by Matt Inglima
The characters and events described in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to persons living or dead or to actual events are purely coincidental.
Historical persons are depicted fictitiously.
This story contains violence, language and situations that some may find disturbing.
It is intended for mature readers.
Cover designed by Matt Inglima.
Contains public domain images of Willie Lincoln taken 1861, and Abraham Lincoln taken 1862, by Mathew Brady housed in the collection of the National Archives.
PART 1
A house of infinite rooms was the impression that Nathan Hawkins had. In that infinitesimal sliver of time that took him back eleven score and five years, seemed to his subconscious to be a house with many rooms and many doorways that opened up to reveal more rooms with more doorways; a maze with no beginning and no end.
When he arrived at his destination he found that he was in a cold and muddy alley but he had no sense of where or more importantly when he was. His knees buckled and he staggered back against something hard that prevented him from falling in the filth. He put his hand against it, it was a brick wall. Disorientation and nausea were the known side-effects of time travel but thankfully the injection he had 30 minutes before he left was doing its job. As the dizziness started to ebb Nathan began taking in the world into which he had just appeared.
When he felt confident enough to stand on his own, he carefully checked his person. From his outward appearance there was nothing about him that would stand out. All time travelers dressed in period correct costumes so that they would blend into their environment. His costume was a plain brown three-piece suit with a bowler style hat. Its only adornment was a silver watch chain attached to his waistcoat. He slowly walked toward the end of the alley. The gray light told him that it was early, just prior to sunrise. A light mist was swirling in the dirty air. Did I make it, was his only thought. He touched the chain and his fingers followed it to his pocket and he removed the silver watch and held it in his hand. The watch case was antique but everything else was modern. The porcelain face and the thin hands that marked the time were an illusion, a virtual display that disguised its true purpose. The mechanism, if it could be called that, was a beacon that would make a return to his own era possible. Without it he would be stuck in the past. Nathan opened the case and tapped the stem causing the display to change to a timer that told him he had 47 hours and 51 minutes remaining before he would be returned to his own time. Placing the watch back in his pocket he patted it gently and started for the street.
From the end of the alley he looked across the broad avenue before him. It was a quagmire of ruts and mud. A horse and wagon struggled slowly through it, the driver cracking his whip next to the horse’s ear. Nathan ventured out onto the sidewalk and looked to his left; actually his eyes were drawn that way. What he saw was a sight that told him he was in the right place. In the distance, muted by the misty air, was the capitol building of the United States of America. Through the many historical records he had studied the sight of the building was familiar to him, although he doubted that many people from his own time would recognize it without its soaring, majestic dome. It was missing because it was still under construction. In its place was a massive crane and an iron framework laid bare like the ribcage of a giant machine age skeleton. Nathan smiled, this was the capitol building of the United States during the early days of the Civil War.
Nathan knew the way he had to go. Washington D. C.’s street system remained virtually unchanged throughout its history which had the capitol at the apex of a compass and the White House at the foot. Shop keepers along Pennsylvania Avenue were beginning their day, and it seemed that each one of them took notice of Nathan as he walked by. It gave him an unsettling feeling, as if these people knew he didn’t belong here and with their hard stares were telling him to go back to where he came from. Of course he knew that this was nonsense but it gave him little comfort. Ahead was a tobacco store and in the window a man was laying out that day’s newspapers on a felt lined shelf angled in such a way that they would be visible to people on the street. It was exactly what Nathan was hoping for. He was anxious to know if the day's date fell within his target window. Telling by the naked trees and the crispness of the air he knew it was the right time of year, but winter was long in this part of the country and it wasn't totally inconceivable that a simple miscalculation sent him back a month or two early. There below the masthead of the Washington Courant read: WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 19, 1862. Nathan breathed a much relieved sigh. He'd made it in time. The boy was still alive.
"Keep walkin', nigger!"
The booming voice made Nathan wield around, his heart pounding in his chest. The man the voice belonged to was the proprietor of the tobacco shop. His round, whiskered face glowed red as he scowled menacingly at him. Now Nathan understood the queer glances he had been getting. Never before had he considered his race and never before had anyone ever judged him for it. But this was 1862 when racism was as much a way of life as breathing, although there were a few exceptions, this hypertensive man surely was not one of them. An unaccompanied black man, even in the nation’s capitol, was an unwelcome sight. As he stood there eye to eye with this relic of mankind's shameful past he briefly ran through the percentages of a chronological disruption should he decide to pay this racist bag of guts a visit once his mission was over. Quickly he decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort no matter how minor the affect. The tobacconist made an aggressive move toward him but rather than let it come to a confrontation Nathan muttered an apology and hurried on his way.
There it stood! The White House, Lincoln’s White House. Although on this dreary morning it looked gray and forlorn, much like its occupant would in the years to come, after the war drained him of all he had to give. As an engineer and a scientist Nathan admired men like Newton and Einstein but his only true lifelong hero was Abraham Lincoln. He didn't only admire him because he'd freed people of his race. What he found so fascinating about him was his stalwart leadership and political cunning and that despite horrendous personal tragedy he somehow managed to affirm the dream of the nation’s founders and bring the country together again. He had possessed a quality that turned an imperfect man into something much greater, something everyone could strive for. Everything about his life and death seemed predestined if not biblical. There was even more about Lincoln, something deeper, something that any attempt to put into words seemed to diminish. Nathan believed that only a writer the caliber of William Shakespeare would be able to properly capture the essence of Lincoln.
