he had felt when the enemy battle line came into sight, flags held high, that terrible screaming yell resounding. Certainly his three months in the militia years ago had not prepared him for this moment of crisis and the overwhelming emotions that came with it. That was play soldiering. This was the real thing. It was not just terror for himself, but terror as well that here was the ending of it, that he had lost the war, that the republic would be forever sundered, and centuries of division, woe, and yet more war were now the fate of this world.
He had hardly been able to think of anything else, even as the reinforcements stormed up the road, deployed, and then struck with such terrible fury, losing a third of their numbers, but hitting with such ferocity that the enemy attack had faltered and withdrawn.
He started to turn and leave but then recognized a diminutive officer standing at the edge of the group. He approached, the officer stiffening, saluting. Lincoln extended his hand.
'Shaw, isn't it?'
'Yes, Mr. President.'
'I know your parents.'
'Yes, sir, they are honored to have your acquaintance.'
'As I am now honored to have yours, Colonel. Your men were magnificent this day. The entire nation shall know of them.'
'Thank you, sir, but we were just one regiment out of many who did their duty here today.'
He could sense that the other officers were watching. Some might be jealous of the attention, but Shaw's words had the proper diplomatic effect and he could see a couple of the generals behind Shaw nodding with approval.
'Your men proved something today, Shaw. In this time of crisis I hope we can raise a hundred thousand men of color in short order. Your example will open that way.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Once the crisis of this-moment has passed, Shaw, I'd like you and several of your enlisted men to visit me in the White House.'
Shaw grinned.
'An honor, sir.'
'I will confess to being exhausted tonight. I might forget this invitation, so please send a messenger to the White House. Have him ask for Mr. Hay, and an appointment will be made.'
'Thank you, Mr. President'
Lincoln lightly took his hand, shook it, and then left the gun position. He could hear the chatter behind him, one of the generals offering Shaw a cigar, telling him that he was certainly the 'trump card' tonight.
As he stepped off the ladder, the horror was again before him. Half a dozen ambulances were lined up, stretcher-bearers swinging their loads in, four men to an ambulance on stretchers, one or two lightly wounded sitting up and riding the buckboard, another upright wounded man forward on the seat with the driver. As the ambulances jostled into motion, cries and groans erupted. Men who had struggled so hard to hide their pain as they believed soldiers should, once inside the confines of the ambulance and concealed by the canvas walls, could at last give voice to their pain-and most did.
He took his hat off, watching as the ambulances moved out of the sally port. 'Mr. President.' He turned. It was the poet 'Yes?'
'Mr. President, I was just helping a boy. He saw you come in and asked to speak with you. He says his ma knows your family.'
The escort of cavalry that had trailed behind him at a respectful distance came in a bit closer. A lieutenant, who had replaced the young captain who was now dead, tried to interrupt
'The president has had a hard day, sir, perhaps another time.'
'Mr. President, he won't live much longer. I feared to leave his side to help that surgeon you saw me with even for a moment. He's dying, shot in the stomach.'
Lincoln nodded.
'Yes,' was all he could say, not sure if he could bear what was coming.
The poet led the way, weaving past hundreds of wounded lying on the ground, makeshift surgical stations set up under awnings, a pile of arms and legs stacked on the ground so that he slowed, wanting to offer a protest; decency demanded that these shattered limbs should be hidden away. But how can you hide away a hundred limbs when every second was precious, every orderly staggering with exhaustion, the surgeons slashing and cutting as fast as they could to stop hemorrhaging, plug holes in gasping chest wounds, dull the pain of a chest so badly shattered that the broken ends of bare ribs were sticking out, push back in loops of intestines, or still the hysterical babbling of a man whose brains were oozing out?
The poet slowed, then looked back at the president 'Sir, one thing.' 'And that is?'
'He's a Confederate soldier, sir.' Lincoln slowed, paused, and then nodded his head wearily.
'That doesn't matter now.'
The poet offered a reassuring smile, took him gently by the arm, and guided him the last few feet
The boy was curled up on his side, panting like an injured deer, in the flickering torchlight his face was ghostly pale, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His uniform was tattered, his butternut jacket frayed at the cuffs and collar, unbuttoned. The boy was clutching a bundle of bandages against his abdomen. In the shadows the stain leaking out seemed black. He looked up, eyes unfocused.
'I brought him to you,' the poet whispered, kneeling down beside the boy.
The boy looked around, a glimmer of panic on his face, and he feebly tried to move, then groaned from the pain.
'I can't see.'
Lincoln knelt down, then sat on the ground, extending his hand, taking the boy's hand, touching it lightly. The skin was cold.
'I'm here, son, I'm here.' 'Mr. Lincoln?' 'Yes, son.'
'Private Jenkins, sir. Bobbie Jenkins, Twenty-sixth North Carolina.'
'Yes, son. You asked for me?'
'My ma, sir. She was born in Kentucky. When she was a girl she took sick with the typhoid.'
He stopped for a few seconds, struggling for breath.
'Your ma, Mrs. Hanks, helped take care of her. You were a boy then, sir, she told me, she remembered you bringing some soup to her. Do you remember her?'
'Of course I do,' he lied. 'A pretty girl, your ma.'
The boy smiled.
'Mama,' he gasped, and curled into a fetal position, panting for air.
'It hurts,' he whispered.
Lincoln looked at the poet sitting on the other side of the boy.
'Anything for the pain?' Lincoln whispered.
'As much as we dare give him,' the poet replied softly, leaning over to brush the matted hair from the boy's brow.
'In spite of this war,' the boy sighed, 'Ma always said you and your kin were good folk.'
'Thank you, son, I know you and your ma are good folk, too.'
'The man here, he told me I'm going to be with God soon.'
Lincoln looked up at the poet and was awed by the beatific look on the man's face as he gently brushed back the boy's hair, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.
'I'm afraid, sir,' the boy whispered. 'Please help me. Will you write to her? Tell her I died bravely.'
'Yes, son.'
'Help me,' the boy whispered, his body trembling. 'I'm afraid.'
Lincoln lowered his head, slid closer, and took the boy into his arms.
'Do you remember the prayer your mother taught you? The one you said together every night when she tucked you into bed?'
The boy began to cry softly.
'Let's say it together,' Lincoln whispered.
The boy continued to cry.
