Two: John, like Edwin, is in love. He’s secretly pledged to a senator’s daughter, the beautiful Lucy Hale. Senator Hale is a committed abolitionist, recently appointed ambassador to Spain. He’ll be taking Lucy with him when he goes. Rough waters ahead—Romeo and Juliet to be sure—but June is reassured. He encourages John to wax on about Lucy’s many perfections, until he can see the old John coming clear again.
He returns to New York with a favorable report. John is making plans for the future. He’s determined to deserve Lucy and he understands, he agrees with June, that to do so requires steadiness and industry. John doesn’t come right out and say that he loves Lucy more than his dear old Virginia, but surely he must. They are so eager to be reassured, they ignore the revelation that John has been lying to them for months.
* * *
—
Mother writes John a letter, complaining that he’s not been to visit, telling him that she’s miserable and lonely in Edwin’s house without him. “I always gave you praise,” she writes, “for being the fondest of all my boys, but since you leave me to grief I must doubt it. I am no Roman mother. I love my dear ones before country or anything else.”
xiii
So there they all are: Edwin is engaged to be married. Asia is pregnant. June is touring. John appears, disappears, reappears. He seems to have been frequenting Montreal, a hub of Confederate scheming, but is also, often, in Washington. They assume that he keeps returning to the capital because Lucy Hale is there. They find these repeated visits encouraging. A good woman will soon put John right.
He still comes often to Philadelphia. Asia might see him at any hour. He arrives, sleeps on the sofa in his clothes, and leaves before dawn. When he goes, Asia removes all evidence of his visit. Sleeper is none the wiser.
Men stand at the sill in the darkness, and whisper for him to come to the window. They keep their faces hidden. Some of their voices she knows—little Michael O’Laughlen, who used to live on the other side of Exeter Street and trailed after John wherever he went. Sam Arnold, John’s old mate from school. But when she greets them, they tell her, No, no, that’s not my name. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.
Most of the voices are strange to her.
One night John takes her hand. “I need to show you a cipher,” he says. His plans are changing, the kidnapping of Lincoln replaced with something more dreadful.
She pulls her hand away. “I want no knowledge of it.”
He waits in silence for her to change her mind. She doesn’t.
He then takes a packet of letters from his vest, gives them to her. “Keep these until I return,” he says. “Lock them in the safe.” He kisses her on the cheek, on the forehead, on the hand. He leaves. She sits staring at an envelope labeled Mother. Before she’s risen, he’s back. “Let me see you lock them up.”
The safe is in a cold, stone, windowless room. Asia keeps the keys; Sleeper never goes inside it. The room has two doors. She opens the first, the heavy door. She opens the second, the iron door. When the packet is secure, they return to the couch. She sits. He kneels.
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.