Nathan hadn’t come to save Lincoln, no matter how tempting it was, his destiny was already written. Any deviation from it would have too many unpredictable and drastic repercussions on the future timeline. However, there was another way he could save him and bring the man much needed comfort in the three years he had to live. Nathan checked his pocket watch and determined that he would have about 35 hours to gain access to the president's mansion and achieve his objective.
Doubt began to wash over him as he stared at the imposing edifice he would somehow have to break into. He slowly walked along the front gate, gazing in at the portico. A crowd of forty or more people, men and women, in all fashion of dress from laborer to high society milled about, talking amongst themselves. Others leisurely strolled in and out of the front door which hung open. They were concerned citizens, lobbyists and office seekers, all demanding a moment with the president. It was an astonishing sight, for a 21st Century man who was used to the image of the White House as an armed camp of barricades, check points and machine guns that kept the people's house at a dehumanizing distance. Nathan had read about how easy it was to get to the pres
ident in the old days but to see it happening before him was astonishing if not harrowing. However, there was a comforting aspect to it as well; this lack of security would make what he came to do that much easier.
At the main gate there were two young soldiers chatting away so busily that they didn't even notice or care that Nathan had walked right in front of them. This is crazy, he thought as he made his way along the curved path to the front portico, it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. When he reached the door he peeked into the White House and his heart leapt into his chest at the sight of a tall man in a top hat and frock coat. Is it HIM?! It wasn't, this man had red hair and looked nothing like Lincoln. Nathan took a breath and stepped across the threshold. It was like crossing over into sanctified ground. He was so mesmerized by what he was doing he didn't hear the voice cry out to him. He had barely placed his foot on the tiled floor when a hand fell solidly on his shoulder and dragged him back outside.
"Where do you think you're going, sambo?"
Two racial slurs heaved at him within an hour he was off to a lovely start. Nathan tried to shake free of the man's grasp, but he couldn't do it. And the more he struggled the tighter and more painful the man's hold became.
"To see the president," he said and immediately realized it was the wrong answer.
The man was short and stocky but his hands were immense and powerful. He was a civilian and Nathan could see a folded document jutting out of his coat pocket which identified him as just another desperate office seeker looking for a favor.
"What makes you think he wants to see you?"
Finally Nathan managed to free himself and turn away but no sooner had he done that when another man stepped in front of him. He was a mustachioed grandfatherly gentleman escorting a woman his age, probably his wife. But Nathan didn't think to ask as the man raised his cane into the air and brought the silver handle down against his head. He briefly heard a roar of laughter from those present before he blacked out.
When he came to some minutes later two men were dragging him down a set of narrow steps that led to a corridor. Where are you taking me, he tried to say but his head throbbed too terribly. He doubted that he would have gotten an answer from them anyway. An inner voice told him that he was about to be locked in a dungeon and his mission was as good as over. The corridor ended at a large room with vaulted ceilings where people were working, men and women, all of African descent like him. They had heard a commotion coming their way and paused in their duties to watch. They were all dressed alike, but it was not prison garb, they were cooks and domestic servants. He had been brought down to the basement kitchen of the White House. Ahead of him he saw a service door that was being held open by one of the staff. There his captors heaved him outside where he landed painfully on his elbow and hip.
"Don't even think about using the front door again," one of them barked as he menacingly jabbed a finger at him. "This is your entrance."
With that they stormed off.
Nathan began to pick himself off the floor when a bolt of pain split his head and he dropped back down. A rapid succession of footfalls moved toward him and he looked up to see that they belonged to a dark skinned fellow with white hair who was now standing over him.
"Come on, boy," he muttered impatiently, reaching down with both hands.
Nathan grabbed hold of him and with dizzying speed was up on his feet and being conducted over to a rough plank bench where he took a seat. His helper then stomped off in the same hurried fashion without giving Nathan the chance to thank him. He touched his forehead at the hairline and felt a good sized knot that made him hiss with pain at the slightest touch. When he pulled his fingers away they were lightly bloodied. As he sat there nursing his pain a terrifying thought entered his mind. Quickly he checked his waistcoat pocket. His heart stopped until he felt the silver watch right where it was supposed to be. He thanked God the men hadn't taken the trouble to search him in addition to putting him in his place.
"Put this on your head," a deep feminine voice said.
Nathan looked up. A woman, perhaps 30 years old, was holding out a piece of ice wrapped in cheese cloth. She wore a light-gray dress along with a white apron and bonnet that was the standard uniform of the White House domestic staff. Her features were curved and pretty and she smiled warmly, but Nathan could detect a vague shadow of melancholy.
"Looks like they near stove your head in," she said as she looked him over, “but I suspect you’ll live.”
