Temporarily thwarted, Grant clamped his jaws down on the cindering cigar and jostled to reposition his slouching posture in the tall dining chair.
This whipper snapper is a double-talking carny barker, the general silently groused.
Sensing, she had temporarily staved off Grant’s truculent skepticism, Abigail noticed Lincoln’s haggard face alight anew with an awestruck wonder, and the dark circles burdening his tired eyes began to dwindle. Thus encouraged, and like a true showman, Abigail waved her perfectly manicured hands as if to wildly illustrate.
“Furthermore, If I may, general – though I would defer to your considerable expertise in such matters – I believe I’m also correct in saying that victory in war is due as much to gaining a psychological advantage over one’s enemy, as it is in presenting him with overwhelming advantages in both manpower and superior weaponry?”
The dark grottos of Grant’s eyes steadily narrowed and in deliberation he withdrew the smoldering cigar from his powerful jaws. Abigail winced upon hearing the acerbic thud from the worn heels of the general’s scuffed, midnight-black battle boots. While pretending to ignore this subtle annoyance, undaunted, she charged ahead with her proposal.
“Imagine, if you will general, the following scenario: before the decisive battle even begins, the scouts of the Confederacy observe your army’s ranks swollen to ten times its expected size and well-armed with overwhelming strategic advantages in cannon, artillery, and cavalry. Rather than foolishly risk-taking and charging into battle, the Confederacy immediately retreats, leaving their forces off-field. Next, they shall declare surrender and, perhaps even inevitably, opt to sue for a lasting peace with the Union.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, may I ask how it was you ever came to build such a machine with the incredible capabilities you so claim, Mistress de Orleans,” Grant said, once again puffing on the smoldering log of a cigar.
Abigail poked a decisive finger toward the now attentive general.
“I shall divulge to you in strict confidence, general, that my silver light cube was produced from extensive blueprints drawn up by a genius child prodigy conducting experiments with electricity while under the sole employ of my father, the Duke of Orleans. His name is Nicola Tesla.”
The General’s lips crinkled as doubt crowded his mind.
She is lying about this Tesla…I must have my Pinkerton agents check on this!
With considerable funding, I was able to provide the necessary materials, laboratory space and production wherewithal for Nicola to build his machine, which is no larger in size than a gentlemen’s snuff box. Fitting easily into the palm of one’s hand or enclosed in secret sleeve compartments, its size facilitates the convenience of concealment during a stage performance. But now, managing to have stolen it away to America, I believe that such a machine could be used for better things other than to entertain vast crowds with circus parlor tricks.”
The president’s brain sputtered to reply while his pale lips, like the planks of a castle’s drawbridge, began to part.
“Do you mean to say young mistress,” Lincoln said, “this silver light cube that produces electricity, as you call it, is capable of creating even greater grand illusions than those to which my dear Mary alluded?”
Abigail’s wild eyes brimmed over with ecstatic wonder.
“Why yes, Mister President,” Abigail declared. “The operative concept of the cube is quite elementary,” she went on to explain. “Alpha waves generated by the human brain cortex resonate between six and eight hertz, which is exactly equivalent to that which is generated by the earth. The cube is an electrostatic receptor which collects the current resonating in the air from the light through the prism of the sun and stores it in tiny battery cells. These cells are like tiny photoelectric plates that can be geometrically programmed to reproduce lifelike, three-dimensional images of any kind, whether human, animal or inanimate. These images, according to Tesla, the young prodigy, are formally known as holograms.”
General Grant hungrily gulped from his silver flask of whiskey.
“You mean to suggest,” a gruff Grant snorted, “that with this machine of yours, I can field this army of holograms to make those pesky, gray-clad Johnny rebels think I’ve got them surrounded with undefeatable firepower, thus convincing them to finally pack it in and surrender?”
“I think it’s a novel idea that just may work to prevent further suffering and needless bloodshed and end these damnable civil hostilities once and for all,” Lincoln blurted. “What do you think, General Grant?”
