Day Nine

Thursday, June 18

  “Pa,” yelled Tad, “Come join us.”

  “Father, you too,” called Lewis, Stanton’s boy.

  Lincoln smiled. Tad, Lewis and two other boys were playing mumble-the-peg on the wide lawn before the fortress-like Soldier’s Home. Lincoln and Stanton lounged against one of the broad oaks at the edge of the lawn.

  It was such a lovely evening. Daylight remained, but already the heat of the day had faded. On this breeze kissed hill the air always cooled at night, even if the temperature hit the nineties during the day in the city. The family also escaped the city’s smells and mosquitoes.

  Lincoln made to rise. He was bone weary, as always, but he would relish ten or fifteen minutes of being a child again.

  Mary’s shrill voice intervened. “Tad, leave your father alone. He and Mr. Stanton are discussing war business. And he’s tired.”

  Mary shouted from the porch of their “cottage”. Mary and Lizzie Keckley sat in rocking chairs as they performed embroidery.

  Why people called the fourteen room mansion the Cottage made for a mystery. Perhaps it was the gingerbread trim. At any rate, he had come to far prefer this quiet and comforting retreat to the Executive Mansion.

  “Aw, Ma.”

  “You heard me. Your father needs to sit and rest.”

  The boys groused a moment, then resumed their play.

  “She is right,” said Stanton. The usually stern countenance of Mars showed deep concern. “You need rest. And lots of it. Everyone gets a breather except you.”

  “That will have to wait until the war is done.”

  “Seriously, Mr. President. Even the soldiers get furloughs.”

  “You work just as hard as I do, Mr. Secretary.” Stanton matched him hour for hour. This man was a bulldog. Without him—and Seward—Lincoln did not know what he would do.

  “I suppose that day will come, when the guns fall silent. Then I will rest. I’ll sleep for a month.”

  Laughter peeled as the kids raced about the towering flagpole in the center of the lush lawn. Convalescing soldiers on the upper balcony of the Home were looking on. Some supported themselves on crutches, likely wondering if they would ever run again.

  Oh, this war.

  “Sir, have you given any thought to what you will do once it does end?”

  “Then we’ll have the peace to worry about. But at least no boys will be dying.”

  “I mean once everything is over. Will you go back to Illinois?”

  “I would assume. First, though…”

  “Sir?”

  “Something I had talked about with Willie.” Thought of his fallen son lacerated. Such a gifted boy, it had been humanity’s loss along with Lincoln’s when he departed.

  “But I will do it now with Tad. We will go to Europe. We will see everything, have our own grand tour.” Lincoln warmed at the prospect, even though Tad would not appreciate the Continent like the precocious Willie.

  “I and Lewis might join you. If that’s not too presumptuous.”

  Lincoln smiled. “Not at all. We’ll start planning…the day after this thing ends.”

  “That might not be so long now. Grant has thirty thousand men trapped at Vicksburg. And it looks like Lee is going to give us another opportunity to chop off his head.”

  Lee was going north again, no doubt about it. Last time they almost had him at Antietam.

  “I will have to decide about Hooker soon, I know.”

  Stanton nodded.

  Hooker had to go. The Union could not survive a second Chancellorsville.

  Reynolds had refused to take over the Army of the Potomac. That left Hancock and Meade. Both were good commanders—at the corps level. The army level was another matter, as good corps commander Hooker had shown.

  Could Meade or Hancock miraculously prove to be another Grant, and take another Confederate army off the board? Could the man chosen break Lee? If he could, this war would end this summer.

  “Peace will challenge us almost as much as the war,” said Lincoln.

  Stanton balled a fist. His pepper and salt beard shook. “We can make the South do whatever we want.”

  “I don’t want to foster a sullen hatred.”

  “They’ll hate us anyway.”

  “There will be no retribution.”

  “The likes of Wade and Stevens will demand it. They’ll want to start with hanging Davis and Lee. They would unearth Jackson, and string him up too.”

  “No, no. I will parole everyone.”

  “Even Davis?”

  “Yes.” Lincoln swept his hand toward the Soldier’s Home. In the dying sunlight the white stone walls of the building gleamed with a rosy tinge.

  “The Home would not stand except for him. He fought for years to get funding to build it.”

  “That hardly excuses treason.”

  “They are our fellow countrymen who have lost their way. Theirs is not true treason.”

  Stanton said nothing.

  Jefferson Davis was a decent man. As was Bobby Lee. As were most of the people of the South. When their guns were laid down, Lincoln would let it go at that.

  A phrase had been birthing in his head. One he would use when the great day came. He would speak it to the gallant peoples of both the North and South as the nation became whole again.

  “With malice toward none, and charity towards all, let us bind up the nation’s wounds.”

  Yes, that is what he would say. Then as chief executive he would see that charity and binding were done.

  He rested against the bark of the big oak.