Nathan took it and thanked her. It was the first bit of tenderness he had received since he arrived. He carefully held the ice to his head.
"What's your name," he asked.
"MARTHA!" A man's voice barked from across the room. It belonged to a cook who was carrying a tray of bread. "Don't you have work that needs tendin’ to?"
"Don’t be stirring yourself into a lather, Alawishus," her warm, dark eyes rolled as she answered, “the work'll still be there when I get to it!"
Hushed laughter broke the joyless atmosphere of the basement kitchen. Nathan looked over at Alawishus who was shaking his head before he erupted into laughter. It was apparent that Martha was a ray of sunshine that everyone clung to in this dreary place.
"Martha," a young girl approached and touched her arm, "Missus Lincoln is calling for broth for her boys. Taddy might be able to take it but poor Willie is failing. Doctor told Missus that he's likely to die."
Martha stiffened and asked that Jesus have mercy. Nathan's ears tingled as he listened.
"Missus went half crazy when she heard it," the girl continued, lowering her voice and looking cautiously around, her gaze paused briefly on the newcomer. "She started screaming and carrying on; she upset her children so that they had to call Mister Lincoln to come take her away."
The girl was clearly rattled by what she had witnessed and Martha gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and told her to go on, that she would take it from there. Martha glanced up at the ceiling half in prayer and half in dread for what was happening on the floors above. A moment later she collected herself and smiled as she glanced down at Nathan.
"I have to be goin’," she began, "and once that ringing 'tween your ears goes away you best get along yourself."
"I can help," Nathan said, placing his hand on her arm.
He was not one who put much stock in fate but he couldn’t deny the sense that he had been delivered, quite literally, at the feet of a woman who had access to the first family. Somehow he knew that whether he succeeded or failed, Martha would play a big part in it.
"If you're lookin' for work you'll have to speak to the Mister John."
"No, Martha" he smiled, "I'm not looking for work, I mean I can help with the president's son, I can make him better, that's why I came here."
Their eyes connected but Nathan couldn't tell if she sensed his intent or was contemplating whether all of the brains he possessed hadn’t fallen out of his ear when he was hit on the head. She reminded him that the First Lady was expecting her, but she gave him some reassurance that she would hear him by remarking that the welt on his forehead didn't show any sign of improving before she would return. Nathan grinned and watched her go about her responsibilities. He thought that perhaps the delay was a blessing because it would give him time to think of a way to explain the impossible to her.
About the time the fist sized hunk of ice Martha gave him was reduced to a wet spot on the stone floor she returned. She was carrying a basket of waded up linen, and she looked tired, no doubt she had been put through the mill by Mary Lincoln who was renowned for her explosive temper. Nathan knew that it would become oh so much worse after the death of her son. Nathan watched Martha as she carried the basket off to another part of the basement; she hadn't so much as glanced at him. She didn't reappear in the kitchen for another twenty minutes and that was only so she could pass on instructions to some of the other help. She was about to leave again when she finally noticed Nathan. The skin on her forehead creased as if she had ju
st recalled one more unpleasant bits of business she would have to deal with that day. Determined to get it out of the way quickly she walked sternly over to Nathan.
"Listen, whoever you are," her voice was clear and humorless; the shadow across her face had grown darker since she left. "If you can help Willie then you should make an appointment with General Hammond, he's the doctor in charge…"
"Nathan," he said standing up. "My name is Nathan Hawkins. Martha, I don't have time to make an appointment with General Hammond, Willie doesn’t have time either. I don't know how to tell you how I know this but believe me when I say that the boy will be dead by tomorrow evening unless I'm allowed to see him. Think how that will make you feel if you knew you could have done something to help him and didn't."
Martha's eyes narrowed and her lips quivered. Nathan knew he had pushed the wrong buttons and began to speak when he was cut off. "Mister Nathan Hawkins, do you think you're the first person to come here and say that? Now I have work to do and you've done wore out your welcome here. I suggest you leave this house now!"
He began to plead with her but it only served to stoke her ire. "I have been nurse maid to those children since they came here a year ago. And even though they raise Cain they are sweet boys and I love them just the same. I know that Willie is failing and I can see the pain on their mammy and pappy's face who knows it too. Their fate is up to God so don't go putting doubt where only prayers belong. If there was something that could be done it's been done. It's in God's hands now who lives and who dies, you understand me?" Tears spilled from her eyes and she quickly rubbed them away. Nathan wanted to comfort her but she would not have it. She composed herself and called for two men to escort him out.
There was no need for an escort, Nathan left on his own. Maybe, he thought, he had been wrong about Martha. For the next several hours he wandered the grounds of the executive mansion careful to keep out of sight lest he catch the attention of someone who might find his presence offensive. As the day wore on towards evening he knew that he had 24 hours at best because all historical accounts put Willie Lincoln's death at 5 in the afternoon of the 20th. There was going to be a reception held by the Lincoln’s that night and he thought that he might be able to slip in through the crowds of people. But by that time Willie would be beyond any help he could give him. If there was even a prayer of success he would have to get to him tonight when the house was sleeping.