Observing she had successfully acquired the president as an ally, Abigail began to plead, and, over the dark, oaken divide of the state dining room table, her hands urgently flourished in the direction of the general.
“You would be declared the heroic victor, general,” Abigail declared. “And without having fired a single shot, the men under your charge – happy to be further spared the atrocious horrors of war – could thus go home to their awaiting families in the north, completely unscathed. And you, Mister President,” Abigail said, while toasting a grinning Lincoln with the half-filled glass of sherry, “would gain immortality as the most merciful, just, and greatest leader history has yet known.”
The dark hollows of Grant’s eyes began to stir with an indignant hue. After all, he thought, who was this young upstart, a woman no less, to tell the commander of the entire Union army how to prosecute a damned war?
“While your urgent plea for mercy and a peaceful settlement to the war may sound attractive to conscientious objectors wherever they may be, there isn’t a commanding officer in the history of warfare who ever met with decisive victory demonstrating mercy to his enemies,” Grant barked. He scowled and leaned his considerable girth toward the head of the table. “Mister President,” the general went on, “I’m afraid you must forgive me once again, but I think the young mistress’s ideas are the most cockamamie things I’ve had the displeasure of hearing. I’m of the opinion, we have to keep marching all the way to the sea, until every single one of Lee’s damnable Johnny Rebels is put down like the dogs they are.”
No matter how she tried, Abigail could not expunge the dismay darkening her lively face. For, she could see the general would remain obstinately stubborn.
“Allow me to say, general,” Abigail replied while nodding at Lincoln, “I find your intransigence to be quite a pity.”
“And allow me to say, young mistress,” a swaggering Grant huffed while attempting to bumble out of the cedar wood dining chair, “it would be an even greater pity if I was to even attempt to see my way through to acquiesce with such proposed nonsense. My officer’s staff would begin to think of me as a laughingstock. Furthermore,” Grant protested, dark eyes pleading, “I refuse to believe that Secretary Stanton would even dare to entertain such a highly irregular course of action, Mister President.”
Chafed still further by the general’s gruff assertions, Abigail bolted out her chair and, settling both of her finely manicured hands on table’s edge, she bent her lean torso over the burnished surface and proceeded to chide Grant.
“I declare sir, that over the centuries, it is men such as you, who have held back the progress of mankind time and again, General Grant,” Abigail said.
Lincoln’s brows, laden with streaks of gray that shone in the glare of the candelabra’s flame like woven strands of silver threads, began to wrinkle. He slowly rose to intervene, a diplomat between would-be combatants, fearing the vibrational force of Abigail’s rant would cut the General’s veil of lingering cigar smoke to ribbons like an unsheathed battle sword.
“Indeed,” the single word volleyed like a deadly pistol shot. “You care not for the commonwealth of your fellow man, general, but rather for the satisfaction of your own petty desires.”
Grant rammed the cigar between his churning jaws. Fiery cinders of tobacco sparked. Smoke belched from the general’s flared nostrils like volleys of cannon fire.
“And your foolish notions of th
e realities of armed conflict, young mistress,” Grant pontificated, “are typical of those belonging to such callow minds, particularly those of the fairer sex. If you shall both excuse and forgive me, Mister President,” Grant said, clicking the heels of his shopworn boots and turning from the dining table. “I can no longer countenance the young mistress’s company and, I must take my leave.”
Lincoln settled his calm hands behind his back. While his brow molded into a sympathetic arch, resigned, he nodded as Grant hastily strode beyond the state dining room’s soaring entranceway. Before his departure, he turned to offer some final words.
“Please, offer my best regards to Mary, the First Lady, and a very good night to you, Mister President,” the general said, casting a withering glance at Abigail.
For a moment, a solemn Lincoln remained cocooned in silence, contemplating the dull echo of Grant’s departing boots before turning back to his young guest.
“You must excuse the general, young mistress Abigail,” Lincoln assuaged. “For I’m afraid, war takes the greatest toll on even those who are charged with the great responsibility of becoming its most skilled practitioners.”
