by Matt Inglima
At 9 PM he started back toward the White House. It had to be now or never. All across the national mall he could see hundreds of camp fires from the troops bivouacked there, the light of which cast a pale glow against the unfinished hulk of the Washington Monument. Distant voices and music intermingled in the darkness. Nothing he ever read about this era could even come close to actually seeing it in person. He guessed that it probably wasn’t until the peace marches in the 1960s that anything approaching this sort of spectacle would be seen here again. He wished he had thought to bring a camera but he hadn't come to sight-see. It didn’t take much time to make his way along the edge of the south lawn back toward the kitchen entrance where he hoped he could slip by without being noticed. When he finally saw the doorway he had been unceremoniously tossed out of that morning he paused to compose himself before making his move.
"Something told me you would be back!"
Martha was standing with her arms folded along the edge of the path. Nathan had been so focused on the doorway he didn't see her standing there. Stupid, he thought. She could easily have been a soldier who might have shot him as a rebel spy. It heightened the sense in him that told him he should not be doing this.
"Martha," he pleaded, "listen…"
"How do you know," she asked, "how do you know little Willie will die tomorrow?"
Nathan couldn't speak he could only stare into her eyes. Even if he had been prepared for this meeting he wouldn't know how to answer her question honestly. In 1862 the concept of time travel, fictional or otherwise, was decades away from entering the public consciousness. Even if it had it wouldn’t have mattered. It was a difficult enough concept for even the most learned of his era to comprehend, how could he ever expect a woman from the 19th Century to understand it?
"Martha, I don’t know the words to make you understand how I know what I know, but you must believe me," he implored.
"Well you better think of somethin’ if you want me to help you," she demanded. "You see I ain’t some ol' house nigger fresh off the plantation and in case you haven't noticed we're at war and there be a lotta folks would like to get into the president's house, maybe some of them would like to do him some harm. So you better start makin' sense right quick or you'll give me no choice but to call for the guards."
"Alright," he said holding his hands out in front of him. "This is going to sound crazy to you, hell, it sounds crazy even to me, but I have come from a very long way away."
His voice broke and he watched nervously as Martha unfolded and refolded her arms even higher on her breast. Frowning, she glanced around as if looking for a soldier to call over.
"OK, OK but please hear me out." He exhaled loudly, there was no better way than to just come out and say it. "I come from another time, Martha."
There it was. His words hung in the thick air between them.
"From another what?" Martha's eyes narrowed as if she realized she was being played for a fool.
"Time, another time. You see I won't even be born for another 187 years."
"You say you ain't been born yet," she unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips and laughed. "If you ain't been born then how are you standin' here?"
Martha had no idea just how excellent her question was. It was one of the cardinal paradoxes that even the greatest physicists have not been able to figure out. Nathan could see that he was losing her quickly. There had to be a way he could convince her, something he could do or say. If only he could demonstrate to her that he wasn't lying. A light went off in his head, it was his wild card.
"I know it's difficult to believe," he said. "So let me show you something."
He reached for his waistcoat. Immediately Martha tensed up and Nathan reassured her that she was in no danger. He tugged on the silver chain and out came his pocket watch. Martha glanced at it, then to him as if to say that this better be good. Nathan opened the case to reveal a normal looking watch face. Martha sighed deeply. Then Nathan pressed the stem and the display changed into something that a 19th Century mind could not comprehend other than that it was some kind of miracle.
Martha was transfixed on the colorful, glowing display of changing numbers and symbols that seemed to be counting down to some unknowable, incomprehensible event. Nathan could find no harm in allowing her to see something that she would never be able to explain. Anyone she might tell would not have the benefit of seeing it in person and would probably think her mad, just as she thought Nathan was mad. At the sound of someone coming toward them Nathan quickly closed the watch case and returned it to his pocket. Both of them looked over and saw a sentry carrying his Springfield rifle on his shoulder. Nathan's heart began to race. He had been right after all, his fate would be wrapped up in whatever Martha did next. When the sentry was beside them Martha smiled and warmly wished the man a good evening. Without acknowledging her the soldier passed them by.
"Now do you believe me," Nathan asked hopefully.
Martha didn't answer immediately. She stood there in contemplation of what she had just witnessed. "I don't know what I believe but something tells me that I must trust you. How does that - that thing work?"
"That part's not important," he said. "What’s important is that I have something else with me, something I can give to Willie that will cure him of his sickness."
Martha shook her head, staring at the pocket where Nathan kept his magical watch. "What does all this got to do with me?"
"I need you to help me get to Willie's room. I tried to do it by myself this morning and you saw what happened." Nathan rubbed the lump on his head as a reminder. "He's suffering from typhus and by now he is dangerously dehydrated."
"Missus Lincoln barely leaves his bedside," she said shaking her head.
"Ten minutes is all I need," he replied.
"Alright, wait in the conservatory, I'll come fetch you at midnight."
