with flags and bunting. He then stays outside it to guard the entrance. Mary takes a seat beside Lincoln, Clara across. Henry sits on a small sofa to Clara’s left. The play resumes.
Mary has caught Lincoln’s happiness. She rests her hand on his knee, moves closer to him. She smells of bergamot and lemon. “What will Miss Harris think,” she whispers, “of me hanging on you so?” and Lincoln assures her Miss Harris will not mind it at all.
* * *
—
The third and final act begins.
Scene 2:
Harry Hawk as Asa Trenchard is alone on the stage. “I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap,” Harry says. He hits hard on the sock in sockdologizing, turning towards the wings where Helen Muzzy, playing Mrs. Montchessington, has just exited. His back is to Lincoln.
This is the evening’s most reliable laugh line and Mary’s pealing laughter can be heard above everyone’s. How wonderful to hear Mary laugh like this! It’s that pleasure, more than the line, that starts Lincoln laughing himself. Then he hears something else, but there is no time to understand what it is.
BOOK SIX