“I too, must apologize, Mister President,” a diplomatic Abigail said. “I hadn’t realized until now, that when unexpectedly faced with progressive and unfamiliar ideas, how quickly men such as General Grant shall grasp for ballast upon the comforting traditions that have served them so well.”
Abigail watched Lincoln’s ghostly complexion brighten. “It’s true, young mistress,” he replied, “men often fear the unknown.”
“Perhaps in a world without war,” Abigail said, “the irretrievable loss of power over other men is what those such as the general fear more than death.”
Abigail witnessed the specters of deeper contemplation haunt Lincoln’s gaunt features.
“Come with me now, Mistress Abigail, to the northside portico,” the president suggested, “I’d like to take the night air and hear more about your machine.”
Abigail followed the president out of the state dining room and beyond a pair of ornate doors adjacent to the White House red room. Once outside, with deliberation, the president sauntered to the very edge of the portico to stand between the enormous, Ionic columns.
Blasts of February’s frost-bitten air swirled through pine-scented havens dotted along the winding banks of the Potomac’s dusky jewel. Drawing in a breath, Lincoln beheld the great lawn’s snow-sprinkled vista. In the distance, hails of full moonlight emerged and danced like wild sprites off a cold runnel’s gloomy surface which crawled like a dark-skinned serpent to the very foot of the resolute stone obelisk, spiraling toward the center of heaven’s galaxy of stars.
“Of course, you’re correct in assuming Grant’s men tire of the war, and so undoubtedly, have I,” a candid Lincoln revealed. “But more than this, I shall tell you,” the president went on, decisively settling his long-fingered hands behind his back, “if god and my considerable ambitions had not called me to this office, I would not wish it on any man. For three years resembling an eternity, I’ve had to suffer the agony of those congregating outside the oval office and huddled on the stairs like vultures, waiting to beseech the president for political favors. This, perhaps more so than this damnable war, has heavily weighed on my fragile conscience. One wonders why, as you say, Mistress de Orleans, the sensual satisfaction of petty desires so thoroughly occupies the minds of men, in lieu of greater virtue’s considerations.”
Looking out over the portico, Abigail’s blood chilled as another gust of harsh wind marred the calm surface of the runnel’s dark waters. She watched as the president’s neck began to droop like a fragile flower’s storm-battered stem. She now supposed, the office of the presidency was not one of esteemed privilege, but a dooming albatross. Far beneath the portico, Abigail heard the steady, staccato rhythm of horses’ clomping hooves thrusting Grant’s carriage away into the wintry gloom.
“Perhaps, the only solace that can be taken from the concept of war,” Abigail began to offer the president, “is that the massive energy drawn from such conflict and chaos, reinforcing the bars of life’s prison, demonstrates to us what we are: a tragic collection of fallen souls at war with ourselves. Paradoxically, that is the purpose of it all. For when all the individual souls that have lived before and are now living still, discover the knowledge to finally transcend the bondage of life and death, only then, can humankind become collectively freed to reach its true potential. In that sense, Mister President, life is a nightmare, and the only way to ultimately escape the horrors of war and, the prison of life, is to wake from it, see it for what it all truly is – a grand, material illusion.”
The president turned from the edge of the portico’s black stone railing; his deep-lined countenance appeared stunned with traces of amusement.
“I believe you are wise beyond your years and just now, may have fostered an epiphany, young mistress,” Lincoln complimented. “Perhaps it is time I create an illusion of my own to escape this life, and once again return to the peace and serenity of the one I once knew back in rural Illinois. And with deployment of your wonderous silver light cube,” the president’s face began to alight with vibrant hues, “I do believe you can help make it so.”
Abigail’s lips felt stymied for a suitable reply.
“Now it is I, Mister President,” Abigail said, smile blooming at the corners of her crimson mouth, “who must enquire as to what exactly you’re driving at?”