The White House conservatory was a massive glass paneled green house standing on the ground that would one day be occupied by the West Wing. In 1862 it was a relatively new addition but it already appeared to be in a state of disuse. The window panes were foggy and a good many of them cracked or broken. Inside, much of the vegetation was dead and spilling out of broken clay pots. A few of the fruit trees were living but they all looked anemic. Nathan settled in as best he could for his long wait until midnight but the decay that surrounded him gave him an unsettling feeling and somehow served as an odd reminder that he shouldn't be doing this. Everything he had been trained for went against it. But he had run a continuity impact report that predicted only a 0.9994% likelihood of any noticeable alteration of future events. Whether Willie lived or died the war would end and the Union be restored, slavery would get its overdue death sentence, and on the night of Good Friday, 1865 Abraham and Mary would still attend a performance of Our American Cousin at Ford's Theater. The only difference until then would be the happiness of the president of having had three more years to watch his beloved son grow.
Nathan looked up through a broken panel and could see a dim orange glow coming from the distinctive lunette window in the upstairs residence. At one point a ghostly shadow briefly appeared as if someone had stopped to look outside, it might have been Martha. Nathan checked the time: 11:11 PM. Call it off, a voice told him, you can force an early extraction and forget all about this. He looked back up at the window and snapped the watch case closed, and began humming The Battle Hymn of the Republic thereby drowning out the voices in his subconscious.
Martha was late. It was twenty minutes passed midnight and there was no sign of her. Nathan paced the room trying to remain calm. What if in the time they were apart she changed her mind? There was no point in jumping to conclusions, any number of minor things could have come up to cause her delay. If she said she would be there then she would be there. But what if it was wrong to involve her in the first place, why not go up there and do it alone? He realized that he was becoming more ridiculous by the minute. Even if he wanted to do it solo he had no id
ea where to go once he was in the White House. He couldn't very well go trundling about up and down hallways opening doors until he happened upon the right one. In all likelihood he would be caught, maybe even by Lincoln himself who by all accounts was a powerful and wiry man who enjoyed "wrasslin'" in his youth. The image of being subdued in a camel clutch by the Great Emancipator made Nathan laugh out loud. Quickly he stifled himself as the sound echoed in the glass cavern. Breathing a sigh Nathan took a seat still chuckling and grateful for the break in tension.
He must have dozed off because he didn't reply until after he heard Martha call his name for the third time. "Here," he said sleepily as he got to his feet. It was thirteen minutes after one in the morning.
"I'm sorry for leaving you here so long," she said knowing he would be upset. "I waited until Missus Lincoln went to sleep. But you have to hurry she don’t stay down easy these days."
Nathan followed as she led him back into the basement. They quietly slipped passed a servant sound asleep in a chair. "Watch your head," she warned as they passed under brick arches. "This way," she called as she turned into a corridor and started up a flight of narrow steps. When they came to a small door she stopped and opened it and went inside. Nathan was going to follow her but he saw that it was a linen closet. "Take these," she said handing him a tall stack of folded sheets. Nathan looked at her confused. "If you look like you belong here no one will bother to look at you at all."
Nathan smiled, no there was no way he would have made it without her. On they went until she opened another door and they came out into the main entry hall. Two guards dressed in Union Blue standing beside the closed front doors were the only ones present; the boisterous office seekers had been turned away hours before. The guards didn't move a muscle as they both passed, Martha was right, they were invisible. She guided him up a winding flight of stairs and finally the gravity of where he was and what he was doing began to weigh on him so much so that it felt as if he had lead weights tied around his ankles.
At the top of the stairs Martha opened a door and they stepped out into the east sitting room which was decorated with dark wall coverings and drapes giving it the atmosphere of a funeral parlor. Martha stopped him. "Wait here and I'll go on first. Watch for me and I'll wave you on if everything's clear."
If? Nathan would have felt more at ease if she had said "when." Without commenting on it he nodded and watched Martha start down an arched corridor. As he stood there quietly trying to control the tension that was beginning to rattle his nervous system he hoped it would be the last time he would be told to wait.
Turn around and go, it's still not too late to stop this! Nathan squeezed his eyes shut. Glory, glory, hallelujah… His truth goes marching on…
Before he could begin another butchered chorus of The Battle Hymn the sudden sound of someone clearing his throat startled him. It had come from an open door across the sitting room. Lamp light spilled out from the doorway and laid down a crooked rectangle on the stained carpet. Nathan's curiosity was instantly peaked. Carefully he moved away from the landing along the wall toward the window. His heart beat loudly as he stared into the room. At last he saw a man seated at a plain secretary desk in the corner by a window. He was hunched over in his chair reading a document but the figure was unmistakable. His long legs didn’t fit under his desk so he kept them propped up against the drawer. A shawl was draped over his thin shoulders, thick locks of wiry, unkempt hair sprouted from his head. It was Abraham Lincoln the 16th President of the United States. The figure Nathan saw was not made out of stone or bronze but of flesh and blood. He was a real man carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders who was unable to sleep as he struggled to do the right thing. Unexpectedly, emotion welled up within him and tears ran down the front of his face. He didn't dare stop to wipe them away because he feared that the vision before him would disappear and this would all turn out to be a dream.
