'Now I lay me down to sleep,' Lincoln began.
The boy's voice, soft, already distant, joined in.
'I pray the Lord my soul to keep…
'If I should die before I wake …
'I pray the Lord my soul to take…'
Even as the last words escaped the boy's lips, he shuddered, a convulsion running through him.
Lincoln thought of his own boy, of Willie, his last strangled gasp for air.
There was a gentle exhaling, the tension in the boy's body relaxing, going limp, his last breath escaping, washing over Lincoln's face.
He held him. He tried to stifle his own sobs as he held him. He knew others were watching, watching the president, not a tired, heartsick old man; they were watching the president, but he didn't care.
He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, the poet, up on his knees, leaning over the body.
'I'll take him, sir.'
He didn't want to let go, but knew he had to.
He leaned over and kissed the boy on the brow, the way he knew the boy's mother had kissed him every night.
'God forgive me,' he whispered.
He sat back up, letting the poet take the body. The poet ever so gently closed the boy's eyes, folded his arms. He reached into his pocket, took out a notebook and a pencil. He scratched the name of the boy and his regiment on a slip of paper. He drew a pin out of the binding of the notebook and fastened the name on the boy's breast pocket. Lincoln realized that this little ritual was an attempt to identify a body so it would have a marker, something the poet had done innumerable times before. The boy, however, would most likely go into a mass grave with hundreds of his comrades.
The poet took another piece of paper and again wrote the boy's name and his hometown in North Carolina upon it, and handed it to the president
'You promised him, sir,' the poet said. There was no reproof in his voice, no questioning, just a gentle reminder.
'Thank you,' Lincoln whispered.
The poet stood up and Lincoln came up as well. He looked around and saw that all were silent. Dozens had been watching, Union and Confederate, lying side by side, all silent, some weeping.
He lowered his head, struggling to gain control of his voice.
'Let us all pray together,' he said, his voice suddenly calm.
'Oh, God, please lift this terrible scourge of war from our land. Let all here return safely home to their loved ones, and together let us learn to live in peace.'
Chapter Eight
The train drifted into the station, its bell ringing, the steam venting and swirling in the still morning air.
He sat hunched over, wrapped in thought, headache still throbbing. At least the trip was finished, eight hundred pounding miles, the incessant click-click of the track a numbing repetition, every bump of the train as it lurched its way through the mountains of Pennsylvania resounding in his head like a cannon shot
Haupt, Washburne, and Parker were up, looking at him, and with a muffled groan he rose from his seat and went to the rear platform. A cloud of wood smoke washed around him as he stepped out. A small guard was waiting, a dozen men snapping to attention, a captain with drawn sword saluting as he stepped off the platform.
After more than two days on the train his legs felt unsteady, the ground shifting and swaying beneath his feet A wave of nausea hit and he fought to keep it down; the last thing needed at this moment was to vomit in front of the men.
'Welcome to Harrisburg, sir,' the captain said, voice quavering a bit nervously. 'Thank you, Captain.'
'Sir, General Couch sends his regards. He regrets not being here to meet you but will report at your earliest convenience.'
Grant said nothing. Couch was most likely fast asleep. The rail yard was a bustle of activity with half a dozen trains being off-loaded, crates of rations piled up under an open-sided warehouse, horses being driven off boxcars, a dozen Napoleons on flatcars ready to be dragged off and then matched up with crews.
The captain reached into an oversized haversack dangling from his hip and drew out a sheaf of envelopes, bound with a coarse string.
'Sir, these letters are waiting for you.'
The captain handed them to Grant.
'Any word from Washington?' Grant asked.
'They beat off Lee's attack. It's all in there, sir.'
Grant took the package and looked around.
'Sir, there's a desk in the yardmaster's office.' Leading the way, the captain took him across a set of tracks, around a locomotive that was ticking like a teakettle, with heat radiating from its boiler, and into a well-appointed clapboard-sided office. The obligatory pot of coffee was brewing on a small wood-stove and Parker immediately took down four tin cups from a shelf, filled them, and passed one to each of the travelers.
Grant settled into a wood-backed chair, laid the package on the open roll-top desk, took out his whittling knife, and cut the package open. Twenty or more letters and telegrams spilled out and he opened the top one.
He leaned back in the chair and a thin trace of a smile creased his face.
'What is it?' Washburne asked.
'The captain's right, Lee failed to take Washington. It's a report from Stanton. Heavy assault on Fort Stevens this morning, just before dawn. Estimate eight to ten thousand casualties for the rebels. Our losses estimated at four thousand. Reinforcements from Charleston decisive. Enemy driven back out of our lines by midday.'
'Will they attack again?' Elihu asked.
He shook his head.
'I doubt it. Cut the estimate of their losses in half and it's still a devastating blow. If they couldn't take it yesterday, Lee knows it would be even worse today. I think that finishes their hopes of taking the capital for now.'
He opened the other envelopes, scanning through them, lingering over one for a moment, then continued till the last was read and laid down on the desk. He finally took up the cup of coffee, which had cooled, and drained it in several gulps.
'Most are repeats of the same message. The rioting in New York, for the moment, has been suppressed. Haupt, your efforts are bearing fruit; we have trains ladened with supplies, rations, remounts, artillery, wagons, coming from as far away as Maine.'
Haupt smiled and nodded.
Grant looked around at the small gathering.
'I'm to report to Washington immediately,' he said and stood up.
'You just got here,' Elihu said.
'I know. Stanton wants a conference and I'm to take the fastest train to be found down to Perryville on the Susquehanna, where a dispatch boat will be waiting to take me to the capital.'
'Stanton?' Elihu asked cautiously.
'Congressman, I'd like you to accompany me,' Grant announced. 'Parker, I want you to stay here. The First Division of McPherson's corps should start coming in later today. Set up my headquarters. I want it in the field, not in town. Find an appropriate place. Haupt, I think it best if you accompany me as well.'
'An honor, sir. I'll go over to the dispatch office now and clear a line for an express. We can take the same train that brought us here.'