“Mary tells me you’ve been added to the play bill, performing at the new Ford’s theater before the evening’s main attraction of ‘The Marble Heart’, starring the most scintillating young actor in all America, John Wilkes Booth – cast as an ancient Grecian sculptor with the capabilities to bring his creations to life, I believe.”
Irony’s sparking fireworks ignited Abigail’s senses; for what was magic but the intention to formulate inspiring dreams into material reality?
“That is so, Mister President. Mister Booth and I have both become quite popular,” Abigail replied. “So popular in fact, that Mister Ford has decided to extend the engagement well into spring. But I’d never realized until now, you were such an admirer of the theater?”
A subtle hint of warmth garlanded Lincoln’s wistful eye.
“I have always harbored an appreciation for the spectacle of Shakespearean theater, young mistress, an appreciation that has served me well on the campaign trail over the years,” Lincoln divulged. “They say Booth’s Richard the Third while in New York was the most sublimely electrifying yet witnessed, and they have written glowing reviews, notices that herald both you and the youthful Booth as the most remarkable pair of performers, who leave ecstatic capacity audiences breathless.”
“Whoever they are, Mister President, they are too kind,” Abigail replied.
“If nothing else, young mistress,” Lincoln observed, “other than the art of deception, politics is first and foremost a form of dramatic theater, ostensibly designed to exalt the higher ideals. But alas, despite my best efforts, I’ve fallen well short. And there are those, who even now, would wish to see my demise.”
“Perish the thought that would be so, and that it may be someone close to you, perhaps even the general. But indeed, Mister President,” Abigail nodded, “Shakespeare, the old bard, may very well have been correct in his estimation that all the world is a stage, and all are merely players. But you may take solace in at least having attempted to exalt those virtues of man’s higher nature. However, I take it,” she attempted to ascertain, “you have it in mind we should conspire in a scheme of deception, well affording the opportunity to completely escape this political life you’ve chosen?”
Lincoln’s noble brow cocked askew. A sinuous grin lined the president’s parchment-skinned countenance.
“I do indeed, young mistress,” the president revealed. “I have it on good authority from those I’ve grown to trust as my closest confidants – both the first lady and Edwin, my cabinet secretary �
�� that your ‘light’ illusion of the late Mister Vanderbilt was so lifelike that some of the ladies present at your performance began to feint. Yet all that were present remained spellbound, including the normally stoic Miss Vanderbilt of who it was said shed tears of utter and unrestrained joy. You resurrected her beloved father who, I’m told, reemerged with words of comforting reassurance about his journey in the afterlife.”
Abigail detected a renewed vibrancy in the president’s gaze.
“Tell me, young mistress,” Lincoln wondered, “could you not reproduce my image to spellbind the public once again, while unbeknownst to all, I steal away to live out the remainder of my earthly years, far away from the constant scrutiny of the public’s gaze?”
Abigail’s dusky brows bonded, while her mind beguiled with puzzlement.
“May I enquire, Mister President,” Abigail wondered, “to what possible effect, and when?”
While studying every nuance of the president’s face to discern the hidden machinations beneath the skin, a stark impression struck Abigail. He seemed like that of a wondering child not yet battered with cynicism, for the first time viewing the world.
“You mean to say, Mister President,” Abigail began to grin, “your intention is to employ my silver light cube, to create a hologram that will take your place for the remainder of your presidential term, while you escape, as you say, to the peace and serenity of your remote, rural place of former residence in Illinois?”
Lincoln’s ghostly pallor brightened into passion’s colorful array.
“Precisely, young mistress, but not before, I secure the opportunity to address the nation at large, to bring this horrid war to an end, once and for all.”
“That could be done,” Abigail agreed. “But allow me to say, Mister President, attending Ford’s theater on the evening of Booth’s performance should give you pause,” Abigail cautioned. “For it is by now well known, he is a supporter of the Confederacy and, there are rumors he has even publicly advocated for your untimely demise.”
Sky Parlor: A NOVEL Page 4