Mr. President, I can't take away the pain that will come from mending a broken nation, that alone is and must be yours, he thought, but I can see to it that the sorrow of losing your little boy won't be added to it. Abraham Lincoln would never have to utter those anguished, heartbreaking words, "My poor boy. He was too good for this world. God has called him home. I know that he is much better off in Heaven, but then we loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die." If ever there was doubt in Nathan's heart it was completely washed away. It was no accident that he had made it this far, just like the man sitting before him he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Who can question the universe's method for correcting a wrong even if it means a man from the future must go to the past to do it?
Unconsciously Nathan stepped forward and a muffled crack from the floor froze him in place. Lincoln's head turned slightly toward him and Nathan could see that familiar profile with its tall forehead and prominent nose that had adorned the old U.S. penny for more than a century. Nathan held his breath until Lincoln turned back to the document he held in his hand. Then he heard a small sound coming from his right. It was Martha waving hurriedly at him. Once she had his attention she signaled for him to come. Shifting his hold on the linens in his arms Nathan quickly made his way down the center hall and was taken into a passage way on the right that was adorned with a large seashell motif. A window at the end of the passage overlooked the front lawn of the White House. Nathan remembered that it was from that window Lincoln would make his last public address shortly after the war ended and only a few days before he was assassinated. Martha stopped at a doorway on the left hand side and turned toward Nathan.
"Missus Lincoln is asleep right across the way," she whispered. "I'll stay here should she or Mister Lincoln come. So you be quick about your work, hear?"
Nathan nodded. Now was the time. Martha turned the handle and opened the door. Inside a single lamp light burned on a dresser. The air in the room was stale and thick with the odor of sickness. There were two beds placed at opposite sides of the room. The largest bed, with an immense oval headboard was where Willie lay; Tad was sleeping in the other. Willie had only recently turned eleven but as he lay there, wasted by his illness, Nathan couldn't help but notice how much he resembled his father. Willie had kicked his covers away, revealing large bitter smelling plasters that had been put on his chest. Nathan could hear his shallow breathing and an occasional moan. Placing the linens down on the foot of the bed he reached inside his coat pocket and removed a small metallic box that resembled a cigarette case. Sitting on the edge of the bed Nathan placed a hand on Willie's forehead, it was cold and clammy. He felt the boy stir beneath him.
"Poppa, is that you?" He moaned.
Nathan froze, not knowing how to respond. Willie repeated his question and turned his head toward Nathan and opened his eyes. He did not recoil or seem afraid at the sight of a stranger at his bedside. Either he was too sick or by now he was accustomed to strange people coming to tend to him as he fought to regain his strength.
"You're not poppa," he said.
"No," Nathan smiled, "he's in the other room. My name is Nathan."
"And I am William Wallace Lincoln," he said, "pleased to meet you."
Then he cried out and doubled up as a cramp began twisting his insides. Nathan looked around expecting someone to burst through the door, but nobody did. He tried to sooth the boy telling him the pain would pass. Eventually it did and he again settled down only this time he began shivering. Nathan pulled the covers up to his chin.
"I have to get well," his bottom lip trembled, "my momma is ever so upset seeing me like this."
"Yes I know that, William, that's why I'm here, to make you all better."
"Thank you, Nathan."
Willie closed his eyes and smiled bravely. Nathan got the sense that he had been promised that very same thing many times before without there being any improvement. But this time there would be. Nathan tapped the side of the case and a display appeared. He entered a pass code and as the display vanished a small curved device was ejected. Wh
en he removed it he noticed that Willie had been watching what he was doing. He looked up at Nathan without the slightest bit of puzzlement.
"Is that going to make me better," he asked.
Nathan smiled and tears came to his eyes as he looked down at this brave young man. It was so clear why his mother and father loved him so. "Yes, Willie, by morning you will feel a whole lot better."
Willie sighed deeply and closed his eyes, "Yes, I believe that I will."
Martha swore that she could feel her hair turn gray as she waited for Nathan to finish what he was doing. She jumped at every creak and moan given off by the old house. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of shuffling footsteps coming from down the hall and panic began to set it. It didn't matter if he was done or not she had to get him out of that room. If they were caught it would mean the loss of her employment at the President's House and probably worse. She turned and her heart nearly gave out when she saw Nathan standing there holding the stack of linen she gave him earlier.
"We have to go," she whispered.
She hurried on ahead and he followed. When Nathan stepped out of the passage way his foot caught on the edge of the carpet and as he tried to keep himself from falling he spilled the linen across the floor. In a panic he began gathering them up as quickly as he could when he realized that someone had stopped to help him. He looked up and saw Martha standing six feet away, her face a mask of terror. Then he turned to his helper and he watched as the room turned gray and he had the sensation that he was going to pass out. It was Abraham Lincoln.